ENGLISH MUM

Rules for a perfect family Christmas

I know,  I know, it’s not even December, but it’s a Christmas Countdown, so stop moaning (you know who you are).  The lovely chaps at John Lewis set me a little Christmas challenge to give my rules for the definitive English Towers family Christmas. They go a little like this:

Children

#2 must awake at the crack of dawn. There will then follow an intense period of annoyance when every other sleeping member of the household must be awakened (generally in an aggressive, jumping-on-the-bed fashion) and invited to ‘wake up, it’s Christmas!’, even though it is barely 6am.  There is invariably a lot of creative, un-Disneylike swearing at this point.

Every year, at least one present will be opened by the wrong child.  This will cause all sorts of trouble.  This will have nothing at all to do with how inebriated the gift giver was when wrapping and labelling the present at 11.55pm on  Christmas Eve *cough*.  #1 got Rachel Allen’s ‘Bake’ last year.  He was not amused.

Christmas Dinner

The dinner must be at least 1 hour late (it’s amazing how long a turkey can ‘rest’ when the cook has been on the cooking sherry, got distracted and wandered off to have a chat with someone).

One part of the dinner (generally something that I have slaved over) will be left in the fridge or oven and be completely forgotten.

Everyone must talk at once (I remember my two lovely sister-in-laws once comparing notes about our family dinners, saying that they could never keep up with the 17 conversations that were all taking place across the table at the same time).

There MUST be champagne.

Family

There must be at least one drunken misdemeanor on Christmas day.  This will usually involve Mad Uncle Ali (remember the swan dive off the sofa last Christmas?  I rest my case).

There must be a call to The Disreputable One which will entail each child in turn listing each and every present in great detail, and must bore the pants off the poor man, but he bears it with dignity.

Entertainment

There must always be a disagreement about what is The Perfect Christmas Movie.  I will vote for How The Grinch Stole Christmas or White Christmas and be outvoted (and told that ‘it’s GAY’), and Hubby will vote for Back to the Future, even though it patently has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas whatsoever.  We’ll probably all settle on Elf, which is obviously the best Christmas movie in the history of absolutely everything.

English Grandma, who is well known for not saying no to anything, will end up being caned at Texas Hold’em or playing Call of Duty on Xbox, even though she won’t know what the hell she’s doing.   

Decorations

The children will always insist that every tree ornament that we’ve ever purchased must go onto the tree.  My attempts at subtle two-colour decor will be treated with contempt and that bloody plastic star thing covered in glitter will go on the top of the tree again.

The outside of the house will be lit up like Blackpool Illuminations.  This is Hubby’s department.  He will moan and groan about it, but at some point he’ll be out in a force 10 gale, swaying about on the top of a ladder, swearing at gutter clips whilst stringing 500 lights across the front of the house.  It’s just his thing.

Oh, and the big move commences today, so feel free to chat amongst yourselves until I unpack the computer at the other end.  Over to you, then.  Christmas rules?

The Friday birthday photo: the pinkest raspberry meringue pie

So I had a lovely birthday, thank you so much for all your good wishes.  I got lots of donations to my KitchenAid fund, which is now looking quite healthy, plus lots of lovely bits and pieces for my garden (including a fantastic Eucalyptus tree from the boys), and 6 new sparkly Denby mugs from Hubby to add to my collection:

Sensible Uncle I and Lovely L bought me Ching He Huang’s new Chinese cookbook, and Mad Uncle A gave me a nice wodge of cash (although I’m pretty sure the empty card was provided by me Ma as he didn’t seem to know a lot about that bit).  Jen sent me the wondrous flowers you saw yesterday and the Disreputable One stumped up an eye-wateringly generous cash donation, which arrived via an enormous white courier van (well you can never be too careful) and so did my Ma.  And yes, I probably accept that at my age I shouldn’t still be getting cash in the birthday cards from my parents.

As you know, the tradition here at English Towers is that the birthday person gets free reign to choose whichever birthday cake they like.  Unfortunately, being Chief Domestic Goddess, that means I get to make my own.  Still, I had me Ma here.  And plenty of sodding about and giggling later, we came up with this:

First for the easy peasy pastry:

115g butter, melted

100g caster sugar

200g plain flour

Pinch of salt

Preheat the oven to 180/gas 4.  Pour the melted butter into the sugar and stir.  Then add the flour and salt and mix it around until it becomes a thick paste.  Press the mixture into a loose bottomed (steady) flan dish or baking tin  (about 24cm should do it), then bake it blind (scrunch up a bit of greaseproof paper, then smooth it over the pastry and pour in the baking beans) for about 15 minutes.  Then take it out of the oven, remove the baking beans and put it back in to cook the base for about another 5 minutes, then take it out and leave to cool.  Turn the oven down to gas 2/150 degrees.

Meanwhile, make the raspberry curd.  We couldn’t find fresh raspberries, so we used a decent tinned brand and just squished the contents through a sieve, but you can use the bought stuff or just purée some fresh ones:

100g butter

4 tbsp raspberry purée

1 lime, zested then juiced

150g caster sugar

2 eggs plus 1 extra yolk (keep the white for the meringue)

Take a saucepan and bung in the butter, raspberry purée, lime juice and zest and caster sugar.  Melt it all together slowly until the sugar is all dissolved.  In a bowl, whisk the eggs and yolk until well combined.  Now, take your beautiful pink mixture and gently pour a little bit into the egg, whisking all the time, then a bit more, then a bit more, until you’ve combined about half of it with the eggs.  Now pour that lot back into the saucepan and keep whisking and simmering until the mixture thickens – remember it’s going to be baked in the pie, so don’t worry about making it really spready consistency at this stage.  Turn off the heat and leave to cool.  Remember to just stir it occasionally to keep it from getting a skin on.  When it’s about room temperature, pour it into the pastry case.

Then for the meringue:

4 egg whites

225g caster sugar

Whisk the eggs in a very clean bowl until they form stiff peaks, then keep whisking while you add the sugar, spoon by spoon, until it’s all incorporated and the meringue is thick and glossy.  If it’s your birthday and you’re rather prone to things pink and gorgeous, you can add a couple of drops of raspberry juice or cochineal here to give a delicate pinkness to your billowy meringue.  It’s best not to do this after several glasses of wine because it all gets a bit silly and giggly.  What?  Oh, no, of course I don’t mean me.  Pile it all on top of the raspberry curd and fluff it up a bit.  Bake in the very low oven (gas 2/150 degrees) for about 40 to 50 minutes, depending on how squelchy you like your meringue. 

Garnish with pink edible glitter (okay so you don’t really have to do that bit) and serve with a nice bottle of chilled rosé Prosecco and the company of your wonderful family.  Cheers! 

And no, I have no idea what the jar of Hellmann’s is doing in the background completely spoiling my shot.  I blame the alcohol.

You’re an embarrassment…

When did it happen?  I swear, I completely missed it.  One day I was the ‘cool’ Mum in the playground, the one with the My Chemical Romance CD in the car, the one in tight jeans and Converse that they all came running up to and said ‘hey’ and knew my first name, and chatted away to me as they patted Bert on the head and said ‘corr, your Mum’s cool!’ to #1.  The next, I’m surplus to requirements.  A means of transport, if you would.

All this happened on Saturday, which saw me sneaking around in the cinema, lest my #1 son, out on a date with a young laydee, picked up any slight hint of his family’s existence.  I had my instructions: we were to drop him at the cinema, then disappear.  He was horrified when we pointed out that we couldn’t quite dissolve into thin air  for an hour and a half, and what exactly were we supposed to do once we got there?  And no, we wouldn’t just drive the half hour home, then drive the half hour back again later to pick him up.  Okay, he said, you can come to the cinema, but drop me outside and DON’T talk to me when you come in.  And sit down the front.  And don’t look round.  ‘Har de har!’, said #2 in the car, we’ll throw popcorn at your head!  Nope, there was not a snigger, or even a hint of a smile.  We were to pretend we didn’t know him and watch the film in silence.  Any slight glance in his direction from ANY member of his family, would incur severe penalties.  So we sat.  And squirmed slightly, while our newly hatched teenager watched the film several rows away from us in complete denial of our very being.  At one point, I caught his eye.  And he  raised his eyebrows imperceptibly and looked away, as if to say ‘don’t do this, Mum, don’t blow my cover’.  I know, it’s part of being a teenager: the fledgling fluttering his wings, but my heart sank.  Just a little.

So it’s happened, then.  I’m an embarrassment to my teenage son.  Of course I still had to buy the tickets… and the popcorn… and the coke…. but officially, I wasn’t there.  Of course as soon as she’d gone, he morphed back into normal #1,but I can see the signs.  I think I might as well just buy my buss pass and start wearing sensible shoes.  It’s all downhill from here…

At last, I’m all growed up

Do you know the best thing about having my family over for Christmas?  How could I choose, you may wonder?  Was it spending Christmas with my siblings again after so long?  The sheer accomplishment of getting 6 busy people and their offspring to the same place at the same time?  The kids opening their stockings together?  Even sharing a glass of wine with my sister in law in front of the fire with everyone else asleep or down the pub?  Well yes, all of those.  But the very best bit was feeling, possibly for the first time, like a grown up.  I know, it’s ridiculous.  For one thing, I’m 38 years old.  I’m the mother of two children – both of whom can read, write, don’t smell too bad and get to school on time – and a food writer too (okay, so I still find myself opening up the magazine and sneaking a happy look at my name on the first page, every month, but still, it really is me) .  I can make a cracking pavlova and read a whole book – both in one day.

What is it about spending time with family that makes everyone revert to their childhood ‘roles’, I wonder?  I’m the little sister: the scatty Doris that’s had seventy five different jobs, crashed a few cars and lived in so many different places that everyone has no room left in their address books…  But no more.  This time I was the hostess.  I welcomed them into my home (my immaculately clean and tidy home – me Ma nearly fell over with the shock), fed them, watered them and accommodated them with laundered sheets and a sparkly fresh bathroom.  And let me just clarify that I’m not bagging all the glory here – Hubby helped enormously with… erm… getting drinks and… er…well, anyway, he was there too, and my Ma and sister in law were fantastic help in the kitchen, but I did it.  I fed ten people for four days and enjoyed every second.

Okay, I still reverted to type a couple of times: firstly by knocking a full cup of tea all over the rug by the fire, then following it up by kicking a glass of water over about ten seconds later.  I got a ridiculous fit of the giggles when we stuffed the turkey too, but generally I felt rather clever and in control.  A first.

So what’s changed then?  I’m not sure.  But you know how certain people have this impression of you?  This image that they’ve perpetuated for so long you almost believe it?  Take my Disreputable Dad (no, please, take him).  I’m sure he’s very fond of us all, and he’s fantastically supportive in a crisis, but when I emailed him to tell him I’d finally got my dream job, what was his response?  ‘I wonder how long this one will last?’  You see, to him I’ll always be his dizzy blonde 18 year old, grabbing any random, unsuitable job and leaving after five minutes because it was boring.  And then there are friends.  Don’t tell me you haven’t got a friend who smiles indulgently at you while recounting any number of silly things you’ve done in the past to anyone who’ll listen?  Thought so.

So there you have it.  I know nothing’s changed: I’ll probably still run out of petrol occasionally, eat four cupcakes for breakfast, fall down the stairs when Bert treads on the back of my slipper and drop the boys to school wearing pink fleece pyjamas, but I’ll do in in the knowledge that it’s my choice, my prerogative as an adult, if you will, and absolutely not because underneath it all I’m still that dizzy blonde Frank Spencer.  Not any more.  Uh uh.  No way.

Christmas capers at English Towers

Oh but we had fabilis Chrimbo.  We ate, drank, laughed, ate a bit more, laughed a bit more and did a teeny bit of walking too.  I can’t go through the whole wonderful time, but I’ll let you in on a few of my highlights:

Jen getting the biggest, wettest kiss off Bert.  He lubs her.  Oh, and my Le Creuset pressies.  Thanks Jen!! x

Uncle Ali after a few vodka and red bulls doing a swan dive from the sofa onto the blow-up beds.  This wouldn’t have been too bad, only the beds were full of children at the time.

Uncle Ali again, deciding that it would be a really good idea to stick both legs of a deformed carrot up his nose (‘ow, that hurts actually’).

Sensible Uncle I turning into Rather Giggly Uncle I after several Lycheenis.  God, they were nice though.

Bert being all smug after stealing a sprout, only to discover that he doesn’t like them much after all.

My gorgeous and adorable niece, Turtle: self proclaimed keeper of the blender, queen of the smoothie (‘it’s papaya, strawberry, banana, cranberry and erm.. mango’) and self-confessed pyromaniac, poking the fire unnecessarily for maybe the four thousandth time.

Sweet, lovely Auntie L, taking on the role of chief family diplomat and smoothing over niggly Playstation disagreements with more tact than the entire staff of the United Nations put together.

Me Ma, gamely trying to sort out the crossword (after several large Pinots) where Hubby had squeezed in any word that had sounded about right, regardless of spelling: (‘erm, I think ‘yoke’ is actually Y-O-L-K’).

Sensible Uncle I bonding with an adoring Bert (‘coming out for a smoke, chap?’)

The Golden Compass, enjoyed with a bottle of Hardy’s Crest sparkling rosé.  Slurp.

Mad Uncle A and Bert walking to the shop (one and a half miles away).  We nearly sent out a search party.  Poor Bert was traumatised afterwards and had to lie down for the rest of the day.

Kicking the ball into the stream and having to lower Turtle into the water, where she teetered precariously across a fallen tree, saved the ball, and returned to a big round of applause.  All glamorously and in pink wellies.

The turkey and ham pie on Boxing Day.  Yum scrum.

Mad Uncle A (again!) singing Merry Christmas Everybody accompanied by #1 on the guitar.

#1 looking completely nonplussed after opening Rachel Allen’s ‘Bake’ by mistake.  I got his new flask for school and was equally nonplussed. He perked up again when we swapped.  I blame Hubby’s complete disregard for gift tags.

#2 opening his longed-for rugby kit and instantly putting the entire lot on over his pyjamas.  He walked around in his padded body armour, rugby gloves and new boots all day.

Even the more cynical amongst us being pretty gobsmacked by the fact that Santa left a boot print in the ash on the hearth.  Oh yes he did.

My nephew, J, being absolutely delighted with his Daniel Craig autograph (he’s a big Bond fan).

Awwww.  I love Christmas.  How was yours?

Totally, like, random.

So the lovely Kate, over at iRamble has tagged me with a weird challenge.  I’ve got to share seven facts about myself: some random and some weird.  I did something similar to this back in April, but I’m naturally extremely weird, so finding seven more is easy peasy:

1. I have hands like an old lady: they’re all blotchy and veiny and I have long spindly fingerstoo.  No amount of manicuring or posh hand cream can change them.  The Disreputable one has weird veiny hands too so it must be hereditary – apart from his fingers are like bit fat sausages.
2. I hate crowds.  My worst nightmare is to be stuck in the middle of a big, jostling and tightly packed group of people.  My even worser nightmare is that these people are drunk.  Just the thought of it makes me shudder.
3. I am totally, utterly and ridiculously fond of Christmas.  I love everything about it: the tree, the twinkly lights, candles, presents, the roaring fires, the yummy food…  I can’t help it.  I just do.  I used to be a nightmare, searching the house for hidden presents, but now I’ve got better.  This obviously makes me the best person to hide the presents, because I know where I’d look.
4. I really, really, really want a KitchenAid mixer.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my Kenwood, but oh, for a pink Kitchenaid Artisan mixer I’d sell my soul.  Or at least my greyhound.
5. My children and husband can make me laugh until I damn near wet myself.  When they all start messing, I laugh so much it actually makes me cry.
6. I have stupid baby hair.  It’s so soft I can’t even keep a hairclip in.  Pathetic.
7. I love surprises: both giving and receiving.  I have planned a very special and exciting day for Hubby’s birthday.  Watch this space.  I’ll take my camera – promise.

So come on, then: random facts, quirks and general weirdness.  Let’s hear them.

Moon and Mrs M’s Wedding: belly laughs and happy tears

Firstly can I just say that I hate Ryanair?  Hate, hate, hate Ryanair.  I know, I know, it’s dirt cheap and all that, but when you’ve walked miles, queued for hours and then find you can’t sit anywhere near your children in a hot, sweaty cabin and there’s no room in the overheads for your hand luggage?  Grrr, I could kill that feckin’ Michael O’Leary.

Awwww, we had such a lovely time.  We went out for dinner with the Disreputable One when we arrived on the Friday night (after he picked us up from the airport in his swanky new 4×4 – thanks Dad!), then stayed at me Ma’s for the weekend.  Arriving in the pub before the wedding was fantastic, seeing all my friends and family, my much-missed sisters in law, my lubly brothers, my beautiful nieces and big strapping nephew was just amazing.  The church service was surprisingly emotional although I have to say that it was the adults that did the naughty giggling – the kids all stood together and shot us withering glances as we misbehaved – it was Hubby’s fault, he did silly singing, and then some little teeny girl went ‘I WANT A WEE!’ in a really loud voice which set us all off again.  All went swimmingly apart from some rather bizarre parental goings on (note to my parents: I love you both madly but jaysus, go out for a coffee together and sort yourselves out already).

Mrs M looked absolutely stunning in a slinky green silk fishtail dress – I don’t care what anyone says there wasn’t a single pair of eyes that weren’t glued to her fantastically peachy bottom as she walked down the aisle.

 The evening bash was full of fun and laughter.  We had a total riot and the boys had loads of fun with their cousins.  Mad Uncle A behaved himself (almost) – actually, Sensible Uncle I was just as naughty – and Mrs Sensible was challenging Hubby to down shots of Mrs M’s traditional 80% proof fire-water.  Wow, it took your taste buds clean off. 

Moon gave the longest, most boring speech I’ve ever heard (nah, not really – he made me cry twice which is probably a record) and then we all clinked glasses and shouted ‘Nastrovya!’ and downed the traditional Slovakian shot things (wow!) before stuffing our faces at the buffet, then dancing the night away.  The Slovakian contingent held their own admirably in both the drinking and the falling over on the dance floor, but in true English fashion, it was all wrapping up by midnight – in Ireland we’d only just be getting started!

We rounded off a manic but happy weekend with one of my Ma’s epic Sunday lunches and then it was back to the airport with our Disreputable Chauffeur for another wrestle with our hand luggage.  We arrived home, tired but elated, to find an ecstatic Bert who sang us a little whiny song, he was so happy to see us.

Highlights of the weekend, then:

• Stealing me Ma’s car and rushing round to my friend J’s beautiful new house to catch a glimpse of scrumptious little J and her new baby, M, who I’ve never even seen – we both stood and burst into tears, which made us laugh.
• My mate, C, taking the time to pop to the church to wish Moon luck and say a quick hello to me and Hubby (I wanted to cry again – I’m getting old, I think)
• The photographer shouting ‘No! look at her face!’ when Moon’s gaze kept wandering downwards
• My nieces, who have turned from cute little girls into beautiful young ladies.
• Above-mentioned niece, A, being bribed by Sensible Uncle I’s mates to balance sachets of mayonnaise on the head of Moon’s brother-in-law who was asleep in the corner after coming over all ‘tired and emotional’
• Boogying on the dance floor with my boys, me Ma, Mrs M and a gaggle of her Slovakian mates
• The scary amount of people who came up to me and said ‘ooh, I read your blog!’
• Moon, staggering around with a box of Montecristo cigars saying ‘this is the happiest day of my life’ in a somewhat slurry fashion.

So there you have it.  A lovely weekend, a perfect wedding, and a very deserving couple.  Here’s to you, Moon and Mrs M: wishing you a long, happy and very giggly life together.  Mwah!

The one that never was

Now I’m always telling you about my boys: something funny they’ve said, some adventure they’ve had, their raging guitar riffs and their mad behaviour.  Sometimes though, like at the wedding, they’re terrifyingly, achingly grown up and sensible: a teeny glimpse of things to come?

Hubby’s often away working, and hey, it’s the holidays, so we’ve been a bit slack about bedtimes and the like.  The other night, though, I sent them up to get ready for bed, and found them not in the bathroom, but in a little huddle on #2’s bed looking a bit pensive.  They’d been told off for something or other, and I’d emphasised the fact that they should respect each other a lot more as, after all, they only have each other.  I snuggled in next to them and I could tell they were working up to asking me something.  I stayed quiet and the conversation went a bit like this:

#1: Mum, can we ask you something?

Me: Anything.  You know that.

#1: Well, you know we had a baby that died?  Was it a girl or a boy?

Gulp.  Okay, so we never kept it a secret from them.  Hubby and I, along with thousands, nay, millions of people, lost a baby once, a long time ago.

Me: I don’t know, darling.  The baby died inside me, and when it was taken away I was asleep.  (This is hard, but I figure that honesty is the best policy).  Actually, I like to think that it was a girl – my daughter – it feels funny to think I might have had one.

#2: Are you still sad?

Me: Yes, sometimes when i think about it I suppose I am, but then me and Daddy already had you, and soon afterwards we had #2, so we know we’re very lucky.

#1: Will we ever have another brother or a sister?

Me: No, I don’t think so now.  We’re getting to be quite a grown-up family now, aren’t we.  And anyway, you already think #2’s a pain – can you imagine having a new baby around messing with your guitars and drooling on your X-box?

#2: Ew.  Nope.

So there you have it.  With one small conversation, all sorts of memories are brought flooding back; in spite of it all, feeling so terribly sorry for the young doctor who had to give us the bad news (‘I’m sorry, we can’t find a heartbeat’), a hospital ward full of pregnant women (why do they put you there?), Hubby and I arriving home from hospital, just numb with it all, my poor Mum, devastated herself, being so brave and supportive, bouquets of flowers being delivered, sympathy cards instead of congratulations.  And afterwards, back to work; awkward silences with people not knowing what to say, still having to crack on and look after a toddler.  I remember the December came when the baby should have been born.  I was pregnant with #2 by then, but the date was a sad one: thoughts of what could have been.

Things happen for a reason, they say, and if one small life lost should have taught me anything, it’s that I should appreciate my two little fellas all the more.  That’s if I can just stop myself strangling them before they go back to school.  Happy days

The Friday photo (s): story of my life…

So seeing as I’ve bombarded you with pictures this week, I’m cheating slightly with the Friday photo.  Both Kates: Kate and K8 the GR8  set me a little challenge.  And you know how I love a challenge – it’s just got to be done.  Here we are, then:

Here’s my question to you, if you had to select celebrities/actors to play the parts in the story of your life today (including yourself!), who would it be and why – this can be based on looks or personality!

I’m loving this.  I actually laid awake thinking about it (and that was after a 1am Cabernet Sauvignon bender with The Lovelies, complete with sleepover so I spent half the night listening to #2 and Little Lovely #1 giggling too).  So far my thinking is:

Me: I’m thinking Reese Witherspoon (think Legally Blonde and Just Like Heaven rather than Walk the Line, though).  I know this is probably me trying to flatter myself, but I just thought: a bit blonde/quite smiley/fond of the pink and sparkly, but not as silly as one would assume.  The smalls and Hubby thought Jennifer Aniston, but oh, I don’t know.  Reese’ll do nicely.  I was going to go for Nigella, but no, it’s wrong.  And on so many different levels.

Hubby: There’s only one person who could possibly fit into Hubby’s shoes and that’s José Mourinho.  He’s very similar looks wise, and I’d hazard a guess their personalities are pretty darned separated-at-birth, too.  Hubby doesn’t take any crap, y’know.

#1: Well it’s got to be Reid off Criminal Minds, hasn’t it.  Costs me a fortune in books as he reads them faster than the speed of light, steers every conversation off at some madly alarming tangent, and has an IQ higher than the Empire State.  Nuff said.

#2: Hmmm, tough one, this.  I think I’d probably go for a cross between Captain Caveman and Bart Simpson.  Although he favours ‘either of Zac and Cody’

Now to the parents:

The Disreputable One: Ooh, toughie.  David Jason, maybe?  Although it would be more Frost than Del Trotter.  Oh no, hang on, I know: Denny Crane in Boston Legal! (“100 women there, and you didn’t invite me. That’s 200 breasts! And you kept them all to yourself?”).  A bit naughty, a bit cheeky, very clever but slightly bonkers.  Perfect.

Grandma: We were very tempted to go with Grandma Georgina from Willy Wonka, but she’s not quite as doolally as that (give her time).  The best bit was when the Great Glass Elevator came crashing through the roof and Grandma Georgina said ‘ooh, I think there’s someone at the door’.  We eventually settled on Mrs Wembley, from that very underrated 90s sitcom ‘On the Up’, played by the wonderful Joan Sims (Carry On films wouldn’t have been the same without her).  ‘Just the one, Mrs Wembley?’  Oh, and before I get beaten to death, can I just say that this is based on personality and not looks?  Ta. 

Bert: Hmmm, Scooby Do?  Nah, too energetic.  I know, Santa’s Little Helper from The Simpsons!!

Various other characters we mulled upon were:

Mad Uncle A: well he’d have to be Russell Brand, or maybe Steve Tyler from Aerosmith (both with shorter hair, natch).

Nanny: She’d have to be Aunt May in the Spiderman trilogy.

Over to you, then.  What’s your cast list?

This dark cloud

I’ve got this cloud.  It’s a big, dark one.  It hovers above my head, blocking out any feeble rays of Irish sun that might possibly shine in my direction.  And it just won’t go away.  It’s there in the middle of the night, when I’m wide awake listening to everyone else in the house sleep peacefully, and it’s still there in the morning, when I finally drag myself out of bed.

Honestly, it’s just not like me.  I’m the eternal optimist, the ‘glass half full’ girl.  Hubby re-mowed my heart into the lawn, has given me extra cuddles and watches me, I’ve noticed, out of the corner of his eye.  My children, well, of course they still make me smile, but recently, well…

I lost a good friend.  She doesn’t see what I see: her children growing up a little more every day, new flowers replacing the old under her special tree.  These things take time, I guess.  Other stuff’s happened.  People disappoint me a lot, I think.  Maybe it’s my fault.  Maybe I build them up into something they’re really not, then I’m disappointed when they let me down. 

I miss my family, my friends.  I’d like a hug from my Mum, to laugh at one of my Disreputable Dad’s silly jokes (I think I’d still laugh, even with my black cloud).  I’d like to walk along the shore, watch the sun go down, pick up shells.  I’d like to sit and demolish a bottle of wine and tell Bea all about it, to sit in the sun with Becca and Clare, catch up on gossip, talk about shoes, whatever.

I’ve been thinking of taking a bit of time.  They say it’s a great healer.