honeymoon from Hell

As my third wedding anniversary is rapidly approaching I thought I’d share with you the hideous tale of my honeymoon.  My husband says “If we'd have had a normal honeymoon we’d have forgotten about it by now” I beg to differ. 

Like many couples, we had a budget for our wedding and when I say budget I mean budget.  We had exactly £5,000.  Some may say that’s plenty and some may say that’s the cost of the dress! Nevertheless, we managed to (just about) stay within this sum and had a fantastic day.  But one thing we neglected to factor into this five grand was our honeymoon.  When we first set the date for the wedding we were thinking BIG for the holiday, it was a one-off and we wanted to go out with a bang.  Initially we were thinking the Maldives but as the general cost of the wedding was totting up, the finances for the honeymoon were getting less.  So from the Maldives we went down to Mauritius then to New York but in reality there was only enough money left in the pot for a weekend in the Lakes.

“Don’t worry baby, leave it to me.  Honestly I’ll sort it all out and it will be the best honeymoon ever and I promise when we’ve paid off the wedding we’ll have a proper honeymoon”

Oh how I wish I’d have got that in writing…and signed in blood!

‘PING’ I opened the email, it was a booking confirmation form.  He’s done it I thought, he’s actually booked our honeymoon!  I picked up the phone and squealed “You’ve booked something, what have you booked?”  I listened attentively as my husband to-be described an idyllic village just ten minutes from the coast. Perfect or so I thought.

The bags were packed and after a quick Superman style change in the work loo we were off and three hours later had finally made it to Aspatria.  It was 7.30pm on a gloomy October night and I struggled to understand why this so-called idyllic village consisted of a hardware store, three pubs (one which was boarded up), a telephone box and bugger all else.  It must of taken us all of 10 seconds to reach the ‘You are now leaving Aspatria’ sign?  No, it couldn’t be right?  As we pulled over to reassess, Jase spotted the top of the hotel sign behind a huge brick wall.  As he turned the car around, I physically couldn’t stop my head from falling in my hands as I despaired at the sight before me.  It was an exact replica of the Norman Bates house.  Set way back from the road, swamped in gnarled trees and in complete darkness it looked almost derelict.  As my husband stuttered an attempt to reassure me I gave him a look that silenced him instantly and as he exited the car I snapped “Don’t bother taking the cases out”.

As we gingerly walked through the door we were greeted with a beautiful tiled floor, mahogany service desk and a grand chandelier.  OK I can cope with this – creepy on the outside, elegant on the inside or so I thought.  As we rang the bell a very tall and apparently Dutch man donned in white pants, a white t-shirt and no shoes comes into view.  I immediately looked at Jase and mouthed “We are going to die if we stay here” he squeezed my hand and gave me a little head shake.  As they exchanged pleasantries and Jase ordered a Cumberland Ring for breakfast I took the opportunity to take a closer look at the décor and I didn’t like what I saw.  On the walls were several five foot frames each containing a child’s dress and gloves, framed crocheted bible quotes, old sepia photos of families outside churches and lots of other weird and disturbing paraphernalia. Devout Mormons it would seem. The only thing I could think was “Holy F**k”.   The next thing I knew I was being led up the stairs to be introduced to our room.  Trance-like I was nodding and smiling when required as I was told it was a shared bathroom and when our room door opened my face froze.  The tiny room housed two single beds which were lined up against the wall headboard to headboard, a toilet, a wardrobe and a Mormon bible!  The conversation that followed as I locked myself in the room was not a pleasant one and thankfully Jase had the sense to sit there and take what I had to say otherwise he’d have been in A & E having The Book of Mormon surgically removed from his ass.

“Do not unpack that case Jason” I said.

“Come on we’re here now, why don’t we go and have a drink and chat about what we should do” he replied.

“Fine but I’m sleeping in the car” I hissed.

 As we crept out onto the street we spied a pub just off the main street.  Obviously when we arrived there was no one in but us.  As the Landlady picked up the flow of our conversation she screamed with laughter at the thought that we were sat in a one horse town in a shitty back street pub for our honeymoon. 

“Where on earth are you staying then” she said

“At the guest house across the road” I replied

“You’re joking” she said with a deathly look on her face. I knew that whatever she was going to say next wasn’t going to be good and I was right.

“You’re staying at that guest house! You do know that that used to be a hospital for the mentally ill and the Dutch man who runs it now has one side for guests and the other for rehabilitating drug users”

“Double vodka please” I whispered and blenched.  Once again she cackled with laughter, shook her head and shouted “Honeymoon!”.

I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever drank so much liquor in such as short time but there was no way I was going back in that house sober and that night as we huddled together in a single bed I really believed that we would not be waking up.

But what do you know, we did.  We were alive and despite being elated about this fact I was still pretty pissed off about the whole situation and really wanted to go home.  After a few heated discussions we agreed to have breakfast and take a drive to the next town to see what was there and as we entered the dining room we seemed to be met with what appeared to be the rehab patients!  We were directed to our seat by the owner, complete with flip flops, and whilst we ordered our drinks, two tea-light warm plates and two tea-lights in glasses on beds of rice were lit! WTF.  As the Mormon turns and leaves Jase pipes up “F**k me, what we having a Madras?!” and roars out laughing, much to the disapproval of the Dutch man as he places a tea pot on the heated tray.

After a very rushed scrambled egg and coffee we are both back in bed trying to fathom out what to do for the best and I started to get a whiff of something that wasn’t quite right.  What the hell was that smell?  As we lay in bed I feared to move as the smell of pure turd was so strong I really thought that Jase had shit himself.  And as he slowly filled his lungs with the foul air I could see he was thinking the same about me.  Two minutes later we were sat in the car and as he started the engine I could hold back the tears no more.  I wasn’t quite sure how long this marriage was going to last.

“Don’t worry baby, I’m really, really sorry.  Look, we’ll go for a drive and see what in the next town.  We can check into another hotel.  Please don’t cry”

“Just let’s go home, I’ve had enough.  Leave it in your expert hands you said...”

And as we drove to Maryport it only got worse.  The town was completely shut down for the winter and it seemed that even the sea had pissed off because as we peered over the coastal wall there was nothing but uncouth smelling brown sludge.

With one swoop Jase scoop me up and bundled me in the car “Right that’s it, we’ll go back to the ‘Hell House’ collect the bags and go and find somewhere else to stay”.  I tried to protest but he would have none of it and with that we were off. 

As the Guest House came into view along with it came the stench of raw sewage.  It took no more than sixty seconds for Jase to go up and down the stairs and be back in the car with the case.  As we drove away, me laughing and crying, Jase said that there had been a random pair of flip flops at the top of the stairs and a women in a pink fluffy dressing gown polishing the pictures on the wall.  He hadn’t bothered to officially check out or ask for any money back, we were out and alive and that’s all that mattered.  We drove sixty miles to Keswick but like Mary and Joseph (without Baby Jesus) there was ‘No room at the Inn’ and just as we were about to give up and go home, two lovely jam-making Lesbians took pity on us and let us stay in their Guest House for two of the three nights we wanted.  And despite the wind, rain and the extra expense we managed to have a pleasant remainder of the trip.

So which would you have?  White fluffy sand and clear blue seas or a burst septic tank and one hell of a scary but memorable experience…

Love & kisses

Twiglette Piglette

nightmare on canal street

We’re very fortunate to live in an area that’s plenty green and not too far from the Bridgewater canal. Whilst waiting for this so-called Indian summer, my husband and I took the opportunity to go for a romantic walk while the rain held off and like many of the other O.A.Ps in the area we decided to go for a stroll along the towpath. 

Getting on at The Old Boathouse in Astley, we headed north towards Manchester, tipping ones hat to those we met along the way.  It was a beautiful warm sunny Sunday and the only worries we had were getting nipped by those beastly midgies.   En route to Worsley was delicious.  We were hand in hand, loved up and laughing out loud like a pair of love struck teenagers – the same cannot be said for the return journey.

Having walked an hour and surfaced at The John Gilbert, we stood for a moment and took in the view of the boats fantasising about spending our retirement fund and as the wind picked up we decided to head back and stop off at the pub for a swift half. 

We were approximately half way home when in the distance I spotted a bloke up ahead.  He was swaying from side to side but nevertheless still moving in a forward direction.  Sub-consciously I made a mental note of him and carried on with my conversation.  But as he got progressively slower and we got progressively closer I could see him pulling his coat tight around him and then zipping it up.  Immediately I thought that was a bit weird considering it’s still really warm and then before I’d had chance to process that this guy was acting a little bizarre he quickly unzipped his coat and started flapping the sides open like the wings of a bird.  I stopped and pulled on J’s arm.  He jolted wondering why I had stopped.  I nodded in the direction of the skinhead and explained what I’d just seen saying “I think he’s had a few too many in the midday sun”.  Jase insisted we stay well back, just in case, but no sooner had we took a step forward the chap started to jump up and down on the spot!  We both looked at each nervously.  Clearly ‘Care in the Community’ were short staffed these days.  As my husband pulled me to the edge of the canal where we picked up pebbles to skim across the water, he kept one eye on the nut job.  After the jumping came the shadow boxing.  We watched as he started shouting profanities at invisible enemies and bouncing from left to right punching into the air.  It was apparent that he was more than just drunk. My husband let out a nervous hiss, “FFS” he said, “You can’t even go for an afternoon walk without fearing that you’re gunna get stabbed off some effin druggy chav”.  I could tell he was getting alarmed and to be honest so was I.  In fact, I was weighing up my sinkability in case he came leggin’ it towards us.  I’d be in that canal faster than you can say ‘Geronimo’. Then without warning he bolted!  Sprinting like a gazelle, he was off and within seconds out of sight. 

“OMG that’s not good, there’s a bridge up ahead what if he hides behind it? Jase I’m really scared now” Both Jase and I began speed walking following in his dusty trail and just before the bridge we could see that he had in fact continued up the towpath.  Phew, and thank god I didn’t have Daisy with me!

As we approached the bridge we decided this was our opportunity to cross the canal and hopefully be out of harms way.  At the apex of the bridge we looked out towards him and roared with (nervous) laughter.  This lad was now kickboxing with a young tree that was partially growing out of the canal wall.  The tree was wafting back and forth like a worthy opponent and it was making him angry.  Then all of a sudden he leapt at it which miraculously supported his whole body weight as it rapidly sprang over the canal.  So there he was hanging for dear life on what looked like a very frail branch.  With that we moved to the other side of the canal and agreed if he fell in…he fell in and we were NOT going to help him.   But by the time we were on the towpath opposite him he had unbelievably managed to get off and was now lay amongst the tree, now shredded.  As we proceeded to walk and were now adjacent to him, from the corner of my eye I saw a couple on bikes riding towards him.  I squeezed my husbands hand as we both saw him begin to rise as they slowed down.  I’ve never so felt uneasy.  As they dismounted and helped him to his feet the three of them began walking together.  They continued to walk up the canal with him despite as their effort to ride off were futile as he kept walking in front of them with his arms out.  Finally as we reached our exit on the towpath they were still walking with him towards the pub.  We decided against a pint in favour of life!

I’ve not seen anything in the papers about a killing by the canal so can I only presume they got home safe too but I tell you, that was one hell of a scary canal walk.  What has happened to today’s society when you can’t even go for an afternoon stroll without fearing for your life?

Love & kisses

Twiglette Piglette

panic on the streets of Walkden

My husband has advised me that no one will believe this event.  He said “No one will believe how careless one woman can be”…Obviously he knows bugger all about me then!  Saying that, after reading over this tale of sheer stupidity…he’s probably right.

TFI Friday.  It’s out first weekend sans Daisy in weeks and we have an epic 21^st party lined up.  It’s been in our diary for months and naturally I had a ‘totes amaze balls’ outfit lined up (thankfully no drama this time).  As the clock strikes 4.30pm ‘Big J’ is pacing the tiles waiting for me to log off and shut down.  “McDonalds for tea” he says proudly like lobster and champers will be on the menu.  I look at him, sigh and reply “Ever the romantic darling”.  As the golden arches come into view I remind my husband that we need to pick up a card and present for our beloved Scotty and that we should pop into TESCO after we have eaten. 

Food’s up and we’re sat on mustard coloured ‘Bond villain’ style swivel chairs discussing the latest work gossip before I’m interrupted with a text. Once we’ve finished eating, I pick up my phone and head for TESCO.  As my fella browses the shelves for some deeply inappropriate joke gift I peruse for the latest Moshi Monster and a black kohl pencil.  Once we’ve paid at the till we’re in the car en route home where I take the opportunity to create a hideous gothic/Amy Winehouse look on my eyelids saying “What do you think of this look baby” whilst cackling with laughter.

As we walk through the front door I kick off my shoes and a sudden wave of panic sweeps across me “OMG where’s my phone, where’s my phone” I scream. “Calm down! It will be in the car” my husband replies.  Tiny beads of sweat form on my forehead as I start to search the car frantically followed by a flashback of me putting my phone down on the self-service till. Holy shit balls, I’ve lost my phone…again.  (The first time was in a pub toilet where it fell from my back pocket when I was having a wee.  I only realised half way home and we had to turn back in the taxi.  Thankfully God was smiling down on me that day too!)  We jump back in the car, minus my shoes! And as my husband heads back to TESCO I snatched his phone; got TESCO’s number from directory enquires and rang to see if anyone had handed it in – no joy.  I rang my own number repeatedly until finally, 30 seconds from the car park the voice of an angel answered. “Yes I have your phone here” she says, it’s like music to my ears.  As we pull up to the sliding doors I sprint out the car and launch myself up the steps to TESCO and it’s only as I take the last step that I realise that I’m in the middle of a shopping centre with no shoes on and look like Alice Cooper in a floral skirt. WTF!  I don’t know what you think, but that is definitely not the get-up of your average sane person.  Once back in the car, I’m emotionally exhausted and greeted with the patronising comment of “You won’t be so lucky next time” and it would seem that the font of all knowledge is right again. Turd.

As we arrive home for the second time I open the boot of the car with a dismayed look on my face.  “Where’s my handbag J?” I ask confused.  “Handbag, I don’t know I haven’t seen it” he says.  Before he’s even finished his sentence I’m on all fours on the back seat, groping the carpet beneath the  chairs but there’s no handbag.  I don’t believe it; I can’t have, no, surely not.  But as the seconds tick by it becomes apparent that I have left handbag in McDonalds too.  My favourite handbag containing my cheque book, ALL my make-up, my LAST bottle of perfume, my NEW designer sunglasses, my work ID badge, my precious blog notes and a mirror Daisy bought me…all gone.  I looked at J, his face had changed to a popular primary colour and I swear I saw a little steam escape from his ears.  I think it’s fair to say he was NOT a happy bunny. I dare not write the obscenity that came from that mans mouth. I rang McDonalds with no avail.

So with no make-up and no perfume and no money to buy any, the evening plans were cancelled and we were a sorry pair sat on the couch with a bottle of red and a packet of Tangtastic Haribo’s.  What a bangin’ Friday night that turned out to be.

Love & kisses

Twiglette Piglette

to shave or not to shave...

Bonjour Mon Ami!

Apologies for the epic delay in supplying you with your weekly fix of my calamity lifestyle but I have been sunning myself in France.  However, never fear as I am here with a freshly baked batch of blogs…Enjoy!

Can you believe its summer again!  Where on earth does the year go?  I don’t know about you but the only thing summer means for me is France.  I remember the first time my husband and I planned to go on holiday, it was so exciting.  He wasn’t talking about your average city break with boutique stores and famous sites but about a 3 week road trip! Such fun! Of course we had the most amazing time and upon our return had the usual conversations of “oh we must go back” and “lets do it again next year” and we did…and the year after that and the year after that and yes you guessed it, the year after that (do I need to go on?)  I think someone needs to break it to this delicate flower that there is more than one holiday destination in the world! Perhaps I should have been less enthusiastic?

Anyway, for those of us who are lucky enough to holiday once a year I’m sure you’ll agree it’s not always as glamorous as those adverts make out (especially when you’re camping).  They never show how it really is, you know after that 12 hour drive where you step out the car bent double like an O.A.P, withered and parched, hair frazzled and stuck to your scalp with 2lb of make-up on your lap.  Then it’s too hot for make-up, too hot for hair-dryers and all that sand and chlorine. 

But what about all the pre-holiday prep we lovely ladies have to do; 2 weeks on the sunbed to acclimatise oneself, shaving and waxing, scrubbing and buffing not to mention the moisturising.  Is anyone else bored of being a bloody woman?  Honestly, men don’t even know they’re born!  But it’s the shaving and the waxing part that I’d like to bring to your attention here today.

There’s nothing worse than having to shave ones bits uber regularly whilst on holiday, it’s just a nightmare but I’m certainly not brave enough for waxing.  Having had it done once I’ll never do it again and I don’t want to hear any of that that bull about it not hurting.  Anyone who says it’s not painful has clearly had their pain receptors removed at birth.  So my remaining option would be hair removal cream and guess what?  I loved it!  I am a little shamed by the fact that I have made it to 32 and have only just discovered this miracle in a tube.  So having tried it out on ones furry areas I was most pleased with the results and this got me thinking…

Now I’m sure not many women like to admit this but as we get older we do unfortunately, like men (thought I’d get that in quick!), sprout the odd random hair here and there and I am no different.  In particular I’m talking about the dreaded tash! I know I know, it’s a sad affair but yes I can confirm that I too have a little lip fuzz.  I’m not talking Magnum P.I here for Gods sake nevertheless it’s totally unwanted and unwelcome and has to go!  I don’t want my husband to think he’s kissing a yard brush or worse case scenario – we get stuck together like Velcro! Oh the horror!

I digress.  So I thought right, let’s get a little of this new marvel on my top lip and “be gone oh evil fuzz”.  Of course it’s a delicate operation and so I just slapped it on and set the timer for 5 minutes.  5 minutes in and I’m analysing the handle bar moustache of pink cream before whipping it off with a wet flannel.  I watch as my smile starts to fade, the results weren’t quite what I expected.  Yes the fuzz was gone but so were about 12 layers of skin! In place of the handle bar moustache of pink cream was now just a red raw imprint of a handle bar moustache and the tips of my cupids bow (the two points at the top of your top lip) were complete burnt off!  Then came the stinging, the burning, the bleeding and the twitching – oh yes twitching!  For three days after my top lip twitched like it was having a mini stroke every 15 minutes.  I think it’s fair to say I shit myself although thankfully not literally ‘cos that would have only made matters worse.  I didn’t know what to do?  At first I covered my mouth with Vaseline to relieve the pain then run to tell my fella to have him watch for the twitches just to make sure I wasn’t going mad!  But he saw them too, they were so scary.  I whipped out my ‘fablet’ (fabulous phone/tablet) and typed “twitching lips”.  I won’t even tell you what filth I had to look through before I found the NHS site!  It turns out I’d damaged the nerves with the hair removal cream but thankfully they would return to normal within a week.  That’s definitely another first and last for me, I think I’ll stick with my tweezers!

Love & kisses

Twiglette Piglette

flat pack queen

Having finished work for the summer, last Wednesday I decided to embark on the epic task that was cleaning my house or ‘Hell Hole’ as I affectionately call it.  I have been so lazy this year, I can’t remember the last time my hand touched a duster and no, it hasn’t gone unnoticed by Lord of the Manor.  For me, one of the problems with cleaning is that for some bizarre reason I can’t just clean the house, it has to involve some form of furniture moving.  It seems I’m only happy when I’m lugging bookcases, tables and chairs around regardless of the fact that it nearly kills me.  Thank God my husband isn’t home to see me whilst it’s going on.  Well, to be honest if he was I wouldn’t get away with moving a photo frame without receiving verbal abuse of the earlobes, never mind a 60 minute makeover!  Seriously though, I looked hideous.  Donned in my checked PJ bottoms and a t-shirt that has more holes than Edam, I’m bra-less (NEVER a good thing!) and my hair is scraped back off my face.  That t-shirt cracks me up, you know it was only a fortnight ago when I woke to find that one of my boobs was popping out of a hole near the armpit. Attractive as ever!

After spending God knows how long fannying about with a chair at this angle, then that angle I was finally happy with the Fung Shui.  I sat and admired the view.  What this room needs is an over sized rug to set it off nicely I thought as I sipped my well earned brew, and before I’d finished it I’d ordered one.  Dang, we women are so efficient…at spending money!

A couple of hours later - ping!  The email read ‘Your order has been dispatched and will be with you in a few days’. Yes!  I was all clenched teeth and squished face with excitement.  A new lush green rug and wooden CD rack (oops forgot to mention that to the hubby) were making their way to Greater Manchester.  Two days later at precisely 1.35pm a white van pulls up, yay at last.  I opened the door and the chap said “Name”, I responded appropriately with my surname. His eyes rolled and he let out a bewildered sigh?  He didn’t even attempt to spell it on the virtual keyboard.

“First name” Perhaps he can’t spell long words I thought.

“Mishka” I said, knowing it was not going to be simple.

“Eh, you what?” He looked mighty confused. Here we go.

“My first name is Mishka” I repeated.

“Where are you from, are you foreign? He said.

“No” I replied sternly and watched as he eyeballed me up and down.  It was at that point that I realised I was still in my scruffs from all the cleaning and I probably looked like a refugee.  I snatched the electronic signature device, signed and shut the door.  Honestly how rude.

I tear open the plastic packaging from the rug and rolled it out on to the carpet. Yes it looked like a mini football pitch but yes, it looked fabulous too!

Next the flat pack CD rack.  Oh the joys.  After dragging the box (which was as heavy as a dead body) into the kitchen I sliced it open and read the instructions.  I mentally recite my mantra – I can do this, I do NOT need a man.

Tools required – screwdriver – check. 

Approximate time required to build item – 30 minutes – not bad.

Number of persons required to build item – 1 – thank God. 

As Bob the Builder would say “Can we fix it? – Yes we can!”

Eer...I think you’ll find no we can’t.  I was 30 minutes in and I still hadn’t actually connected two pieces of wood together. WTF.  And what’s all this ‘one person’ shite?  I think what they should really write is, ‘one person required if you have two chairs and a table to help hold the sides up and 2 strong men; one to push the sides together, the other to screw the screws’.  Ooh don’t get me started on the screwing.  I never thought screwing 26 screws into a bit of plywood could be so exhausting.  OMG you should have seen the state of me.  I looked like I’d run the London marathon, twice, on my knees. Bent over, huffing, puffing, red faced and sweating from places I didn’t even know you could sweat from.  My legs were blanched and numb from kneeling and the lack of blood circulating.  I know you are envisaging this right now and are probably wondering how I manage to keep a husband! Me too.  Flat pack queen I am not – give me a man any day.

Love & kisses

Miss Piggy

fun day my arse!

As we drive past the school gates the banner screams ‘FUN DAY’ and as my little one clocks the sign she beams “Mum, Mum pleeeeeese can we go”.  I look to my left at Mr Grumpy Gills and witness an eye roll.  Completely ignoring him I mirror her enthusiasm and say “Yes of course darling”. 

As we arrive through the door Daisy fly’s up stairs leaving a trail of uniform behind her and as I dump our bags in the hall she’s back down showcasing her latest get up; red genie pants, an orange t-shirt and gold dolly shoes!  Clearly she has no mirror in her room.  I sigh, “No Daisy you are NOT playing out like that! Get changed NOW”.    I slump on the couch and start to rifle through her rucksack to see how many trees are in tonight, oh just the five, definitely a record (it’s usually more!).  I’ve never known a school send out so much paper work, it’s shocking.  Amongst the letters there’s a bright yellow poster that states ‘Make a scarecrow for our fun day’.  Immediately my creative senses are tingling and the ideas are rushing through my head.  ‘Collect your frame and straw from Reception on Friday’ it reads. OK then, let’s do this!

As Friday arrives its Daisy’s weekend to be with her Dad and I ask him to collect the stand and straw for the scarecrow on my behalf. The following Tuesday when I drop Daisy at her Dad’s for the school run, he’s stood at the front door mouthing “The scarecrow stuff is the car, grab it, the door’s open”.  As I open the door my eyes are on stalks. It’s a bloody 6ft frame with a bin liner full of straw!  Holy shit balls. “Is this a joke” I shout as he laughs at my distorted face.  What? How? When?  I just can’t believe it.  I thought when they said ‘Make a scarecrow’ that it would be a mini one, one that would sit on a table, not one the size of Michael Jordan! My fella comes over to see what all the fuss is about and spies the frame “Oooh no, there is no way that is coming in MY car” and we both look at Daisy’s Dad with pleading eyes.

It’s two days until the fun day and we’ve only just settled on an idea…SpongeBob Scarecrow.  My husband and I are rallying around work for boxes and bubble wrap and during my lunch hour I pop to the Chezzer (Charity shop) where I spend my last £10 on a white shirt, red tie and brown cords.  (I’m seriously starting to worry about the state of my mental health right now).  When we arrive home I start hacking, cutting and cello-taping trying to recreate the image in my head, but it’s just not working. 

Right on cue, in comes Michelangelo – sculpture extraordinaire, “You’re doing it wrong that bit should go here”.  I stop and give him the ‘evils’. He continues “You’re never gonna get that shirt around that box”.  Through my teeth I hiss “If he doesn’t piss off he’s getting the Vulcan death grip” but I know he’s right.

“Give it here, I’ll do it.  I can do it much better than that” he snaps, like he’s doing me favour.

“FINE” I growl.

I watch with a satisfied grin as the boxes get smaller and smaller, the cello-tape is running out and all that stands before us is a wooden frame with two pieces of bubble wrap for arms - we’ve been at it for two hours. “Who can do it better?” I ask smugly

My creative juices have evaporated and my husband looks how I feel; like wilted spinach.

After a short apologetic conversation with our daughter we both fall on the couch with a well deserved brew, failure never felt so good.

Alas fun day is here!  Daisy is bounding about the house with excitement emptying every vessel that clinks with the promise of cash.  She manages to rustle up £7.24 which she is most pleased about and between big J and me we have just over £25.  Plenty or so I thought.  As we arrive at the gates we are accosted by the Head and forced to buy three raffle tickets at £1 each.  As we continue through to the main event Daisy’s eyes become alight as she marvels at the delights in front her.  First she’s on the inflatable death slide at £2.50 for 4 minutes, (yes 4 minutes!) then onto the trampoline at £2.50 for 5 minutes.  The Ferris wheel is next again at £2.50 for 5 minutes and then to the burger van.  Cheeseburger, hot dog and a sausage wrapped in a napkin (Daisy doesn’t like bread) costing £7.50. Then onto the hammer/bell game (£2.50 per go) where the words ‘A prize every time’ are ringing in Daisy’s ears and so we walk away with a piece of off-cut fluff on a stick. So let’s analyse this, we’ve been here 20 minutes and we’ve spent £20.50!  I’m getting the feeling that these lovely tanned Irish folk are RIPPING ME OFF!  Needless to say we came away with not a single penny, I though this was meant to a ‘Fun day’?  I am definitely NOT having fun!

I’m thinking of suing under the Trades Description Act!

Love & kisses

Miss Piggy x

big brother...I'm mortified!

Modern technology, I love it.  New software, applications, phones, Kindles, iPods the lot.  My very good friend and colleague will tell you how I just love to embrace and soak up all this new gadgetry.   But what about the other darker side to it all?  The side where we are watched and monitored daily by the likes of CCTV and…your employer!  Of course their excuse is that it’s all in aid of our safety but I’m not overly convinced. There is most definitely an element of good old fashioned nosiness in it all!

We have all heard the term “Big Brother is Watching You” and how true this is.  There is not a word, website or image that isn’t monitored and registered by someone, somewhere and this became apparent to me last week when I was paid a visit from the I.T technician at work.

Sat at my desk thrashing out my latest project I was pounced on by a friend informing me that the I.T technician was trying to hunt me down with some important news. Oh I thought!  What on earth could that be?  About 40 minutes later he finds me at my desk, his face dons a worried look and I immediately feel apprehensive. 

“Hi, can I have a word” he says quietly scanning the area.

“Sure, what’s up?” I reply.

“It’s about your emails”.  His voice is low and unsteady.

“My emails, what do you mean?” My face starts to scrunch as I mentally go through the emails that I’ve sent that day, that week, that month.

“Well, I’ve had one that’s bounced back because of it’s…err…content” he whispers.

I’m still confused.  I’m thinking hard here.  I haven’t sent anything dodgy.  I certainly haven’t sent anything rude to my beloved on the lower floor (that’s what texts are for!).  In fact I haven’t sent anything vulgar or expletive to anyone and never do.

“I don’t understand, I haven’t sent anything with any content that would have the email bounce back” I plead.

He looks to the floor, “It was to Ann Summers”.  I start to flush as my temperature increases.  I feel guilty and embarrassed even though I know I haven’t done anything.

“Ann Summers!” I exclaim, “No, I think there has been some mistake, I definitely have NOT been emailing Ann Summers”.  And for the record, I certainly would never email them from work.

He suddenly acquires a new found confidence in his tone, “Well we have had an email, sent by you, with the word (dare I say it) ‘Cclliitt’  (just in case!) repeated several times”.  Say it like it is why don’t cha!

My jaw is on the floor.

I see movement behind him as my two colleagues come to see what all the fuss is about. I’m totally speechless and so he reiterates the information to them.  They instantly shape shift into a pair of howling hyenas laughing not only at my blanched dumbstruck expression but at the whole ludicrous situation.  I suddenly remember to draw breath and attempt to find reason.  There is only one explanation, the newsletter.  I start to tell him how when I’d signed up for an account I must have entered my work email address as it was the only one I had at the time but with every intention of changing it when I got a new one. Clearly I’d forgotten.  He looked at me through narrowed eyes obviously working through the scenario in his head.  I go on to say that I never even look at the damn things, I delete them immediately. He contemplating, should he believe me, should he not?  Either way it’s the bloody truth!   He doesn’t move, OMG what should I do?  I say “Right well, there’s only one way to solve his.  I ask him, along with the hyenas to witness as I log onto the Ann Summers website and unsubscribe from the evil newsletter.  My god that thing could get me sacked!!  I’m unsubscribed in a matter of minutes and the I.T technician swans off with satisfied smirk as I’m left mortified and full of fear and loathing.

Let this be a warning to you all my friends, it seems Big Brother really is watching…

Love & kisses

Miss Piggy x

introducing...Daisy!

Those who know me well know that I am not the most of maternal of people.  I don’t particularly like children, I especially don’t like other people’s children and if I’m honest I never really wanted children.  The idea of bringing up a child in a world that has so much wrong with it made me sad.  How would I be able to protect them from all the harm and negative experiences that are out there?  When I was consulted by the hospital who informed me of the fact that I couldn’t have children anyway, I thought well that settles that and found myself batting down the M62 to pick up an 8 week old boxer pup.  12 months later I fell pregnant.  Bloody doctors!  I suppose I consider my daughter to be a little bit of a miracle baby and cherish her every day…that is in between the telling’s off and the general frustration that is part and parcel of bringing up a child.   

So today’s blog is all about this week’s trials and tribulations with my 6 year old adorable, cheeky little monkey sox Daisy.  Below is this week’s ‘Classic Daisy’ moments…

3…

It’s 5 days to Father’s Day and I’m thinking we ought to nip out and get something totally rad for my husband A.K.A Daisy’s step-father.  I don’t really like the ‘S.F’ word it’s too clinical for me and doesn’t even come close to what a wonderful Dad Jason is to her.  We prefer Pops in our house.  So off we trot to the shops to purchase something, hopefully, he doesn’t already have.  En route home, gift in hand, I said to Daisy “Now make sure you don’t tell Jason, it’ll be our secret”.  We are home, on the drive and I reiterate “Remember don’t say anything!  We’ll make him breakfast in bed on the day”.  We’re in the front door and taking our coats off when I whisper “Ssh don’t forget darling, don’t say anything it’ll be a nice surprise for him”.   I turn, close the front door and Daisy is jogging up the stairs shouting “Jason, Jason me and Mummy have a secret and I can’t tell you that we’ve got you a present for Father’s Day”. Grrr bloody kids!

2…

We’ve been in the swimming pool for nearly 2 hours.  My eyes are stinging with each blink and I’m looking closer to 60 with every passing minute judging by my prune like fingers.  Daisy is like a performing seal; dive in the water, swim to the steps and out, dive in the water, swim to the step and out, and dive in the water…you get the idea.  After several minutes of coaxing and gentle persuasion we are in the changing room where I’m trying to warm her up so her lips are pink again.  “Do you need a wee before we leave” I say.  “No mum I’m fine” she replies.  We’re dressed and ready to go, we pass the loo’s, “Daisy have a quick wee before you go” “No Mum I don’t need one” she says.  Inevitably minutes from home I hear “Oh no mum I really need a wee”.  WTF!  Is this a joke? We’ve only been in the car 5 minutes if that, I just can’t believe it.  I say sternly “Tough Daisy, you’re going to have to wait now, we are just around the corner.  She’s starting to well up “Mum I really can’t hold it anymore”.  Anymore?  She hasn’t held it at all!  I am determined not to stop as I just want to get home.  30 second from the front door she bursts into tears “Mum it’s coming out”.  Frustrated I slam on the breaks, veer into the pavement and open her door.  She’s hopping on each foot trying to get her pants down.   I bend down, swoop her up in my arms and she starts to have a wee.  I’m desperately trying not to get it on my new trainers but it’s worse than a garden sprinkler! She’s all done and I’m helping her to re-dress and then it happens, the car keys fall into the puddle directly below us.  I can’t believe it. I scoop them up as quickly as I can but it’s too late.  They are dripping with wee and Daisy is in hysterics.  Why do I bother?

1…

The scene is set – Hot bath, light off, candles and tea lights dotted around the bathroom.  It’s Sunday and I’ve spent the entire afternoon ironing; 5 sets of uniforms, 5 shirts and pants and 5 different outfits for myself for the week.  I’m knackered and desperately need to relax before its back to the 6am rise and shine and chaos that is the school and work run.  As I slip myself into the fragrant oily suds, kindle in hand, I can feel the relief role over me. I take a few moments to breath in the floral fumes and start another chapter of the latest saucy novel (50 shades…) 10 minutes in and Daisy comes bounding through the door.  “Mum I really need a poo”.   Goodbye serenity.  I watch as swings her little legs over the bowl and then start to scrunch up her face.  She lets out a rasping fart and laughs uncontrollably whilst wafting her hands up to her nose.  I know who she got this from and it wasn’t me!  “Mum it’s a really big one this, can you smell it?” and again laughs out loud again. I hear one almighty plop and she shoots me a look from the corner of her eye letting out a hugely satisfied “Ahhhh”.   Oh the joys of kids.

So, if you’re thinking of having children at least you know that this is what you have to expect, if you already have children I hope you can sympathise with me and if you don’t have children, for whatever reason, enjoy life in a way that I never will.

Love & hugs

Miss Piggy x

the house that Jack built

I think it’s fair to say that since my husband and I have been together we haven’t had very much luck when it comes to renting property.

Our first home together was a snug little cottage, a two up-two down with a long quintessential English garden to the rear.  It had a makeshift extension come laundry room where we spent many an evening chatting, listening to music and drinking Absolute peach vodka.  But that was before the T.V was delivered.  Unfortunately those days are dead and buried now.  We were in that house for only twelve months as the damp was taking over faster than a bad case of chicken pox and the letting agent went into liquidation.  This meant we had zero chance of getting our £525 deposit back.

From there we moved to a property that was a much more appropriate.  A quiet cul-de-sac with lots of children and a stones throw away from our local wine bar.  High-fives all round.  Despite being advertised as ‘long term’ lease, twelve months in we got the dreaded call.  The owners’ circumstances had changed (which really meant her Spanish waiter boyfriend had dumped her, Shirley Valentine style) and she wanted to return to England and move back into the property with immediate effect.  This delightful news was delivered to us three weeks before Christmas and sought an alternative property immediately after the New Year.  Before leaving I scrubbed that house from top to bottom, my hands were red raw from the bleach yet we were still stung for carpet cleaning, tile steaming and garbage disposal.  We got just a measly £125 returned from £425 even after all the phone calls and letters. 

I’m seeing a pattern here I don’t know about you!

Onwards and upwards that’s my motto.  A good friend of ours very kindly provided us with a moving van at a discounted rate and helped us move into our new abode.  The new place seemed perfect; my little girl’s friends living next door, a fifteen minute walk to her school and ten minutes to the local.   Right now, things are far from perfect. 

When we moved in we noticed a pretty bad patch up job on the front door, I nodded to my fella and hinted at a break in maybe?  I wasn’t far off.  The previous tenant, who was in fact the landlady’s ex brother-in-law, had killed himself six weeks before we moved in.  The story goes that he’d hurt his leg, couldn’t work and got into debt.  Not being able to cope he hung himself from the loft which is situated outside all of our bedrooms.  Apparently his two children found him after the neighbours kicked in the front door.  This for me is BAD news.  I’m of a nervous disposition most of the time but there is not a day or night that goes by that I don’t think of this man or see a mental image of his dead body hanging outside my bedroom door.  I’ve never slept so little in my life.  Going to the loo in the middle of the night? – That’s an absolute no-no!  No drinks after 9.00pm in my house I tell you!

In addition to this we’ve had;  smashed roof tiles, a shower that we couldn’t shut off and gushed for three months and two leaks from the en-suite shower and water tank (the latter we are experiencing now) not to mention us having to kick the door in last month.  You’d think I’d be bald by now.

But all these are the least of our worries as we’ve now been served with an eviction notice for the 28^th of this month.  Nothing to do with us, our rent is paid religiously.  This story goes that the house was left to the landlady when her friend died (cancer) however she neglected to make mortgage payments and had no life insurance.  So the landlady and the bank are now at loggerheads as to who owns the house.  Over the last nine months we’ve had several visits and threatening letters all which the landlady has told us to ignore as she’s sorting it, so we have.  But judging from our previous luck I think we ought to seek a new home.  I’m off to change my name this week to Gypsy Rose Lee and purchase a caravan.

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy  x

a great drunk indeed!

The bright sunlight slowly penetrates my eyelids.  As I gingerly open them, they’re sticky and fuzzy.  I look over to the clock, it’s 7.25am.  I’ve been asleep for just over four hours.  As I turn over to shield my face from the dazzling rays, I spy the carnal paraphernalia that goes with a drunken night’s session and smile.  My man can feel my movements and mirrors my actions.  We look at each other through hazy eyes and I see a huge, bloody graze on his forehead approximately two inches in diameter.  I rise up on my elbow and say “Oh my God baby, what’s happened to your head?” he replies “It’s a carpet burn!”  I have no immediate recollection of the previous night’s events so between us we start to piece together the mystery of the night before...which apparently went like this...

Not wanting to sit in our local pub with its sweaty inhabitants while the footy was shown I insisted my husband go on ahead of me and I would follow.  When I arrived three hours later, he was certainly looking very cheerful.  He informs me he is unsure whether he’s had five or six pints.  To catch up I was straight on the double vodka’s.  Four hours later and after many conversations with several random punters we were staggering our way home under the cover of my leopard print umbrella against torrential rain. 

Once home, I was recreating Jamie Oliver moves in record time, frying up sausages to ease the munchies whilst my fella was sorting out the tunes or so I thought.  It turns out that he was in fact stood on the living room chest behind the door waiting to jump out and scare me. As I came through from the kitchen holding our rustic sausage sarnies he leap at me and cries “Booooo!!” on top note.  His efforts were wasted as I was niether scared nor impressed, he too was most disappointed.  Obviously there was no way he was letting this go, within seconds he was back on the table where he took flight like a fruit bat.  He’d thrown himself off the table and onto my back wrapping his arms and legs around me.  We both fell to the ground in a fit of laughter with him still attached; we looked like a pair of mating moths.  As I rolled over he slid off at high speed scraping and burning the right-side of his forehead on the carpet.

Totally undeterred he was up on his feet and cranking up the volume on the stereo.  What followed could only be described as a lap dance!  Off came the Fred Perry shirt which was waved in circular motions above his head and then tossed over my face.  Next were the jeans. Sliding them down just over his furry peach, he proceeded to spank his bottom and waggle it in my face.  Now donned in just his Christmas pudding boxers and socks he was thrusting his groin on to the side of my head whilst I sat obliviously eating my sausages.   What girl can resist a Christmas pud being thrust in her face – certainly not me!  Off to Bedfordshire to do what a voluptuous lady like myself does best…feast on her delicious man.

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x