I’m all for parental guidance, advice and everything else that goes with it, but sometimes you just want to remove their voice box and watch them waddle round the kitchen like some kind of deranged headless chicken.
Don’t get me wrong everyone needs parents at some point, but for comical reasons I would occasionally love to shove my dad in the oven with a load of Aunt Bessie’s spuds and just see what happens.
Ok, so parents have to do the best thing and lets face it, they love any excuse to shout through the house (although it’s the first rule in the book of ‘what not to do and how to successfully annoy the neighbours’) but because they are the authoritive figures no one bats an eye.
The parental rar-rar-foot-stomp is also closely linked and most famously followed by the phrase ‘while you’re under this roof young lady…’ and this is when you know you’re in trouble. There is no amount of huffing that will stop your ears from blowing smoke and the urge to hurl something very heavy, or simply just kick the cat.
The up-side to these heavy hearted disputes is they are great to watch when it’s not you in the ring. Nothing beats the hyperbolic anger, stuttering and general nonsense that is spat out during a father/ mother and a miniature beast of burden ‘talk’. Arm actions are a favourite to keep an eye on: think charades, Hitler and YMCA
Long of the short is you are always in the wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. So what if it wasn’t you that forgot to close the door, so what if it wasn’t you that lost the trusty remote, so what if you forgot to feed the birds and one was accidently massacred by the neighbour’s pedigree feline…no matter what you plead. You’re guilty.
So what is left for the enraged parent to do? They have expressed their views on your repugnant behaviour, lost their voice through strenuous repetitions of ‘my house, my house…’ and used up so much energy that they have to go for a 30 minute nap.
In the mean time you have a biased discussion with parent number two, the first person in your phonebook or your one remaining cat (the one that didn’t get kicked half an hour ago) and try to piece together what just happened.
Then from the depths of the dark you begin to hear a rumble, parent number one has awoken and is slowly making its way down the stairs, and being extra careful not to trip and slide to the bottom. This will only result in you wetting yourself with laughter, crying through the pain and ending up in another argument on ‘how to not laugh at people when they fall down the stairs’.
So once the parent has tackled the stairs and your laughter is tightly locked away inside the apologies begin. They apologise, you apologise and everyone has a cup of tea.
What a fantastic way to spend your evening. You end up with several stress spots, mainly caused through irritation rather than stress, and spend the night needing to wee because you drank so much tea.
Well I guess it could be worse, you could be watching Xfactor.
Monday 15 November 2010
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Christmas wishes
It’s official Christmas is starting to arrive, decorations are beginning to go on sale and the nights are drawing in. Thank goodness for big thick socks and university hoodies.
Anyway, all this premature Christmas excitement got me thinking about a blog I wrote last Christmas. It was a few paragraphs about what future Christmas days might be like, lots of burnt Christmas dinners and tucking my children into bed on Christmas Eve and telling them if they don’t go to sleep instantly Father Christmas won’t be able to drop off their presents.
Obviously this year won’t be any different to last Christmas, or the Christmas before that, which is in ways good and bad. It’s good because it means I haven’t unintentionally created any offspring and bad because I want to buy a load of decorations and literally ‘deck the halls.’
I think that’s the worst part about still being at home, not being about to coat the house in Christmas the way you want to. Admittedly that is terribly selfish, but it’s not as bad as it sounds…
When you have your own place and an income it’s very easy to make things ‘yours’ and new traditions are made and you don’t have the fear of treading on any toes.
When you’re at home there’s always a way of doing things and certain ways things are done.
In our house we usually send someone up to the loft to drag out the box of decorations, lights, left over crackers from pervious years and spend Christmas Eve in a mad rush trying to put it all up. The tree normally stays tied up in its packaging for at least a week before it goes into the lounge and Mum hides all the chocolates around the back of the tree so that nobody can find them and eat them.
This is a far cry from the giant Christmas box, full of red and white decorations, Christmas bunting, the Snowman DVD, candles, mistletoe, giant felt calendar (complete with chocolates), children’s Christmas books and much much more than will coat my future house. ..Cuddled up on the sofa on Christmas Eve, being kept warm by a log fire, with ‘Daddy’ reading ‘The night before Christmas’ to our twins and I.
However, back in reality and off planet Zogg my box of decorations will have to wait. At the end of the day not all traditions live on, some disappear. So I vow to put aside the new traditions for the time being and focus on those worth keeping.
Besides the perfect Christmas would involve me having to cook gingerbread men and let’s face it, I need a good 30 years to perfect that one!
Anyway, all this premature Christmas excitement got me thinking about a blog I wrote last Christmas. It was a few paragraphs about what future Christmas days might be like, lots of burnt Christmas dinners and tucking my children into bed on Christmas Eve and telling them if they don’t go to sleep instantly Father Christmas won’t be able to drop off their presents.
Obviously this year won’t be any different to last Christmas, or the Christmas before that, which is in ways good and bad. It’s good because it means I haven’t unintentionally created any offspring and bad because I want to buy a load of decorations and literally ‘deck the halls.’
I think that’s the worst part about still being at home, not being about to coat the house in Christmas the way you want to. Admittedly that is terribly selfish, but it’s not as bad as it sounds…
When you have your own place and an income it’s very easy to make things ‘yours’ and new traditions are made and you don’t have the fear of treading on any toes.
When you’re at home there’s always a way of doing things and certain ways things are done.
In our house we usually send someone up to the loft to drag out the box of decorations, lights, left over crackers from pervious years and spend Christmas Eve in a mad rush trying to put it all up. The tree normally stays tied up in its packaging for at least a week before it goes into the lounge and Mum hides all the chocolates around the back of the tree so that nobody can find them and eat them.
This is a far cry from the giant Christmas box, full of red and white decorations, Christmas bunting, the Snowman DVD, candles, mistletoe, giant felt calendar (complete with chocolates), children’s Christmas books and much much more than will coat my future house. ..Cuddled up on the sofa on Christmas Eve, being kept warm by a log fire, with ‘Daddy’ reading ‘The night before Christmas’ to our twins and I.
However, back in reality and off planet Zogg my box of decorations will have to wait. At the end of the day not all traditions live on, some disappear. So I vow to put aside the new traditions for the time being and focus on those worth keeping.
Besides the perfect Christmas would involve me having to cook gingerbread men and let’s face it, I need a good 30 years to perfect that one!
Monday 8 November 2010
How to chunder
I have an 18 year old brother and at times he can be the BIGGEST pain known to man. I guess this is pretty standard for any sibling, but I often wonder if he was born with powers to exceed any other pain in the neck and quite possibly take over the world with his general stupidity.
For the first time since my brother had passed his driving test (a whole year ago) he asked if I could run him and a friend into town, so they can get politely off their heads and wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi.
I guess this is fair enough and to be honest I did owe him at least one drop off, but with slippers, joggers and a ridiculously cosy hoody on, driving to town was the last thing on my mind. This does not include the cup of tea in my hand and Mock of the Week on the TV. In short I was not moving anywhere in a hurry.
So as fate goes 10 minutes later I was reluctantly driving the boys into town and discussing the beauty of student nights out and the best ways to handle drink.
It was around this time that the word ‘Chunder’ first made it’s way into the conversation. This word is slowly creeping its way up the list of genuinely horrible words, which if I ruled the world, or had any influence over the OED I would personally ban. (‘Moist’ is still the reining champion of words that should be removed from the English language.)
Anyway, the boys were trying to explain how deliberately throwing up before a night out will make you last longer and make your night better. Personally it sounds like child proof Viagra, but hey, who are we to judge if it works?
Minus the fact that this had been the stupidest comment I had heard all day, it was worrying that they thought this was ok to do. The youth of today are hopeless.
As students we were bad, but nothing along the lines of throwing up so we had a better night. It’s all about the pacing and fingers crossed this will be a habit that will soon be kicked out of the stadium.
Kids today…
For the first time since my brother had passed his driving test (a whole year ago) he asked if I could run him and a friend into town, so they can get politely off their heads and wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi.
I guess this is fair enough and to be honest I did owe him at least one drop off, but with slippers, joggers and a ridiculously cosy hoody on, driving to town was the last thing on my mind. This does not include the cup of tea in my hand and Mock of the Week on the TV. In short I was not moving anywhere in a hurry.
So as fate goes 10 minutes later I was reluctantly driving the boys into town and discussing the beauty of student nights out and the best ways to handle drink.
It was around this time that the word ‘Chunder’ first made it’s way into the conversation. This word is slowly creeping its way up the list of genuinely horrible words, which if I ruled the world, or had any influence over the OED I would personally ban. (‘Moist’ is still the reining champion of words that should be removed from the English language.)
Anyway, the boys were trying to explain how deliberately throwing up before a night out will make you last longer and make your night better. Personally it sounds like child proof Viagra, but hey, who are we to judge if it works?
Minus the fact that this had been the stupidest comment I had heard all day, it was worrying that they thought this was ok to do. The youth of today are hopeless.
As students we were bad, but nothing along the lines of throwing up so we had a better night. It’s all about the pacing and fingers crossed this will be a habit that will soon be kicked out of the stadium.
Kids today…
Sunday 7 November 2010
Fatal attraction
So last Thursday I packed the car, whacked Fleetwood Mac into the CD player, put my right foot to the floor and headed towards the M6. Just under three hours later I was back in Chester and began getting ready for what was guaranteed to be three crazy days.
Chester is one of those places that is, well, for want of a better word, lovely. Every time I come home the clogs turn and the words ‘I can’t wait to move back’ spill out of my mouth. The only fear is that after having three amazing years there, would moving back permanently ruin those memories? Would it be better in the long run to move to a new area code and continue life?
Becky and I stayed in the new travel lodge and armed with a gigantic box of chocolates, a bottle of champagne and some flowers we made the perfect couple. Shame about the small issues that we ate so many chocolates we (I) were close to regurgitating the entire box, the champagne lasted all of 10 minutes and it was 24 hours before the flower saw any water. The only things missing were our beautiful men and a few more pairs of shoes.
So we went out, met up with people we hadn’t seen for at least a week and were students for the last time. Minus the head banging, kebabs and Ikea trips it was just like old times.
The tears we all held back (apart from a small spell in Watergates during a bit of Ridin’ Solo- but it was our end of uni song so that’s acceptable) which was a surprise to us all. Obviously people may have been crying behind closed eyes, but it would be worrying if they weren’t. As you can see, deep and meaningful babbling is slowly creeping back in.
On Friday we hit the SU, which meant that a very passionate (note the sarcasm here) conversation with a guy who I had unnecessarily hated was finally aired. This left an odd sense of relief and admittedly he needed credit for letting a total stranger shout at him.
Then it was time for bed and after two nights of constant camera clicking, Becky and I plodded back to our hotel in the rain. I then kissed a stranger, fell asleep and dreamt I was somewhere else.
We checked out of our room at lunchtime, by which time Becky was 100% hangover free and I was missing my big comfy bed like never before.
And so this brings us back up to date on Sunday the 7th of November, in a cold house, still tired, with my cat pawing at my laptop and trying to read what I’m typing.
This rate I’m guaranteed to die a touch tying, cat-loving, spinster, whose best friend is her Blackberry and whose cooking skills can barely produce beans on toast. Ahhh, to be young, free and single. What a joy.
Chester is one of those places that is, well, for want of a better word, lovely. Every time I come home the clogs turn and the words ‘I can’t wait to move back’ spill out of my mouth. The only fear is that after having three amazing years there, would moving back permanently ruin those memories? Would it be better in the long run to move to a new area code and continue life?
Becky and I stayed in the new travel lodge and armed with a gigantic box of chocolates, a bottle of champagne and some flowers we made the perfect couple. Shame about the small issues that we ate so many chocolates we (I) were close to regurgitating the entire box, the champagne lasted all of 10 minutes and it was 24 hours before the flower saw any water. The only things missing were our beautiful men and a few more pairs of shoes.
So we went out, met up with people we hadn’t seen for at least a week and were students for the last time. Minus the head banging, kebabs and Ikea trips it was just like old times.
The tears we all held back (apart from a small spell in Watergates during a bit of Ridin’ Solo- but it was our end of uni song so that’s acceptable) which was a surprise to us all. Obviously people may have been crying behind closed eyes, but it would be worrying if they weren’t. As you can see, deep and meaningful babbling is slowly creeping back in.
On Friday we hit the SU, which meant that a very passionate (note the sarcasm here) conversation with a guy who I had unnecessarily hated was finally aired. This left an odd sense of relief and admittedly he needed credit for letting a total stranger shout at him.
Then it was time for bed and after two nights of constant camera clicking, Becky and I plodded back to our hotel in the rain. I then kissed a stranger, fell asleep and dreamt I was somewhere else.
We checked out of our room at lunchtime, by which time Becky was 100% hangover free and I was missing my big comfy bed like never before.
And so this brings us back up to date on Sunday the 7th of November, in a cold house, still tired, with my cat pawing at my laptop and trying to read what I’m typing.
This rate I’m guaranteed to die a touch tying, cat-loving, spinster, whose best friend is her Blackberry and whose cooking skills can barely produce beans on toast. Ahhh, to be young, free and single. What a joy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)