I hate Mondays.

Actually, I'm not best pleased at most mornings, but I hate Mondays especially. There's another one coming up. But happy, happy, joy, joy it is prefixed by two fantastic words: Bank and Holiday.

Somebody dig out the ice bucket.........

Nom!

At which point in your adult life are you meant to grow up properly? I mean, I know it's not at all sophisticated to blow champagne out of your nose after a giggling fit (God forbid); & no one's going to love you for coming out of the loo with your dress hitched in your knickers (a friend of mine really did do that): those are silly, silly things. But does there come a point where someone is going to bollock you for still wolfing down Nutella on toast or for curling up in bed with a hot water bottle just coz you fancy it? When is it no longer sophisticated to deposit half a bottle of bubble bath in your bath just to get that kick of watching the bubbles go WILD? Can you air guitar when no one's looking? What about pulling stupid faces at the back of someones cross, retreating head? Can you still roll your eyes at your mum when she lectures you?

All I'm wondering is at what point do the Adult Police threaten to come and take you away?

Do You Want Ice In That?

There are so many things wrong with this tale but it has to be shared: it is a perfect, blindingly brilliant observation of just how fecking stupid & brain dead people can be.

Whilst I was out on the weekend (yes, doing that smiling thing), The Ex (as he shall henceforth be called) took my SIX year old son out on a pub crawl. I did not make that up. He did. See? Wrong on so many levels already.

Well, supposedly they had a fine old time - visiting the least skanky of Newcastle's beer gardens (consult The Burglar's Dog if you are in any way unsure of a particular beer garden's virtue: it'll save a lot of shit on your shoe, mark my words) & chatting about, oh I don't know, the virtue of one Monster Truck over another.

Their final port of call (wrong, wrong wrong!!!!) was a certain pub that happens to have a big arch you can sit under. Being the responsible adult that he is, The Ex decided that he couldn't leave small son alone in the beer garden, what with it being a Saturday night and time ticking away towards Pumpkin Hour. So, he took son into the bar. Son climbed up straight away onto a bar stool and played with his Monster Trucks on the bar (the age giveaway is there somewhere, I feel). Dopey, dopey, DIPSTICK of a barmaid came and asked The Ex what his drinking pleasure would be, to which he replied "a pint of Grolsch". Nothing to get excited about there, you're thinking?:

SHE BROUGHT TWO PINTS AND SET THEM DOWN.

To add screaming insult to injury she lent down to my son and said, I KID YOU NOT "Would you like a straw with that?".

Words. Just. Fail. Me.

No, really, it is.

I know, I know - it really is astounding. Confusing. Completely wtf?? But your eyes are not deceiving you; that really is me. Look. Out! SMILING.

Hiatuses have a point: they are not a thing of bone idle laziness & inertia. They are transformative; kind of hitting that crossroad & saying "feck it, I'm going this way". It's about realising when Enough is, frankly, ENOUGH. It's when life doesn't have to be such a big deal; when what another person thinks or doesn't think doesn't actually matter that much anymore. When someone else's actions shriek a hell of a lot more about them than they ever did you.

It's about realising that people DO change; that you can, actually grow tired of being the scapegoat. It's about refusing to be put in that box anymore.

It's about making the leap, standing up and saying "enough, enough, enough".

And it does hurt: it turns a bikini wax into a walk in the park. But ladies, and this is truly the BEST bit, it gets better. Infact it gets fecking brilliant. Best bit? Looking yourself in the mirror and thinking "woohoo, it all starts here".

So, the hiatus is done - okay there's still lots of i's to be dotted et cetera (& that's a brave move in itself) but I am laughing now and you can bet your bottom dollar there's plenty more catch up to come! So, girls, make mine a large one & yes, Friday is fecking excellent!

And the shelf groans........

So, DH is perusing my book shelves the other day....he stops to ponder & I feel a Point To Be Made coming on......

"You know, " he muses , "you do border on the obsessive you know." "How's that then?".

"You cannot move in this bloody house now for horse books. Before that it was childcare books, before that self help books..". Self help??!? Pardon??? I bloody well think not. Turns out he meant books on yoga and whatnot.

I point out that all those other books are still there (in various stages of having been read), it's just that he is only NOTICING the horse books the most.

Anyhow, I can't think of nicer reading matter....

Word for the day.......

"Solipsism.

The theory that the self is the only thing that can be known to exist.

solipsist solipsistic

Someone who only recognises and acknowledges his/her own emotions. "

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Legs, legs, legs......

Cut to the school.......trio trot trit trot...leg on, moving forwards,urging on, open reign, inviting into the space, leg on; momentum, forward movement, leg on, leg on; cutting through the waters, leg on , leg on, LEG BLOODY ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Aaargh!