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.
Well Son3 has turned 18. After a spell of a good few weeks where he had been rather sweet to me, he has slipped back into his old growly ways of late. I was filled with this persistent hope that on the morning of his 18th I would awake to find mature young man asleep in Son3′s bed. Instead I woke up to find vomit sprayed across the landing, up the walls, across the hall dresser and into the bathroom.
His idea for his 18th was that the night before he would have some friends over at our house for beers. About 11.30pm a minibus would take them all into town, where at precisely midnight Son3 would walk up to a bar, brandish his ID, and order his first legal drink. I gotta say I thought that was a pretty cool plan to be honest. However, given the projectile vomit that greeted Me the next morning I think he ordered way more than the one legal beer.
I was rushing for a meeting that morning and decided that I would leave it for him to clean up. Surely 18 is big enough to clean up your own vomit?
I messaged him from work …
“Happy 18th Birthday! Hope you had a great night?”
“It was sick Mam … totally the best night of my life!” replied Son3.
He was right about it being sick. Usually I just don’t get why young people say ‘sick’ when something is good … but today it seemed perfect word for the situation.
“Yes it was sick alright ” replied Me, “all over the hall, landing and bathroom … make sure you clean it up …!!!!”
I arrived home to find no attempt had been made to clear the vomit. He wasn’t around and my peachy ass wasn’t going anywhere near that toilet pan until it had been bleached, disinfected and bleached again. There was only one thing for it …. marigolds and a scrubbing-brush.
Son3 sailed home the next day.
“Oh I’m sorry about the bathroom” he said, “I did try to clear it all up and they boys did try to help too!”
“I am going to let you off as it was your 18th” said Me, “but if it happens again I will move out before I clean it up!”
Artist arrived a little later with the surprise pencil drawing of Son3′s favourite basketball star all wrapped up.
“Is that silver foil?” said Me suspiciously.
“Yeah Baby!” replied Artist, “It’s brilliant … you don’t even need cellotape!”
Son3 opened it and the surprise was highly evident.
“FUCKING HELL!” he pronounced in loud disbelief at the quality of the absolutely amazing pencil drawing.
“Exactly the reaction I wanted” said Artist chuffed to bits.
Daughter didn’t give him anything … not even a card or abuse or anything.
“Why should I Mammy?” she said petulantly, “I don’t even like him!”
He is yet to have anything at all off Husband2. To be fair to Husband2 he did set up a birthday date with Son3 and was going to take him for a pint. However, Son3 blew him out. To me that Son3 did this is absolute proof of that age-old saying ….’A kid is for life not just for birthdays!’
As for Me …. I gave him £100, which he took out to town with him, and which I suspect sourced the wall- to-wall vomit scene the morning after his birthday. Oh and I also bought him a really cute little sign which I have hung right outside his bedroom …
I was chatting with Father yesterday and telling him about Son2 breaking up with his girlfriend.
“Why did he break up with her?” asked Father. “I thought she was a lovely girl!”
“He said that the extra special something … that magic… it just wasn’t there for him” replied Me.
“Has he been reading too many RomComs or what?” said Father gruffly.
“Well I know what he means … that magic is important” replied Me.
“That’s not love” said Father. “Love is long-lasting and strong and grows as time goes by.”
“Well you must have had ‘magic’ with Mother when you first met her?” said Me.
“Oh I don’t know” replied Father. “She used to finish with me all the time! She finished with me once for about three weeks.”
“Really?” said Me surprised.
“Yeah” said Father reminiscing, “My father caught me crying in the front room one time because I was so upset.”
“Well then you MUST have felt the magic for her” said Me triumphantly.
“The worse thing was I used to see her all the time when I was walking to tech” said Father, “I used to walk past the bus stop where she waited. It used to hurt me so much. Then one day I just asked if she would talk to me and she said okay. I ended up walking her to work and missing tech but she was worth it.”
I smiled at my Father’s memories about the woman he has loved for almost 60 years. I understood what he meant. She was worth it. She was a glamorous, intelligent, Marilyn Monroe look alike and they have been in love ever since. Mind you the life they have had together wasn’t always easy. In their early years they had three daughters under 5, one low manual wage, and a mortgage to contend with. Mother sewed and knitted all our clothes to save their pennies. There was never money for holidays abroad or top fashion, but I truly had the happiest of childhoods. We swam in the seas, played on the beaches and ran in the mountains. We camped in a leaky tent, and chased the sun for adventures in new places. I was truly blessed.
I thought about what Father had said. That magic is important to Me too. It was because I was missing that magical feeling that I left Husband1, and I guess it was because Husband2 was missing that feeling he embarked on his affair with Mistress.
In my four years of relentless dating I was seeking out that magical feeling. I thought I had found it once with EcoBuilder and I later thought I had found it with Swimmer. However, both men were battling their own demons and instead left scars on my heart. Thankfully fully healed.
I have found that magical feeling with Artist. Yet it really is more than just magic. It is a feeling so immense it almost makes me feel weak. Just stroking his whiskery face, or looking into his piercingly blue eyes, or being wrapped up inside his colourful arms, just brings something so pure, bright, clear, and so surprising and unexpected, that I have no words to describe it … just feelings and emotions.
Last night I was laying in bed with Artist telling him about my conversation with Father.
“I feel that elusive magic with you” stated Me.
He looked at me so intently that mercury shot straight through the glass of my internal thermometer.
“No other man has ever loved a woman the way that I love you” he said simply.