Ode to Belinda
Ahhh, England, my England. Now, you all know I’m a total, fully-converted Irelandaholic, but there’s not much that can beat a trip to your favouritest hairdresser ever to put you in a good mood, wherever you are in the world. And this is precisely how I came to be battering down the door at my much-missed and extremely wonderful ex-hairdresser’s salon this morning. Oh lovely Belinda. Having finally found the perfect girly, the one who has the same type of hair as me, laughs at the same things (heck, we even ask after each other’s kids by name) and who knows exactly what you mean when you say vague things like ‘I’d like to be blonder, but not ‘trailer trash’ blonde, you know?’, the one who makes you strut out of the salon feeling like a million dollars, flicking your glossy locks…and what do I do? Move a few hundred miles away. Duh.
Still, I’m a glass half full girl, and today my glass overfloweth as I’m currently in possession of that aforementioned glossy blondeness, which should see me through those dark, Belinda-less days before I can get back here and book in again. I wonder if she’s considered Ireland as an emigration possibility? Maybe I should buy her a brochure… Oh, and even better, I got to visit the fab shop across the road and squeeze myself into a new pair of Citizens of Humanity jeans, which are outrageously, bottom flattering and disgustingly covetable. I had to have them. They called to me. There you go, then, I’m all groomed and shopped out to boot. Happy days…
More Exit Ramp Trouble
Weirdly, I seem to be replaying some of the worst bits of my Irish life in some kind of otherworldly, English dimension. Take yesterday. After the children had leapt out of the shrubbery and frightened the Disreputable one to death (no heart attack so no inheritance just yet – I can wait), it turns out he was just on the way to London and offered to take the boys too. Cue itchy credit card and unseemly dash to my favourite shopping centre: the wondrous, monstrous, fantabulous Harlequin. I could hardly believe my luck – just me and the plastic, alone at last.
So I tootled around, enjoying taking my time round the hugest Zara ever, and the wonder of a 70% off sale in Principles amongst other things, before finally calling it a day and heading back to the car park.
So, half way down the corkscrewy exit ramp thing and … go on, you can guess the rest: my car gave a cough, a splutter, and died: ‘nooooooooo’. I tried the ignition again: nothing. I checked the diesel gauge: over quarter of a tank (phew). I rushed back up the ramp to the ticket machine, apologising profusely to the ever-increasing queue of traffic spiralling up the ramp and pushed the button, screeching into the little grille thing for ‘a little help here, please…’ Enter the incredibly nice cavalry in the shape of several centre security guards who cleared the cars back to the barrier and then pushed my car back out of the way (uphill! And it’s a big 4 wheel drive!).
By this time, doubt was starting to form in my mind that the Opel garage in Dublin really had fixed the fuel tank. That sputtering and conking out thing certainly seemed reminiscent of my last running out of diesel disaster, so I explained to Trevor, my nice security guard, about the faulty fuel gauge that had just cost us over €700 to fix (18.5 hours of labour to get the tank off, fix the problem and get it all back on, only to find that the first time I filled it up it stayed stubbornly on empty and I had to turn round and drive straight back again) might not be so fixed after all.
Anyhoo, long story short, the lovely Trevor not only magicked up a diesel can, but also whisked me to the petrol station to fill it and took me back to my car. And guess what, not only did the 5 litres of diesel get the car started, but it also shot the fuel gauge up to half full. Trevor brushed off my grateful, and frankly pitiable, words of thanks (just another day at the office for your average hero) and headed back off on patrol, and I headed straight for the petrol station, and for my phone. Just wait ’til I get my hands on the guy at the Opel garage. Boy he’s gonna get it….
Commando Visiting
So, in a weak moment on the return flight from the UK recently, I happened to mention that we might be able to go back later in the school holidays (seeing as our social schedule is somewhat, well, empty) and since then, at every opportunity, I have been the subject of subliminal messaging by my offspring: ‘I’m going to have a shower, Mum, and can we go back to the UK soon?’, ‘can I change channel? Oh and when are we going to England?’ or my personal favourite ‘I’ll take the dog out for a pee, Mum, can we go to England tomorrow?’
Succumbing to the pressure, then, and bearing in mind that Hubby only has another couple of weeks of his course left to go, we decided to do a bit of stealth visiting and sneakily booked ourselves onto a ferry. Long suffering J arranged for poor Bertie to go back into kennels (his whiskers are only just growing back from the last time he was muzzled, bless him) and we stuffed everything into the back of the jeep. Hurling ourselves into the afternoon Dublin traffic, we proceeded to get hideously lost, found ourselves in Ballymun (#1 was close to having a panic attack when a lady with a baby strapped to her chest shook her paper cup at him at the traffic lights) and did several detours before getting back on track.
Arriving with five minutes to go before the cut off time, we found ourselves in the queue for the ferry uncomfortably jammed at the back amongst an entire convoy of travellers. Now, I’ve got nothing against travellers, but blimey, they’re scary in numbers. When we got on, we decided to embrace our inner snob and booked ourselves into Club (complementary snacks and drinks, including wine – damn that 5 hour drive the other side) where we watched from the balcony as the resident clown did a show for the little kids while the teenage travellers pelted him with fruit gums from the audience. #2 went to have a look and got dragged up on stage where the clown stunned the audience by producing an egg from his sock (he should have looked in #1′s, plenty of cheese in there – he could have made an omelette).
Out onto British soil once more then (but uncomfortably north of the Watford Gap) and with #1 map reading, we argued, sulked (the boys), sang and talked (me) our way through Wales, past Birmingham and eventually through Buckinghamshire, Bedfordshire and finally to me Mam’s. The boys did some commando crawling through the shrubbery in Grandma’s front garden and hid round the side of the house while I gave Hubby the fright of his life by appearing at the door, the conversation going something like this:
Me: ‘Surprise!’
Hubby: ‘Aaarrrrggghhhh!!!’
Me: ‘Oh. Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
Hubby (clutching chest): ‘Yes, but…what the bloody hell are you doing here?’
Cue children leaping out of undergrowth (‘raaaaarrrrrrgggghhh!’) at their already gobsmacked Daddy and a happy family reunion ensued.
Later, Hubby was supposed to pick up me Mam from a work party, so I went, leapt out of the car and we reran the whole ‘surprise’…’aaaarrrggghhh!’ scenario for her very startled friends (a couple of my Mum’s mates read the blog, it turns out (hello Heth! Hello Suze!). Next we’re off to frighten the Disreputable Dad to death. Ooh might get my inheritance early. Joke.
Wellie Never
We had to pop to the shops today because the dog nearly sank. No, bear with me, it’s so worth it. Oh I love shopping in the school holidays. What could be nicer than standing in the middle of a packed shoe shop having a hissy shouting match with your number two son about whether you’ll be replacing his lost riding boots (I won’t) and whether or not he’ll have to make do with a pair of wellies (he will) until September when he can bloody well find the ones he lost.
Oh it gets better. Then we discover that every shoe shop within striking distance (an hour’s drive) doesn’t supply trainers narrow enough for #1′s ridiculously emaciated feet and that we should try a sports shop who sometimes do narrow fittings. Oh yes, they do narrow fittings all right, but only in the most offensively expensive trainers in the whole shop. Cue an already sullen #2 trudging along six feet behind the rest of us, dragging his new wellies and bemoaning the unfairness of having normal feet, while a delighted and beaming #1 prances along in sixty quid’s worth of new, narrow-fitting Adidas-something-or-others-that-have-Goodyear-tyre-tread-soles-and-are-outrageously-trendy.
Anyhoo, the muddy dog debacle that prompted all this chaos went something like this: my new regime is to prise the children away from their PlayStations at least once a day to prevent them from turning into something akin to those limp, pasty, ‘before’ children you see on ‘Honey, I’m Killing the Kids’. The enforced dog walking causes a large amount of carping, but I stride briskly ahead, chatting breezily about how healthy it is to get out in the fresh air. Bertie, who is loving the extra walk with the added bonus of two more victims for his ‘run round them enough times with the extendable lead and blimey, they fall over!’ game, was bustling along at the edge of the field. The sheep, who have been practising SAS-style stealth evacuations of their paddock into the wheat field to eat their fill before melting seamlessly back into the night, had left bits of wool and lovely smells all in the ditches and Bertie just had to go and investigate. Unfortunately he chose a ditch that was full of black, stinky mud and we all watched, open mouthed as, looking remarkably calm, he started to sink, Titanic-like into the inky gunk. #1, a panicker of epic proportions, hurled himself into the mire to save the doomed Bertie, now happily up to his ribcage in muck, only to find that he, too, began to sink and was also shortly buried up to his knees. Yanking on his collar, #1 soon freed the disgustingly stinky Bertie, and was himself saved by the heroic, if a little tardy, #2 who waded in (in his football boots) and pulled his brother out. There was lots of congratulations and back patting which were soon broken up when Bertie shook himself and showered everyone in sludge. Later, as #1 and I lifted the odorous furry torpedo into the bath, I remarked that we really should get #2 some wellies. And that, dear reader, is where I came in. There’s probably a moral in this story, but frankly, I can’t be arsed.
Entertaining
Well, the weekend went by in a total blur, but it was a rather lubly blur so I don’t mind. We’d arranged for J&C to come and stay, so Saturday lunchtime saw us head down south for a cloak and dagger rendezvous in a lay-by somewhere in Co Kildare to transfer the contraband that was J from one car to another. C had to work so headed back off again and we drove home, the boys talking ten to the dozen and updating Jen on everything and everything, until her ears where probably bleeding from it all. When we got back, there was more talk, and a very excited Bertie had an emotional reunion with J, not having seen her since he was first retired into her care.
We took advantage of a break in the rain (rain, always rain) for a squelch round the field with Bertie, then later we popped out (for ‘popped’ read half an hour in the car) to put a bet on the English Greyhound Derby and visit a yummy deli where we stocked up on massive slabs of lasagne, some serious chocolate cake and a couple of slices of banoffee pie for me and J. #1 whipped up a salad and we did some severe face-stuffing before settling down with a glass or two of Sauvignon Blanc to put the world to rights. We also had a right laugh comparing make-up and applying it to some scarily willing children. When C arrived and saw the boys complete with a full face of slap, I think he was tempted to run away.
Next, the derby, which was won by Westmead Lord, J’s choice, followed by children’s bedtime and several hours more drinking, eating chocolate and talking utter rubbish. It was the nicest evening I’ve had for a long time. J&C seem so happy in their new life, and C has relaxed so much it actually shows in his face. Lovely to see. And so to bed, where Bertie opted to spend the evening in the company of our guests (in fact, J knocked on my door at one stage because there was no room left in the bed for her) and after readjusting him back onto the floor, we all slept the sound sleep of the mightily pickled.
Sunday saw Bertie actually in bed on top of my long-suffering guests (he LOVES C) and was spent relaxing with the papers and generally vegging, although J&I did manage a walk with the dog while C thrashed the kids on the X-box. After a scary moment when I turned on the hob to find that the gas bottle had finally run out (enter C&J taking a mercy dash to get me a new one) and a subsequent power battle over who could reattach the bottle (won by C and blimey did he milk it), we polished off an enormous roast pork dinner. Well, everyone apart from poor J, who is a veggie and though she protested she was fine, I saw a distinct green tinge pass her face as I was carving and uttered the immortal words ‘I hope it’s not too pink’. I must give you the recipe for the garlic roasted butternut squash we had though, it was rather yummy. After wading through an absolutely delicious chocolate and raspberry torte brought by J&C, we were completely done for and waddled happily back to the sofa for the rest of the afternoon.
Waving J&C off at the gate later on, with Bertie trying to stick his head through to get at C and beg him to stay, I realised how much I miss them and vowed to head south much more often. Oh, and to learn some more vegetarian recipes, the aim of entertaining generally not thought to be to make your guests hurl at the table.
Maintenance
So I guess I’m a bit more ‘product orientated’ (euphemism for shopaholic) than most people, but I can’t help myself. I love walking round Boots and all the lovely smells and new things to try keep calling to me…I just seem unable to resist. Last night while I was getting ready for bed, I wondered whether my beauty routine was getting a bit out of hand. This occurred to me some time after I’d massaged in my Liz Earle Hot Cloth Cleanser (and removed it with a hot cloth, naturellement), used my MD Formulations Glycolic Scrub, but just before I’d smoothed on some Protect & Perfect Serum and was settling down in bed with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, the latest Harlan Coben and a warm greyhound. Oh, that’s not the half of it. When I’m finally in bed, then I apply my No 7 Hydro Quench Overnight Cream Sorbet, my night time eye balm (the Boots Botanics Collagen one if you must know – I have a different one for daytime) and my Lip Contour Balm and read my book. Then just before I turn off the light (and kick out the greyhound-shaped pillow) it’s time for my Champneys Cracked Heel Treatment Balm (if my feet are particularly dry, otherwise I use the Sanctuary Foot Souffle) and a final application of Champneys Overnight Sensation Hand Care Treatment. If it’s hot, I might have a squirt of Sanctuary Cooling Leg Mist too.
Okay, so I’m taking slightly more time and care at the moment, because let’s face it, with Hubby away, the dog and Harlan Coben don’t really care how much time I spend rubbing blue goop into my feet, but still, that’s just my evening routine. Bath time involves various different scrubs, shampoos, conditioning treatments and face masks (the Champneys one is fabulous), followed by Palmers Cocoa Butter, the occasional dollop of fake tan (no, I don’t go the Satsuma route) or the Johnson’s Summer Skin Body Lotion, my Clarins Total Body Lift (I was initially dead huffy when Hubby bought me this, but it’s deadly). Oh wait, then obviously the face stuff starts all over again with Protect & Perfect, my ROC Moisturiser, my MAC Prep & Prime SPF50 and don’t get me started on make-up, hair, nails…
So after all this effort, do I look seventeen? Er no, but hey, you only get out what you put in and anyway, I take comfort in the fact that I take care of myself. Hubby wouldn’t want to be married to Worzel Gummidge now, would he?
Sky Handling Partners – Bit of an Oopsie
Oh dear, oh dear. Someone’s been a very silly boy. Get this: fellow blogger, Damien Mulley (in fact, the blog’s the only thing I have in common with him, this guy’s like the King of Irish Blogging (intended capitalisation there) posted about Sky Handling Partners and their total lack of anything resembling customer service with regard to the loss of his luggage. Well, he actually called them c*&%s, but hey, it’s his blog.
Next thing he knows, he’s getting mail from some less than savoury dating websites confirming his registration. Now Damien, being somewhat more techie than most, managed to trace the IP address of the sad tw@t maliciously posting his details and, guess what? It leads straight back to Sky Handling Partners. Oh deary, deary me, let’s start with fraud shall we? And maybe throw in some libel? Someone’s going to get their butt kicked. Read more at www.mulley.net
Who stole summer?
Okay, so I’m no ‘earth mother’. In fact, I think I enjoy motherhood more the older they get. I hated being pregnant (fat, tired, sick, uncomfortable and you can’t fit into any of your clothes – what’s to like?), and I found their toddlerhood frustrating; I’m the original party pooper at Christmas, always sitting out of Trivial Pursuit (‘Grandma! Stop answering the boys’ questions!’) and Newmarket because, frankly, I just don’t GET playing games. And trying to smile heartily and produce fake laughter while my 2 year old and I played our 47th game of Lucky Ducks was torture. It irritated the hell out of me that they screamed and ranted and insisted that Grandma and only Grandma could put their shoes back on when I could have done it just as easily, and potty training? I’d rather stick needles in my eyes.
So here I am, 12 years later and enjoying it a whole lot more. They’re quite happy to play on their X-box without my help (I’m rubbish at Gran Turismo – I always drive off the road and into the verge – my cyber-driving skills spookily reflecting my real ones, just without the sheep); they can wipe their own bums, get their own breakfast, and take the dog out for a pee. Life is sweet.
So, I’m relatively calm when considering that they’ll be on holiday from school for the next ten (count ‘em – and we’ve already had two!) weeks. My one worry is the weather. Yes, yes, I know it’s a British obsession, but blimey. Trudging round the field this morning being pelted with rain, the ruts between the lines of wheat ankle-deep in water, and Bertie sporting his sheepskin-lined doggie mac lagging miserably behind me, I could scarcely believe that this is July. One of my friends is convinced that Jack Frost has kidnapped summer and is holding her to ransom, probably in an igloo somewhere near Iceland. I’m almost expecting to open a jiffy bag containing a severed finger and a ransom demand. Two boys stuck indoors for the entire summer holiday, fighting over whose turn it is to be Captain Jack Sparrow, is a far cry from sunbathing in the garden with a good book and a cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc, listening to the far away laughter of children playing in the fields that I was envisaging.
Ah well, it could be worse. Game of Lucky Ducks anyone?
Flirty’s Moved House!
My fellow blogger of great repute, the wondrous Flirty Something, has moved home. Make sure you catch up with her at her new abode:
Shiny, shiny…
Ooh, an exciting day on the ‘girly stuff’ front today (those without lady bits look away now). First of all, my MAC Prep & Prime SPF50 came in the post (wehay! Something useful from Ebay for a change). This is, apparently, a godsend for those of us blessed with a forehead as shiny (and attracting about as much attention) as Kylie’s gold hotpants. I’ll be reporting shortly. The only thing I will say is that it’s bloody expensive for such a teeny little bottle so it better be good. Secondly, I’ve got to report back on all the lubly testers that the nice Clarins lady at the unfeasibly large shopping centre gave me.
Here goes then: firstly, I wasn’t particularly impressed with the Clarins Pore Minimizing Serum, which seemed a bit sticky and was the same unattractive sickly pale green as its packaging (not a patch on No 7 Protect & Perfect, which I’m convinced is the Elixir of Life). Mind you, I was so offended that she thought my pores needed minimising in the first place that this could have added to the bad impression. Next up was the Clarins Hydra Matte Lotion for combination skin, also in the new pale green packaging of their Multi Matte Range. Again, nice smell, but not moisturising enough for me. Maybe in the evening under make-up (if I ever go out again, don’t hold your breath, although I could trudge round the bottom field in wellies and full slap I suppose) when I don’t need the SPF of the MAC Prep & Prime? I definitely favoured the Clarins Moisture Quenching Hydra-Care Lotion from their Hydra Balance range. V impressed with this – nice smell, non-greasy and sank in easily. So there you have it. Sod all that wear on your feet, just let me do the testing, order online and Bob’s your auntie, the only thing Kylie-like about your appearance will be your cute, shine-free button nose. Possibly.
