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

cheap as chips...not quite

“OMG I’ve just got free tickets for Guns ‘N’ Roses, quick type this website into Google”

I look like I’ve just been tasered as I frantically type in the web address under my colleagues command.

“OK now register for an account, quick” I do as I’m told.

“Right now enter the code”

“What code?” I reply half shouting.

“Oh God, follow me I think I still have it on my PC”

We both take to the floor in a sudden burst of ‘Challenge Anneka’.  He reads out the code and I scrawl it across my palm, in record time we are back at my desk and I’m typing the digits in a blur.  Another window pops up – How many tickets do you want?  My mouse pointer is all over the screen as my body is going into a nervous convulsion through fear of not getting these tickets.  I wouldn’t mind but I don’t even like G ‘n’ R!?  Seconds later an email comes through, Congratulations!  You have two free tickets. Result.  You can’t beat a bit of spontaneity and for free too…bonus.

As we drive into Manchester, the Oracle says in his infinite wisdom says “I know exactly where to park”.  I role my eyes, I just know this is going to be painful.  I spy down at my Birkenstock's and smile, thank God I chose flats.  Having parked over a mile away we began the epic trek to the M.E.N Arena to exchange the email confirmation for the real deal.  We’ve been walking for 10 minutes at warp speed and I can feel the soles of my feet start to burn.  As we approach the box office the floor is littered with teeny head bangers waiting to experience the thrill of a rock gig and my feet now feel like they’ve been dowsed in petrol and set alight, burning and stinging with every step. I slip off the shoe from my left foot and on the ball of my foot a 2 inch bubble of liquid has been kindly delivered to me. Great, I’m going to be on my knees walking home, I just know it.

Tickets collected, we are out the door and into the pub.  My first pint is liquid gold. It’s my night to drink and I’m gonna make the most of it. We view an array of menus before deciding pub grub will do and as I place my order at the bar, “2 Cajun chicken burgers and 2 bowls of hand-cut chips please” the guy behind the till raises his eyebrows and says “And 2 bowls of hand-cut chips?”  I look left, I look right and then back at the barman “Err, yes please”.  20 minutes later the table comprises of 4, yes 4, bowls of chips and 2 pieces of Cajun chicken that you could hammer a nail with.  It would seem that the barman failed to mention that the burgers already came with chips! And at £30 I think it’s safe to say we were shafted.

Moving on swiftly we meet up with my buddy and his Dad; meat inspector Stevo (as his son affectionately calls him) where we chat about all things musical and catch up on the latest gossip at work. Not wanting to miss the supporting act (Thin Lizzy) they leave at 7.30pm prompt but my husband, not wanting to conform, insists we head out for more drinks and of course I don’t object.  When we finally arrive in the arena and to my surprise I hear my name shouted from somewhere in front, but I can’t see a face.  As the crowds clear I spot the unforgettable face of Paul Regent, a tall skinny lad that I had a major crush on in my final year of secondary school.  Naturally he looked older (as no doubt I did too) but his once delicious fiery red hair was now a dull brown and he looked rather like David Seaman in the bosh light (sans the facial fuzz!).  Without being modest, I like to think I have the Ugly Duckling Syndrome.

I’m on my 5^th pint of cider now as we make our way down to our seat.  It’s almost 9pm and Thin Lizzy are still going strong.  “Isn’t the main band supposed to come on at 9?” I mouth to my fella over the noise.  He shrugs looking as confused as me.  The next time I look at the watch its 10.15pm and there are no signs that the old timers donned in tight leather are stopping.  An image flashes in my head; Thin Lizzy playing continuously on stage, ageing before my very eyes. Shrinking and wrinkling, their music slowing down like an LP on slow play until they eventually halt and turn to dust.  If only...

Bang on 10.30pm the band offers their gratitude to the fans below and depart.  40 minutes and 10 Mexican waves later the lights are cut and Axl Rose bounds on stage sporting a Texan Stetson, a 70’s porn ‘tash and a face a tight as a melon in Lycra. Grim.  Nevertheless, he’s banging out the tunes and the crowd is going wild.  It’s now 1.00am, I have consumed 7 pints of alcoholic beverages and my vision is nothing but blurry, both he and I have had enough and so exit the concert.  Crap, I’ve totally forgot about Himalayan slog back to the car and in my heavily drunk state it’s one step forward and 2 steps back.  My man is less than impressed. “You’re a nightmare when you’re drunk, why can’t you be more like me.  I’m a great drunk”.  There is only one word that can be used here, DELUDED.  When I finally enter the car park a good 10 minutes after my man I can see he’s not a happy bunny.  The fee is £15.90, I swear I can see steam escaping from his ears and nose and then the ticket machine won’t take his notes… Sensibly I walk straight past and leave him to it.  This so called ‘free’ night has cost us £80.

Rough does not even come close to how I’m feeling.   Do you know how difficult it is to pretend you don’t have the worse hangover in the world?  Well I’ll tell you – it’s HELL.   It’s even worse trying to conceal it from your husband who has a smug ‘I told you not to drink too much’ face on.  Hobbling about the bedroom I prepare to slap on the war paint.  I decide to go for the bright eyed look with lilac eyeshadow and blue mascara, but if I’m honest it probably only enhanced the dense yellow of my eyes.   Wincing as I squeeze on a pair of kitten heels I pray to the good Lord above that he will take pity on me. And he does. I’m left to get on with my workload in peace as I intermittently swear I will never drink again, well not on a school night...

Hugs and kisses

Miss Piggy x