This is very exciting. I've been tagged by Welsh girl which means I have to tell you seven random things about myself or be single handedly responsible for bringing about the end of the world (which I will be anyway given how often we're using our tumble drier at present).
So here they come (incidentally it's quite difficult to be random on command. I'm very good at being randomly random):
1. My nickname is Loo. Contrary to popular believe, I was not named after a toilet, although my parents do believe that I am full of shit. No, the nickname goes back to when I was a little girl and I would refuse to answer to any name other than Lulubell. Actually, my full name was Princess Lulubell, Queen of the Fairies, but I would accept Lulubell for short. This in turn got shortened to Loo over the years. In my head I am still Princess Lulubell, Queen of the Fairies and have the fairy wings and tiara to prove it.
2. I absolutely loathe and detest Coriander. Ground coriander is fine. It's coriander leaf, the fresh stuff that Indian and Thai restaurants insist on sprinkling all over your food in an exotic take on parsley. It is the devil's herb and should be erradicated from the earth. In fact by not doing my tag, I could get rid of coriander as part of the world's demise and all would be well.
3. I'm good at making up song lyrics for children at a moment's notice. This is a talent I've mastered thanks to numerous tantrums that needed distracting or hours of having to lull babies to sleep. Here's a sample:
Night night Mr Sunshine
Hello Mr Moon
Night night Mr Sunshine
We will see you soon
Night night Mr Sunshine
Hello Starry Sky
Night night Mr Sunshine
It's time for beddy bye.
4. Despite being hideously unfit, I can - and always have been able to - sit with my feet soles together with my knees flat on the ground. Like being cross legged, only not. It's what very bendy yoga types do. I'm not bendy. This is my only bendy feat.
5. I'm allergic to all seafood. This does not bother me at all with regards to shellfish which look like swimming cockroaches. But not being able to eat fish - particularly fish and chips - is hell. It makes cooking fish for my children a deeply joyous experience too, particularly as I come up in welts if I touch salmon.
6. When I was a teenager in the 80s, my sisters, a friend and I performed a dance to Wham!'s Edge of Heaven and Alphaville's Big in Japan in front of a yacht club full of people. We wore leotards with black bin liners which we tucked into brightly coloured waist bands. We ripped the bin bags off midway through the dance as we got into the Wham groove. Why we thought this was in anyway cool I will never, ever know.
7. I get irrationally annoyed when people misspell the words lose vs loose. In fact it makes me want to lose the plot, rather than loose it.
I'm now supposed to tag someone else but am not sure who. My bloggy friends have been tagged. Someone take the tagging baton from me please or else the world might implode.
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
Sodding clock change
I am NOT happy about the clocks going back. I have spent years training my children to sleep slightly later in the morning. We've been moving forward at snail's pace, with the odd minute added here and there so that they now wake up on average about 6.17am. This is still unacceptably early in my book, but a lot better than what it has been for the last 4.5 years.
But now that the clocks have gone back, we're back at square one. 5am arrives and two small boys bounce out of bed, ready to start their day. This hasn't been terribly bad for me - yet - as husband is always up at the time because he's just plain weird. Not only does he get up at this ungodly hour, but he then goes to the gym to exercise. I mean what kind of barking mad person ever does that - much less on a frosty October morning?
But because the children are up at 5am, it means that they've already had 3 days worth of tv by 7.30am. Which leaves them listless and bored and wanting me to entertain them while I'm still trying to pump caffeine in intravenously. What's more, it means they're hungry and have had breakfast by 6.30am. This means that by mid-morning they turn into hobbits and need a second breakfast. And it also means that by the end of the day they are incredibly tired and thoroughly unpleasant to be around.
It's not just the children's early waking that the clock change has brought about. It has viciously cut short the day. I can handle rain. I can handle cold (just). But I cannot handle it getting dark at 5pm (and I know there's only worse to come as we plod towards the bleakness of winter). When it gets dark early, my body believes that it's bedtime. I become lethargic and unable to do anything other than shovel steamed puddings and belly sticking stews into my gob. My body retains all this food as it too knows that winter is coming and might need some added layers of blubber to keep it warm. Add to this that it's now impossible to hang clothes on a line to dry, resulting in excessive tumble dryer usage, leading to excessive clothes shrinking, and my entire wardrobe starts to feel a little snug.
This makes me grumpy too. In fact there is nothing that puts me in bad mood more (with the exception of having a negative bank balance and neighbours with hedge issues) than trouser buttons that dig into my belly button and love handles that are perpetually making a bid for freedom, as they squeeze their way out from between the top of my trousers and the bottom of my shirt.
Time also seems to move more slowly now that the clocks have gone back. This is subliminal. We've spent all of summer (such as it was) retraining our brains so that a quick glance outside will give you a good estimate as to what the time is. Now that same quick glance tells you it's an hour later than what the clocks say. It's like waking up on a Thursday believing it's a Friday. Only it's not. It's all very disconcerting.
Anyway, I must go and turn the television off before my children do genuinely start to get square eyes and they must be due their second breakfast by now.
But now that the clocks have gone back, we're back at square one. 5am arrives and two small boys bounce out of bed, ready to start their day. This hasn't been terribly bad for me - yet - as husband is always up at the time because he's just plain weird. Not only does he get up at this ungodly hour, but he then goes to the gym to exercise. I mean what kind of barking mad person ever does that - much less on a frosty October morning?
But because the children are up at 5am, it means that they've already had 3 days worth of tv by 7.30am. Which leaves them listless and bored and wanting me to entertain them while I'm still trying to pump caffeine in intravenously. What's more, it means they're hungry and have had breakfast by 6.30am. This means that by mid-morning they turn into hobbits and need a second breakfast. And it also means that by the end of the day they are incredibly tired and thoroughly unpleasant to be around.
It's not just the children's early waking that the clock change has brought about. It has viciously cut short the day. I can handle rain. I can handle cold (just). But I cannot handle it getting dark at 5pm (and I know there's only worse to come as we plod towards the bleakness of winter). When it gets dark early, my body believes that it's bedtime. I become lethargic and unable to do anything other than shovel steamed puddings and belly sticking stews into my gob. My body retains all this food as it too knows that winter is coming and might need some added layers of blubber to keep it warm. Add to this that it's now impossible to hang clothes on a line to dry, resulting in excessive tumble dryer usage, leading to excessive clothes shrinking, and my entire wardrobe starts to feel a little snug.
This makes me grumpy too. In fact there is nothing that puts me in bad mood more (with the exception of having a negative bank balance and neighbours with hedge issues) than trouser buttons that dig into my belly button and love handles that are perpetually making a bid for freedom, as they squeeze their way out from between the top of my trousers and the bottom of my shirt.
Time also seems to move more slowly now that the clocks have gone back. This is subliminal. We've spent all of summer (such as it was) retraining our brains so that a quick glance outside will give you a good estimate as to what the time is. Now that same quick glance tells you it's an hour later than what the clocks say. It's like waking up on a Thursday believing it's a Friday. Only it's not. It's all very disconcerting.
Anyway, I must go and turn the television off before my children do genuinely start to get square eyes and they must be due their second breakfast by now.
Monday, 27 October 2008
Crisis of confidence
Disclaimer: Morbid navel gazing follows. Feel free to send me a virtual slap.
I would say that about once every two weeks I have a complete crisis of confidence. It's very annoying. It's even more annoying for my husband who doesn't understand why I don't believe in myself and why I can't just make a decision and carry it out. He feels that I dither. I do. Decisions are not my thing. By making a decision, you're effectively bidding farewell to the alternative, and that bothers me.
My most frequent crisis of confidence is about my business. Almost daily I feel as though I'm hanging on tight to the pendulum of a large grandfather clock as I swing back and forth about what to do with my work. Something good happens - like a fab piece of client coverage - and I feel as though I can conquer the world. I see my business being the next big thing. Possibly resulting in me being on the front cover of the Time magazine (probably not but it's good to have stretch goals).
And then the pendulum reaches its zenith and it swings back again. This usually coincides with me opening up a magazine and seeing one of my competitors quoted or a big feature that one of my clients should have been in and aren't. OR, I have a particularly bad day trying to juggle work and kids or I see friends skipping off to a keep fit class and coffee and I think, sod it all to hell in a handbasket, I want to jack it in and become a lady who blogs.
There is very seldom a middle ground. I regularly think that I would be infinitely happier if I just accepted that I should simply do a great job for a few clients, stay small, keep my brain ticking over, make some money and have time for life outside of work. But this just feels so stationary. So ordinary. So under-achievery. In every job, you get performance appraisals and goals to work towards and things to achieve. By just doing the same old thing year after year without trying to do more, I feel as though I'm not trying hard enough. And therefore am a failure.
This is a ridiculous way of thinking. I need to give myself a good shake and stern talking to. I need to view my life as a whole, with work just being one part of it. But it's always there, this feeling that I ought to be trying harder, that I'm not pushing myself, that I'm coasting.
Why can I not view the fact that I have run a successful business for two and three quarter years, that I've taught myself a vast amount, that I've made as much money as many main breadwinners make and that I've done this all while looking after two very young boys, having a house flooded, moving house, running a home and having a husband who's seldom here - as a worthwhile thing? Why does it still feel that I need to pull my finger out?
I don't know the answer. If anyone has any pearls of wisdom, I'd love to hear them. Otherwise just send me my slap and send me on my way.
I would say that about once every two weeks I have a complete crisis of confidence. It's very annoying. It's even more annoying for my husband who doesn't understand why I don't believe in myself and why I can't just make a decision and carry it out. He feels that I dither. I do. Decisions are not my thing. By making a decision, you're effectively bidding farewell to the alternative, and that bothers me.
My most frequent crisis of confidence is about my business. Almost daily I feel as though I'm hanging on tight to the pendulum of a large grandfather clock as I swing back and forth about what to do with my work. Something good happens - like a fab piece of client coverage - and I feel as though I can conquer the world. I see my business being the next big thing. Possibly resulting in me being on the front cover of the Time magazine (probably not but it's good to have stretch goals).
And then the pendulum reaches its zenith and it swings back again. This usually coincides with me opening up a magazine and seeing one of my competitors quoted or a big feature that one of my clients should have been in and aren't. OR, I have a particularly bad day trying to juggle work and kids or I see friends skipping off to a keep fit class and coffee and I think, sod it all to hell in a handbasket, I want to jack it in and become a lady who blogs.
There is very seldom a middle ground. I regularly think that I would be infinitely happier if I just accepted that I should simply do a great job for a few clients, stay small, keep my brain ticking over, make some money and have time for life outside of work. But this just feels so stationary. So ordinary. So under-achievery. In every job, you get performance appraisals and goals to work towards and things to achieve. By just doing the same old thing year after year without trying to do more, I feel as though I'm not trying hard enough. And therefore am a failure.
This is a ridiculous way of thinking. I need to give myself a good shake and stern talking to. I need to view my life as a whole, with work just being one part of it. But it's always there, this feeling that I ought to be trying harder, that I'm not pushing myself, that I'm coasting.
Why can I not view the fact that I have run a successful business for two and three quarter years, that I've taught myself a vast amount, that I've made as much money as many main breadwinners make and that I've done this all while looking after two very young boys, having a house flooded, moving house, running a home and having a husband who's seldom here - as a worthwhile thing? Why does it still feel that I need to pull my finger out?
I don't know the answer. If anyone has any pearls of wisdom, I'd love to hear them. Otherwise just send me my slap and send me on my way.
Friday, 24 October 2008
Put the spoon down and step away from the houmous
Today was the last day of term. Which meant that this afternoon I had two very tired little boys on my hands who weren't overly bothered about bouncing on the trampoline or going for a walk in the sunshine. We'd already done snakes and ladders until even they were bored with it (which takes some doing). We'd coloured in the paving stones outside the backdoor with fat coloured chalks. And we'd listlessly pushed a few cars around the carpet.
I decided that cooking dinner would be a good thing to do. It would be educational for them. It would keep them occupied. And it would mean that dinner would be ready early which in turn meant bedtime could be early. And luckily, I'd planned to make a dinner that took quite a bit of time with lots of little tasks that they could help with. Lamb in pita bread with tsatziki and grilled aubergine.
I'm a big fan of teaching my children how to cook - the sooner they can do it, the sooner I can put my feet up in the evenings with a big fat glass of wine while they slave over a stove. So we started out by roasting some cumin, coriader and mustard seeds - all of which we'd had a good sniff of before tossing them in the pan, with son 2 nodding sagely at each, offering his opinion like 'yummy', 'spicy' and 'smelly'. They found the roasting process fascinating, particularly when the seeds started popping. We then took turns using a pestle and mortar to grind them up. It started well but we ended up with a light dusting of aromatic spices across most of the kitchen.
We then cut the lamb into slivers and they took turns sprinkling what remained of the spices over the lamb and squeezing honey and lemon over it. Again, what started out well soon ended up with two small boys covered in honey from fingertips to the backs of their ears.
Moving swiftly on, we sliced peppers, onions and aubergines which absolutely had to be put in a bowl the minute I'd cut a single piece, which meant tiny fingers flying in underneath the sharp knife to make sure that they got to grab the next bit to go in the bowl.
Having survived that, we moved onto making tsatziki. Son 1 just wanted to eat the cucumber. Son 2 was frustrated that the odd piece of grated cucumber fell outside the bowl and insisted on pushing each piece through the top of the grater. We then had another tussle over who was going to scoop the yogurt in, who was going to squeeze in lemon, who was going to crush the garlic and who was going to grind in the salt and pepper. By the end of it we all looked like walking piles of Greek dip.
I decided that it would be safer for them to set the table while I cooked the food so that we didn't end up with pan fried small boy instead of lamb. They seemed to be managing well and the cooking went ahead at full steam, only interrupted by son 2 who kept wanting to know when it was time to do the pita bread, fondling and mangling it while waiting for the go ahead to pop it in the toaster.
I decided he needed another job and asked if he could take some teaspoons to the table for us to use in the houmous. He readily trotted off and did this. I was then trying to grill aubergines, stir-fry lamb, fry up onions and peppers and toast pitas all at once so enjoyed the peace I was afforded for a few minutes after the frenetic cooking afternoon. Until I realised that it really was too quiet.
I went into the dining room. There was son 2. With the utmost concentration on his little face, scooping houmous out of the pot and putting large dollops of it on everyone's plates. Except that he hadn't quite managed to get the plates. And he had used two teaspoons per person, discarding the dirty, houmous-dripping teaspoons as he moved his scorched earth policy across the table. There was houmous everywhere. On the backs of chairs. On the fronts of chairs. On the carpet. In his hair. Even a glob on the ceiling, obviously from a back flick. He was so incredibly proud of himself. It was heartbreaking.
'Put the spoon down and step away from the houmous,' I said. 'But I'm helping mummy,' he said holding a dripping spoon aloft. Like a scene from Hill Street Blues or CSI Miami, I held myself absolutely still and repeated the request loudly and clearly, ready to pop a pistol out of my pocket at the slightest wrong move. Slowly he lowered the spoon and my imaginery SWAT team swooped in, handcuffed him and hosed him down. Actually, he just toddled back to the kitchen and mangled the pita breads some more.
I was right, it did make the afternoon fly by. I however feel like I've once again done fully body contact cooking and the kitchen looks as though a small police force has shot up a tube station. Suffice to say, that I washed dinner down with some wine. It is weekend after all.
I decided that cooking dinner would be a good thing to do. It would be educational for them. It would keep them occupied. And it would mean that dinner would be ready early which in turn meant bedtime could be early. And luckily, I'd planned to make a dinner that took quite a bit of time with lots of little tasks that they could help with. Lamb in pita bread with tsatziki and grilled aubergine.
I'm a big fan of teaching my children how to cook - the sooner they can do it, the sooner I can put my feet up in the evenings with a big fat glass of wine while they slave over a stove. So we started out by roasting some cumin, coriader and mustard seeds - all of which we'd had a good sniff of before tossing them in the pan, with son 2 nodding sagely at each, offering his opinion like 'yummy', 'spicy' and 'smelly'. They found the roasting process fascinating, particularly when the seeds started popping. We then took turns using a pestle and mortar to grind them up. It started well but we ended up with a light dusting of aromatic spices across most of the kitchen.
We then cut the lamb into slivers and they took turns sprinkling what remained of the spices over the lamb and squeezing honey and lemon over it. Again, what started out well soon ended up with two small boys covered in honey from fingertips to the backs of their ears.
Moving swiftly on, we sliced peppers, onions and aubergines which absolutely had to be put in a bowl the minute I'd cut a single piece, which meant tiny fingers flying in underneath the sharp knife to make sure that they got to grab the next bit to go in the bowl.
Having survived that, we moved onto making tsatziki. Son 1 just wanted to eat the cucumber. Son 2 was frustrated that the odd piece of grated cucumber fell outside the bowl and insisted on pushing each piece through the top of the grater. We then had another tussle over who was going to scoop the yogurt in, who was going to squeeze in lemon, who was going to crush the garlic and who was going to grind in the salt and pepper. By the end of it we all looked like walking piles of Greek dip.
I decided that it would be safer for them to set the table while I cooked the food so that we didn't end up with pan fried small boy instead of lamb. They seemed to be managing well and the cooking went ahead at full steam, only interrupted by son 2 who kept wanting to know when it was time to do the pita bread, fondling and mangling it while waiting for the go ahead to pop it in the toaster.
I decided he needed another job and asked if he could take some teaspoons to the table for us to use in the houmous. He readily trotted off and did this. I was then trying to grill aubergines, stir-fry lamb, fry up onions and peppers and toast pitas all at once so enjoyed the peace I was afforded for a few minutes after the frenetic cooking afternoon. Until I realised that it really was too quiet.
I went into the dining room. There was son 2. With the utmost concentration on his little face, scooping houmous out of the pot and putting large dollops of it on everyone's plates. Except that he hadn't quite managed to get the plates. And he had used two teaspoons per person, discarding the dirty, houmous-dripping teaspoons as he moved his scorched earth policy across the table. There was houmous everywhere. On the backs of chairs. On the fronts of chairs. On the carpet. In his hair. Even a glob on the ceiling, obviously from a back flick. He was so incredibly proud of himself. It was heartbreaking.
'Put the spoon down and step away from the houmous,' I said. 'But I'm helping mummy,' he said holding a dripping spoon aloft. Like a scene from Hill Street Blues or CSI Miami, I held myself absolutely still and repeated the request loudly and clearly, ready to pop a pistol out of my pocket at the slightest wrong move. Slowly he lowered the spoon and my imaginery SWAT team swooped in, handcuffed him and hosed him down. Actually, he just toddled back to the kitchen and mangled the pita breads some more.
I was right, it did make the afternoon fly by. I however feel like I've once again done fully body contact cooking and the kitchen looks as though a small police force has shot up a tube station. Suffice to say, that I washed dinner down with some wine. It is weekend after all.
Thursday, 23 October 2008
When lie ins go wrong
My husband very kindly let me sleep in this morning. He got up with the boys who he's barely seen all week. However, all his good work was undone when - at 7.45 - I woke up, looked at the clock and leaped out of bed realising that I had just 45 minutes to get the kids to school. I charged downstairs and asked husband:
'Have you taken the bins out? It's recycling day today.'
No, said he.
'Have you given the children breakfast?'
Some dry cereal, said he.
'Have you made a packed lunch for son 2?'
No, said he.
'Have you got their school clothes ready?'
No, said he.
'Have you packed their book bags?'
No, said he.
I didn't bother to ask whether he'd managed to find something old for show and tell today because that would have required him to actually look at the homework book and I'm not sure he knows what the homework book is.
So while I got an extra hour of sleep, in return I got to rush around like a mad woman wheeling out bins, making toast, whipping up sandwiches, finding school clothes that aren't filthy, wiping bums, dressing beasties, digging through ancient Christmas decorations for something old (because my son's show and tell suggestion was the lid of a Mr Men bubble bath bottle which didn't really qualify as being 'old' despite us having had it for a few months), all while slurping down coffee in a bid to wake up.
I tried to explain to husband that while a lie in is nice, having to compact a normal mornings worth of tasks into half the time is less restful. I think he thought I was unappreciative.
'Have you taken the bins out? It's recycling day today.'
No, said he.
'Have you given the children breakfast?'
Some dry cereal, said he.
'Have you made a packed lunch for son 2?'
No, said he.
'Have you got their school clothes ready?'
No, said he.
'Have you packed their book bags?'
No, said he.
I didn't bother to ask whether he'd managed to find something old for show and tell today because that would have required him to actually look at the homework book and I'm not sure he knows what the homework book is.
So while I got an extra hour of sleep, in return I got to rush around like a mad woman wheeling out bins, making toast, whipping up sandwiches, finding school clothes that aren't filthy, wiping bums, dressing beasties, digging through ancient Christmas decorations for something old (because my son's show and tell suggestion was the lid of a Mr Men bubble bath bottle which didn't really qualify as being 'old' despite us having had it for a few months), all while slurping down coffee in a bid to wake up.
I tried to explain to husband that while a lie in is nice, having to compact a normal mornings worth of tasks into half the time is less restful. I think he thought I was unappreciative.
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
The unbearable burden of chores
So right about now I should be writing about how the French apparently don't breastfeed their babies unless they're hardcore hippies and the Italians do but stay in hiding for three months, at which point they head outdoors and transition their children directly onto horsemeat. However, I just don't have the stamina or enthusiasm. The reason? I've just written a list of all the mundane things that need to be done in our house and the hamster-wheel drudgery of it all is sucking out my will to live.
These are things that need doing because they haven't been done for a long, long time. They are chores that get pushed to the bottom of the pile because they fall into the 'Not Urgent, Not Important' quadrant of life. But it doesn't mean that they can be ignored forever. And by virtue of the fact that they haven't been done, they are using up space in my brain (not to mention my cupboards) and I feel as though both need a good decluttering.
I would like to hire someone to take my list and do it all for me. I think they would charge rather a lot, but I really would seriously consider having someone do it all. Know anyone?
Here's the list - have a strong coffee now as you might fall into a boredom induced coma:
Take clothes to charity
Sell suitable things on eBay (this involves washing, ironging, photographing, uploading, posting)
Sort our airing cupboard/towels/linen – chuck old, buy new
Sort out toy cupboard incl toy box in boy's room
Sort out photos lying all over drawing room floor (as they have been since February this year)
Do up spare bedroom
Put new pictures in frames/hang others already done
Put up notice board in office (stick one bazillion school notices on it)
Sort out filing trays in office
Get rid of Chris' crap in office (note to self: do this while he's not looking)
Sort out inside of office cupboards
Get video camera fixed. Film children before they stop being cute.
Chuck out old clothes in my cupboard
Sort out Tupperware cupboard - buy more tupperware (you can never, ever have enough)
Sort out CDs in drawing room (let's play find the right CD for the CD cover)
Get new rechargeable batteries for camera
Get tumble dryer repaired
Get handyman to finish skirting in spareroom, plus plugs fittings
Get handyman to fix hole in kitchen wall
Get handyman to fix malfunctioning radiator
Get boiler serviced
Get more oil
Get car serviced
Sort out hedge issue with neighbours
This is a full time job right? Taking care of all this crap. Not to mention the day to day cleaning, washing, cooking, ironing delight that takes place. The fact that I've sorted out the magazines in my office, gone through my knicker drawer and done the kid's clothes cupboard recently are all steps in the right direction, but they feel rather insignificant when placed next to the Everest of chores that remains.
The time it's taken me to type this blog, I probably could have sorted out the bag of gift wrap and cards (meant to be my organised way of being prepared for any last minute birthday surprises) that seems to have exploded in my office (that's another one to add to the list) but the I-can't-be-arsed feeling has a pretty firm grip on me tonight and it's steering me towards the wine chiller and TV remote control. I really to need to have a stern word with myself. If I could kick myself in the butt I would but I fear I'd pull a hamstring. That would be because I've still not done my fitness video either.
Sigh.
These are things that need doing because they haven't been done for a long, long time. They are chores that get pushed to the bottom of the pile because they fall into the 'Not Urgent, Not Important' quadrant of life. But it doesn't mean that they can be ignored forever. And by virtue of the fact that they haven't been done, they are using up space in my brain (not to mention my cupboards) and I feel as though both need a good decluttering.
I would like to hire someone to take my list and do it all for me. I think they would charge rather a lot, but I really would seriously consider having someone do it all. Know anyone?
Here's the list - have a strong coffee now as you might fall into a boredom induced coma:
Take clothes to charity
Sell suitable things on eBay (this involves washing, ironging, photographing, uploading, posting)
Sort our airing cupboard/towels/linen – chuck old, buy new
Sort out toy cupboard incl toy box in boy's room
Sort out photos lying all over drawing room floor (as they have been since February this year)
Do up spare bedroom
Put new pictures in frames/hang others already done
Put up notice board in office (stick one bazillion school notices on it)
Sort out filing trays in office
Get rid of Chris' crap in office (note to self: do this while he's not looking)
Sort out inside of office cupboards
Get video camera fixed. Film children before they stop being cute.
Chuck out old clothes in my cupboard
Sort out Tupperware cupboard - buy more tupperware (you can never, ever have enough)
Sort out CDs in drawing room (let's play find the right CD for the CD cover)
Get new rechargeable batteries for camera
Get tumble dryer repaired
Get handyman to finish skirting in spareroom, plus plugs fittings
Get handyman to fix hole in kitchen wall
Get handyman to fix malfunctioning radiator
Get boiler serviced
Get more oil
Get car serviced
Sort out hedge issue with neighbours
This is a full time job right? Taking care of all this crap. Not to mention the day to day cleaning, washing, cooking, ironing delight that takes place. The fact that I've sorted out the magazines in my office, gone through my knicker drawer and done the kid's clothes cupboard recently are all steps in the right direction, but they feel rather insignificant when placed next to the Everest of chores that remains.
The time it's taken me to type this blog, I probably could have sorted out the bag of gift wrap and cards (meant to be my organised way of being prepared for any last minute birthday surprises) that seems to have exploded in my office (that's another one to add to the list) but the I-can't-be-arsed feeling has a pretty firm grip on me tonight and it's steering me towards the wine chiller and TV remote control. I really to need to have a stern word with myself. If I could kick myself in the butt I would but I fear I'd pull a hamstring. That would be because I've still not done my fitness video either.
Sigh.
Baby food and baking
I want to blog but now I have to go fetch a small, no doubt grumpy, boy from pre-school. He pronounced this morning (apropo of nothing) that if he was very, very good, that he would be allowed to bake something. I'm not sure who was granting him this wish. The cake fairies perhaps. But given it is National Baking Week this week, I should do my patriotic and maternal duty and whip something fattening up. But that's the problem. I can't fit into my clothes so don't really want to be surrounded by cakes, particularly as I just ate rather a lot of dark chocolate as I read it was good for you and needed a little smackerel of something to tide me over till mid-afternoon snack.
However, I do have a recipe (and the ingredients) for some cranberry bran muffins from the GI Diet cookbook, which after consuming more than one, will have you evacuating your bowels in under 5 seconds. So we might make some of those. A DIY colonic irrigation of sorts.
But my rather long winded point was that I'm not going to get time to blog much this afternoon. And this evening I need to continue writing my article on the breastfeeding and weaning habits of mothers in France and Italy. In researching my article, I have discovered that Italians have a broad range of baby purees (all with added salt, because it's never to early to start hardening those arteries) and while they have the normal range of fruit and veg purees, their meat purees fall into the categories of interesting to vile. Interesting: Chicken and Prociutto. Despite the 100 gallons of salt involved, that could be quite tasty. Vile: Rabbit puree or Horse puree. Fancy eating My Little Pony for lunch dear?
And speaking of baby food, I'm also working on the relaunch of the Babylicious range of baby and toddler meals. And I discovered that the toddler meals only have something like 80 calories per meal. There was a recent craze for celebrity mums to eat baby food to lose weight, but they all found jars of baby food a bit disgusting (particularly if they were Italian). I think I might try eating Kiddylicious meals for a while to see if I can shed a few pounds, thus enabling me to bake something more exciting than bran muffins.
Enough wibble. I'm not late. Must dash.
However, I do have a recipe (and the ingredients) for some cranberry bran muffins from the GI Diet cookbook, which after consuming more than one, will have you evacuating your bowels in under 5 seconds. So we might make some of those. A DIY colonic irrigation of sorts.
But my rather long winded point was that I'm not going to get time to blog much this afternoon. And this evening I need to continue writing my article on the breastfeeding and weaning habits of mothers in France and Italy. In researching my article, I have discovered that Italians have a broad range of baby purees (all with added salt, because it's never to early to start hardening those arteries) and while they have the normal range of fruit and veg purees, their meat purees fall into the categories of interesting to vile. Interesting: Chicken and Prociutto. Despite the 100 gallons of salt involved, that could be quite tasty. Vile: Rabbit puree or Horse puree. Fancy eating My Little Pony for lunch dear?
And speaking of baby food, I'm also working on the relaunch of the Babylicious range of baby and toddler meals. And I discovered that the toddler meals only have something like 80 calories per meal. There was a recent craze for celebrity mums to eat baby food to lose weight, but they all found jars of baby food a bit disgusting (particularly if they were Italian). I think I might try eating Kiddylicious meals for a while to see if I can shed a few pounds, thus enabling me to bake something more exciting than bran muffins.
Enough wibble. I'm not late. Must dash.
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