It’s my 50th birthday weekend. Hmmmmmm …. not exactly truthful but as I decided way back that I would just keep celebrating my 50th birthday each year that’s what I am sticking to. I admit that I have celebrated my 50th birthday quite a few times now, but hey who is counting huh? Damn F word … I do hate it so.
Artist and Me have been working hard in my garden getting it ready for my birthday celebrations. Well to be more accurate I have been working hard in my garden and Artist has been … well … arty farty really. Whilst I was digging, weeding, cutting, trimming and ripping my arms to pieces on brambles, my man was spray painting the very scruffy garden wall. It certainly brightened up a dreary wall and he was just so happy with a tin of paint in his hand.
I have really been enjoying my garden lately. It is such a massive garden that its real hard to keep on top of things but I have liked getting it ship-shape. When Husband2 left he took with him his muscles, the chimnea, furniture and other garden stuff. It all left me feeling a bit overwhelmed really and I haven’t done much out there for quite a few years.
Artist is a flower loving, garden loving type of guy and, after spending a weekend sitting in his beautiful garden, I decided something drastic needed to be done to mine. With money pretty tight I got on Gumtree for some furniture. I got two rusty white cast iron chairs for just £10. A tin of spray paint later and they were looking just fabulous.
I needed a table to go with them and spotted a mosaic cast iron bistro set in need of some tlc for just £20. Excited much was Me. At the same time that I started negotiating by text with the owner of the bistro set I was also busy ‘What’s App’ing with Artist.
“Hello. Yes the table and chairs are still available if you want them?” pinged in the text from GumTreeSeller.
” Fabulous. I am still interested. When shall I collect?” replied Me.
“I will be at the house tomorrow if that’s any good. About 6pm?” came the response from GumTreeSeller.
“Okay I can make it then” replied Me, knowing that I could call for them on the way to Artist’s house. “Please send me the address and postcode.”
A message came in from GumTreeSeller with the information I needed.
“On my way to you tomorrow I am picking up a lovely bistro set” I messaged to Artist.
“Are you? That’s nice. So you will have two.” text back GumTreeSeller..
“OH GOD … so sorry … I was sending that message to my boyfriend. Apologies for message and see you tomorrow at 6.” replied Me chuckling away to myself.
“LOL no probs. See you tomorrow.” replied GumTreeSeller.
A message pinged in on What’s App with some flowers that Artist had picked Me from his garden.
“Oh you are such a sweetie pie” messaged Me.
“Thank you … see you tomorrow!” replied GumTreeSeller.
I laughed until the tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she wasnt really my sweetie pie.
Somehow the bistro set was picked up without any further embarrassing messages and Artist transformed them into something beautiful with a wire brush and some black spray paint. Artist has also hung some bunting across the decking and added 200 twinkling fairy lights around the verandah. My garden looks just beautiful.
I might not be looking forward to another birthday but I am so looking forward to a night under the stars and spectacular sky. I am going to enjoy this special time with some good friends and a nice glass or two of Pinot Grigio … but not too many as I really don’t want to start drunk texting GumTreeSeller.
Son3 went to Magalluf on Tuesday evening. Given that I had only got back from Gran Canaria the Thursday before we hadnt seen much of each other. However, I had done all his washing, tumble dried and folded all his T-Shirts, collected his Euros and hung the last few bits of his washing out in the early morning sunshine before heading to work. I did pop my head in his room before leaving for work but he just growled at Me so I hastily departed. When I arrived at the office I sent a text asking him to call Me when he woke up.
At a quarter to one my mobile went off.
“What do you want?” asked Son3 grouchily.
“Well just to check you’re okay and to tell you to have a nice holiday” replied Me.”Oh and by the way I put some clothes on the line and you need to get them in as it’s raining.”
“Well thanks for that!” growled Son3.
“Huh?” says Me confused.
“Putting my clothes out on the line in the rain…” responded Son3.
“Obviously I never put them out in the rain … it was sunny before I went to work … ” said Me.
“Yeah yeah whatever … I’m busy packing and the boys are arriving in half hour.. ” grunted Son3 obviously quite desperate to get off the phone.
“Have you got your tickets?” said worry guts old Me.
“What tickets?” asked Son3 suddenly sounding a little more alert.
“Your plane tickets?” said Me.
“No” replied Son3 sounding a little less cocky.
“You have checked in and printed out your tickets?” said Me.
“No!” retorted Son3.
“You haven’t got your boarding pass?” said Me.
“No!” said Son3 in a shakey voice.
“Who booked your flight?” inquired Me.
“I did!” responded Son3.
“Well you are supposed to check in and print off your boarding pass” said Me.
“Well how was I supposed to know?” said Son3 tetchily, “All the other boys had their parents help them…. you haven’t helped me at all,”
“Son3 you wont be able to get on the plane without your tickets …” said Me.
“Okay I know … just help me okay” said Son3 angrily.
Hmmmm… should I let the little shit suffer the consequences and the hassle and the upset? Yeah of course I should. Did I? The hell I did. I couldn’t do it. Damn Me and my kind heart!
I duly gave up on my task, got online, input his Advanced Passenger Information, printed out his boarding pass, took some TOIL, left work and drove home with his paperwork.
He was scurrying about the house, which was rammed to rafters with 18 year old boys drinking Budweiser, trying to get stuff ready. A mate had done a Tesco run to pick up his toiletries. Son3 was running up and down the stairs stuffing random bits of apparel into his suitcase.
“Can I borrow your Ironman Backpack?” asked Son3.
“Absolutely not!” replied Me, knowing I would never see that hard-earned backpack ever again if it left my house withe Son3.
Another brief argument ensued until I located a plain black backpack that I had no emotional connection too.
“Can I borrow your iPhone earphones?” asked Son3.
“Absolutely not!” replied Me, “Treat yourself to some at the airport!”
Another brief argument ensued but I ignored it. There were no more buttons left to push.
With his mates all consuming beer and talk of Son3 making them all bacon sarnies I decided to escape to the shops with Daughter.
I returned to a front room full of empty beer bottles and a kitchen full of greasy plates. Son3 had left the building. Ten days of peace and harmony for Me. YAY!
Now all I have to worry about is what hashtag tattoo is going to appear on his arse, whether he takes the cannibal drug highlighted in the media (which causes the taker to tear around biting people), whether he is in a bar where a girl is giving 24 random men a blow job in quick succession, or whether a naked male dwarf performs sex acts upon him.
If he survives all that and actually makes it back in one piece he may well find the house boarded up and no-one home.
Just got back from a week in the sun with Daughter. She cajoled Me into it. She said her dream was to drink cocktails on the beach with her Mammy. As she has Me wrapped around her horns what choice was there?
At the last minute I booked us a cheapie holiday to Gran Canaria. At £160 each it was an absolute bargain. The downside was that our hotel was right at the top of the valley in Puerto Rico and everything else was down 164 stairs. However, Trip Advisor gave the hotel 4 out of 5, and what is a few steps to a triathlete and a footballer huh?
It was touch and go as to whether we would get there, but thankfully the French Air Traffic controllers unexpectedly ended their strike at midnight the day before we flew which saved the unravelling of our travelling.
I loved Gran Canaria. It was my first visit. The resort was a little more hectic than I would usually plump for, but the views from our terrace were beautiful by day and magical by night, so much so that I forgave the Karaoke bars and clubs for banging out crappy music until 4am every night/morning.
Daughter and I got along really well and we both agreed it had been a lovely holiday. However, the cocktails on the beach didn’t really happen. In fact the beach didn’t really happen. I LOVE LOVE LOVE the beach. Daughter HATES HATES HATES it. As a little girl I used to plonk her on a towel on the sand and she wouldn’t budge all day. She would curl her toes in disgust and wail with frustration, but she would not leave the safety of her towel. Nothing much has changed really.
Daughter did treat me to that fishy foot spa thingy which was pretty gross. I absolutely freaked out having to put my feet in the water with loads of little fishes racing to gnaw away at them. Daughter was crying with laughter watching my contortions and listening to my squeals. She said that the sole reason (no pun intended) why she had suggested it was because she knew I would go to pieces. Evil madam!
Having an almost 17 year old traveling companion was both wondrous and tortuous at the same time.
I wore a skimpy string bikini and felt very proud of the gorgeous daisy chain tattoo on my hip.
“You have your bikini too tight … your fat is hanging over the string!” said Daughter bluntly.
I wanted to walk the coastal promenade over to the next resort.
“I haven’t come on holiday to WALK!” said Daughter with disdain.
I wanted to enjoy a chat over dinner.
“Do you have WiFi?” were the first words Daughter uttered to the waiter at each and every restuarant.
I felt glamorous in my low cut floral designer vest.
“Pull your top up!” ordered Daughter.
I bought Artist a bright, cheerful Hawaiian shirt at the local market.
“Seriously … that is completely disgusting!” scorned Daughter.
I wore a floaty, floral kaftan with my denim pencil skirt.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” said Daughter. “It just doesn’t go!”
Having lunch near the beach I asked Daughter to take a photo of Me with the beach in the background.
“What … I have to move?” she said sulkily.
I asked Daughter to take a snap of me eating an icecream.
“You always want your photo taken!” she grumbled, “You are the vainest person I have ever met!”
I also discovered that I have some annoying habits, such as tapping my thighs, singing in random places, and saying ‘pardon’ all the time because of my shit hearing. All things which drove Daughter to distraction.
So what that the cocktails on the beach didn’t happen. What did happen was a week spent with my beautiful Daughter. Precious times … even with her disdain, distaste and scorn.
As for the 164 steps … YEP … there were definitely DEFINITELY 164 of them! Nuff said …
Artist likes to spoil Me. I enjoy being spoiled. I had taken some pots of instant porridge to his house this weekend in readiness for him to make Me breakfast in bed. This morning I demanded he make me one of the porridge pots up.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a bacon sarnie?” asked Artist.
“Noooooooo” said Me resolutely languishing lazily in the tousled bed, “I have given up bread and really really want porridge.”
Ten minutes or so later he brought a tray of porridge and peppermint tea into the bedroom for me. He looked a bit pale and watery eyed. As I took my first mouthful of porridge … he gagged.
“You okay?” asked Me surprised.
“Yeah Baby” he replied with another gag, “I just cannot stomach the smell or look of that porridge.”
“You are kidding right?” said Me in mock surprise.
“I am serious Baby” replied Artist “It’s evil stuff!”
“It’s a healthy way to start the day” said Me.
I tried to cuddle closer to Artist who seemed to be miles away from Me in bed. He backed off.
“I’m sorry Baby I just can’t …” said Artist apologetically. “The smell makes me feel really sick honest!”
I looked at my muscular, heavily tattooed, martial arts master of a boyfriend and giggled inside.
I finished every mouthful with exaggerated gusto. I leaned over to give Artist a kiss as a thank you for making my breakfast.
He backed away.
“I’m sorry Baby” he said mournfully, “I can’t kiss you … I really can’t.”
“Don’t be silly” said Me “It’s all gone now!”
“I can still smell it” said Artist sorrowfully “can we give it another ten minutes or so?”
“What?” said Me shocked. “You have NEVER refused to kiss Me before EVER EVER!”
“I know” said Artist getting more woebegone by the minute. “but porridge really does make me feel very sick.”
“What if I was about to die, and had porridge for my last meal, would you be able to kiss me then?” questioned Me.
“What? You would pick porridge as your last meal?” replied Artist.
“I might well do,” said Me laughing, “now answer the question!”
“Well I would TRY to kiss you” said Artist sadly.
“Well try now!” demanded Me.
Artist moved slowly towards Me from the other side of the bed where he had been cowering away from my porridge. As he edged forward very slowly he sniffed the air, reminding me of Roddy McDowell in Planet of the Apes, and as he got closer gagged again.
“I’m so sorry Baby … I just can’t kiss you yet … I will in a little while I promise!” he said miserably.
I started to laugh. Louder and louder. Artist looked even more woebegone.
“Baby I made you the porridge because I love you … but please don’t make me kiss you!” he begged.
I laughed more.
“It’s evil nasty horrid stuff … Baby I swear I just can’t!” begged Artist.
“If you love Me you would kiss Me” said Me with a pout.
Artist, a broken man, puckered up and kissed Me gently, looking relieved that the gag reflex hadn’t kicked in.
“Now do it again and put your tongue in my mouth” ordered cruel Me.
Artist, now completely crushed, moved closer and tentatively put his tongue inside my mouth, where I wickedly danced my porridge flavoured tongue around his.
The kiss ended. Artist looked proud to have survived his ordeal.
“How was that?” questioned Me.
“It was okay” said Artist, “but I fought a little bit of sick back into my stomach!”
“Don’t look so relieved” laughed Me, “I think we should have Tapioca for tea!”
“I would rather eat frog spawn” responded Artist.
“A nice rice pudding then?” inquired Me.
“I would rather eat my own vomit” shuddered Artist.
I laughed at his horror. I think that he should prove his love for Me by eating all of those things … you know… survive a set of food challenges in order to win his princess … hmmmmm … I think I shall save it for next time I am a little bored … after all faint stomach never won fair lady and all that jazz.
Daughter has bought a car off God-Daughter. She paid for it out of her own money which she had saved through waitressing at the local pub. However, she is not 17 until September and looking at her little car sitting on the drive is absolute torture for her. We live in a very quiet spot, up a dead-end road, and immediately at the bottom of my drive is another dead-end road about 100 metres long … just perfect for a bit of sneaky driving practice.
“Please oh please can I just drive on our little bit of road?” asked Daughter.
“It’s not legal … ” replied stern old Me.
“Oh Mammy!” replied Daughter exasperated, “It’s not like the police are going to find me there!”
“What if someone reports you?” reminded Me.
“Who would report me?” replied Daughter.
“Maybe the dead pigeon woman?” replied me.
“Don’t be silly … ha ha ha!” replied Daughter.
Many moons ago, when we first moved to this house, Daughter was a cute little thing of 6 and, as it is a real quiet cul-de-sac with hardly any traffic, I used to allow her to play outside. There was a slightly older boy who used to stay with his gran. He was a real mischievous Monkey. Daughter and Monkey used to play outside on their bikes together.
This one day Daughter came inside crying, telling me that one of the neighbours had stolen her bike and wouldn’t give it back. I went out to track down the neighbour. We had only been in the house a couple of months and I hardly knew anyone as yet.
I went over to the house directly opposite and knocked the door.
“Hello” says Me, “I am Kay from over the road and Daughter says you wont give her bike back?”
The woman snarled at Me, her face contorted in rage.
“You will need to speak to my husband when he comes home!” she replied with a shaking voice and a twisted face.
“Well Husband2 is coming home soon too …” said Me, “and of course our husbands must meet for a little chat. However, in the meantime I don’t believe you have a right to confiscate a small child’s bike?”
“Do you know what she did?” snarled TwistedFace. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT SHE DID?”
To be honest I was seriously struggling with what a six-year-old girl could have done to cause the contortions on this woman’s face.
“Errr no” says Me innocently.
“Her and that little friend of hers left a dead pigeon on my doorstep … A DEAD PIGEON!!” wept TwistedFace.
I was rather startled.
“I don’t know where you have come from or who you are but let me tell you we don’t behave like that in this area!” snarled TwistedFace in her poshest, most superior voice.
Ooohhhh dear. Now that put my back up good and proper. I am sure finding the dead pigeon was unpleasant but it wasn’t exactly a horses head in her bed for ducks drake.
“How dare you make insinuations about my background” retorted Me with my hackles rising and teeth bared.
Before I had a chance to slap her snobby face the husbands both arrived home, peace talks ensued, and Daughter’s bike was returned. I have no idea what happened to the dead pigeon. I never actually saw the corpse but Daughter confirmed that the little Monkey had indeed put it on her doorstep. From what I gather he hadn’t actually murdered it but merely moved it’s final resting place to the comfort of the porch. Daughter was clear she had not touched it and did not understand why little Monkey did it.
TwistedFace and Me have not spoken one solitary word to each other since. The dead-end road that Daughter wanted to drive on is right at the back of TwistedFace house. She would definitely see if Daughter was driving illegally on that little piece of road.
I looked at Daughter who was soooooo desperate to drive her car.
“Don’t underestimate the pain that dead pigeon caused her!” stated Me “She may well be seeking revenge!”
I studied my pretty Daughter, with her big brown eyes and her dimpled smile, and really couldn’t imagine why anyone would think she had anything to do with a dead pigeon.
My illusion was soon shattered.
“If old TwistedFace reports me she will have more than a dead pigeon to deal with!” snarled Daughter…
and at that very moment flocks of terrified birds cleared the sky and the music from the Omen began to play …
Artist and Me have just got back from a little break in Ireland. Damn fine trip. Four hour ferry, kindly paid for on Tesco ClubCard vouchers, and a lovely seaside cottage booked for three nights really cheaply. Absolute bargain and absolute excitement as I have never been to Ireland before. We stayed in Wexford which I have to say is stunningly beautiful. The countryside was completely flat which made the sky look really huge. In fact a pub in Wexford town centre was called “The Sky on the Ground” and that so aptly described what it felt like to Me.
The cottage was an annexe to the owner’s property. It had everything we could possibly need and it was absolutely immaculate. We arrived there at 6:30am on the Tuesday morning and left there at 8pm on the Friday night and all for just 100 Euros. We were absolutely delighted.
The weather was pretty strange. On Day One I wore a big jumper as it was a little chilly, on Day Two I wore my vintage leopard print fur coat as it was very cold and windy, on Day Three I wore my bikini and laid on the beach all day under a large blue, cloud free sky, and on Day Four I wore a Mac as it was wet and drizzly all day.
Before leaving I had gathered up all the Euros that lay around my house and popped them all into a little purse. I felt very proud of this forward thinking when during the trip we called to a pub and used our last Euro notes on a wine and a beer. Desperate for a cold cola I retrieved my little purse from the car and went into the bar.
“Two Euros twenty” said the Barman in a gorgeous lilting accent.
I tipped my little purse out onto the counter and counted out the correct money in fifty and twenty cent pieces. I handed it over.
The Barman took it and started to count it into the till. Then he turned to Me.
“These coins aren’t Irish!” he stated.
“Sure they are …” said Me assertively.
“Errr … they are definitely not Irish” he said putting them on the bar.
I looked closer. OH MY GOD they were Turkish Lira.
“Oh no this is all the money I have” wailed Me, and then gesturing towards the small pile of coins I had tipped onto the counter, “Is any of this Irish?”
The Barman peered at my pile. He took a couple of coins.
“That will do don’t worry” he said laughing loudly.
My embarrassment was pretty apparent. However, not as apparent as later that day.
We decided to cook at the cottage, share some wine and watch a movie. Artist had bought the movie ‘Filth’ which is about a corrupt, drug taking cop and we popped it into the player. Nothing worked. There was just a blank blue screen. Plug and play just wasn’t plugging or playing. A few minutes of exasperation and Artist nipped next door to ask our landlord for support.
Our polite, friendly, middle-aged landlord duly appeared. Artist disappeared into the toilet as Landlord began to fiddle away with leads wires and remote controls. Suddenly the blue screen disappeared and an image appeared on the screen. The copper is horizontal, asphyxiating himself with some rope, whilst a topless, heavily made up woman is riding cowgirl on top of him. The movie had somehow been playing and had chosen to display the very worst sex scene in the whole of the movie at the very point that Landlord got the DVD working.
He looked at the TV.
He looked at Me.
He looked at the TV again.
I looked at him.
I looked at the TV in complete disbelief.
I looked back at him.
“Artist” yelled Me, “You know that movie YOU bought … well its working now !”
“And there appears to be some shagging going on!” added Landlord.
Artist came into the front room and looked in surprise at the scene playing on the TV.
There was a brief pause.
Artist laughed loudly.
Landlord laughed loudly.
Disconcerted Me just reached for the Pinot.
Ireland? I would absolutely recommend it but next time I shall be packing Euros and The Sound of Music.