Midsummer Resolutions

I’m making resolutions. Yes, I know it’s not the New Year but that passed by in a blur of family trauma and I really didn’t have the inclination to do anything other than lurch through each day, clutching a bottle. Anyhow, New Year resolutions are a lousy cliché and also it’s a rotten dreary time of year to resolve to Do Better.

Midsummer (ho ho) is a different matter. As I write, the rain lashes down, the wind whips and, to be honest, it could be bloody New Year. Still, never mind. I have put Ray Lamontagne on the CD player (to remind myself that there is always someone more depressed than oneself) and stuck some neroli oil in the aromatherapy burner (to lighten the mood a little and to get rid of the overbearing smell of rancid dog). Now I am sitting at the kitchen table in our new (oh yes, oh yes!) breakfast room deciding on how to live out the rest of the year. So, I hereby resolve:

1. To follow my own advice. I am shamefaced to admit that while I can merrily dish out the wise words to all and sundry, to those who ask and those who don’t, I blithely ignore it myself. Therefore I will:
a) get my feng shui sorted. I know it sounds bonkers but I do believe in this stuff (the proof of the pudding and all that) and I haven’t lifted on finger towards sorting out my cutting chi and the money pit of the Loo of Doom.
b) start eating healthily. Yawn, yawn (the devil’s food is soooo good) but must be done. I am falling to bits and must get sorted. Last night I had a last hurrah of steak and chips and now it’s lentils all the way.
c) call in the experts. As soon as the money comes in (see point 6) I will get me to an osteopath/homeopath/nutritional therapist. I need to clean up my act and need some judicious prodding.

2. To have a makeover. Again, this is dependent on number 6 (as are most things) but as soon as humanly possible I’m going to get a haircut, a manicure, have my eyebrows shaped and my invisible eyelashes dyed. I’ve gone feral and need to remember that I once had self-respect and looked vaguely groomed (as opposed to a shaggy fat hairball). I will stop short of a wax as I don’t want the beauty therapist suing.

3. To blog more often. It really is therapy for me. However please note this does not mean I expect you to read and comment on every dollop of my verbosity (do you reckon one in seven is a reasonable expectation?).

4. To stop being honest. OK this flies in the face of my last post but it truly is the devil’s path. If I’ve learned anything this last year it’s that honesty, naming names and being blunt simply doesn’t pay. So, from now on I’m going to hide behind pseudonyms and trot out polite aphorisms and Not Stick My Neck Out.

5. To stop trying to be perfect. I have, at the last tally:
· a job (sort of – see point 6 again)
· a child (boy, 9, demanding and truculent)
· a husband (not rich, very messy)
· a Greek chorus of needy friends
· a house in the process of being dismantled and cobbled back together at huge expense and severe trauma
· two revolting dogs
· far too many goldfish (whatever possessed me to think that goldfish were easygoing happy little pets?)
· a garden full of triffids and ground elder
· a trail of divers builders, plumbers, electricians, decorators et al in constant need of urging, placating, praising, encouraging, decision-making and tea-providing


I do not have:
· a nanny, child-minder or cheery helpful relatives ready to pitch in
· a cleaner
· a personal assistant
· a never-ending supply of money

Ergo, I cannot be superwoman. You’d have thought I’d have realised it by now but I begin to think I am truly rather dim.

6. To make money. Somehow. I have £100 in the bank and a tax bill 30 times larger. I will rob Peter to pay Paul but it’ll mean we will run out of radiators by the time we get to the bedrooms unless I do something quick. I have been monstrously self-indulgent, wallowing in Poor Me syndrome and it has to stop. I have taken on a book project (nicely timed to tie in with the school holidays which have already started - how did that happen? so wrong - ) and shall actively pursue more work.

I was going to go on to 7,8, 9 and 10 but I think that’s enough to be going on with. Don’t you?

Acropropblog

my new kitchen - lovely, isn't it?




I’m beginning really to irritate myself. For those endless two years when we were trying to sell the house I had this mantra that everything would be hunky-dory, ‘when the house sells….’ Everything would be wonderful if we could only get our dream house and move into town, back to civilisation. Well, the house sold, we’re here, where we always wanted to be and am I happy? Am I heck. Admittedly 2008 has been possibly the nastiest year on record since 1970 – and we’re still only four months into the damn thing.
Part of the frustration is not being able to write about it all in lurid detail. Writing has always been my means of working things out of my system and blogging has been the most powerful form of therapy I’ve ever encountered. I think a lot of my black dog blues have been created by the effective gagging order on my writing – that and a deep grinding sadness that my motives were so misunderstood. I’m also flipping furious with myself for being so naïve. Heaven only knows, I’ve had enough warning shots that a Blog is for the World to Read. I guess I have never really really thought that anyone much would be bothered to read my ramblings. But people Google themselves (seemingly with monotonous egocentric regularity) and bingo up pops my darn blog. You know, it had never really occurred to me before to Google myself. Yet bung me into the search box and what do you find? Yup, there I am, splattered all over the Internet, like diarrhoea.

Anyhow, enough already. Let’s talk about something else. Like the Bonkers House. Lately I’ve taken to singing a tuneless little ditty that goes like this…..

Ten green acroprops holding up my wall…..
Ten green acroprops holding up my wall…
And if one green acroprop should accidentally fall…..

We laugh nervously at this little joke but I fear there could be a nasty ring of truth to it (just like Ring a Ring O’Roses viz the Plague). Work continues slowly, so slowly. After the first flurry of excitement, the heady joy of Something Being Done, we seem to have hit one of those endless bogs you encounter in dreams – no matter how hard you trudge, you never seem to arrive anywhere. The firemen are working solidly, doggedly, but the poor house is even more decrepit than we or they imagined – timbers are rotten and need replacing so the whole house looks like one of those stilt huts, held up by slender rods and our collective willpower.
We’re more or less living in one room – tripping over dust sheets, getting on one another’s nerves. The phone is out in the (freezing cold) hallway and yesterday my teeth were literally chattering so hard the person on the other end of the phone had to ask me to repeat myself. Given family issues over the last few months I have barely been able to work so money, inevitably, drags heavy on my soul. I have visions of the cash/credit running out and the whole place gently teetering onto its side and collapsing with a sigh.

We now have scaffolding all along the road side of the house, effectively creating a bottle-neck on the way out of town. Which means, of course, that we’re now living in a doll’s house – open to the world, or at least to the firemen.
‘Five minutes to ETA,’ bellows Adrian at 8.10am and an undignified scramble for the loo ensues. Our loo window is so high up that there have never been curtains or blinds in it – only the pigeons could see in. Not any more. You could easily find yourself, happily ensconced flipping through Homes & Gardens and find a cheery face waving at you. So now I tend to cross my legs or plunge down into the subterranean depths of the Loo of Doom. The seat is sub-zero and the walls ooze damp but at least it’s private.

However today the sun is shining fit to burst. There’s a magnolia (stellata, not my favourite but never mind) flowering its heart out and, even shrouded in dust, the house is putting on a tentative smile. It would be churlish not to smile back, wouldn’t it?

Size Zero Mother drives me to chocolate

I am being driven to chocolate, I really am. I am sitting here binge-eating Mars bars straight from the freezer. Actually I have now run out of Mars bars and have moved onto Milky Way which isn’t nearly as satisfying. When I run out of those I shall probably have no choice but to finish off the Apple Strudel cake. I have been so good too, eschewing all sugar and chocolate and what-have-you in an attempt to banish the dreaded candida (yes I did Grouse’s spit in the morning test and my glass was positively LADEN with strings – sorry, you didn’t really need to know that, did you?). Anyhow, I have been good, HAD been good until Size Zero Mother started on me.

It began yesterday. Not the best of times as I had a truly vicious hangover thanks to Paddy at Oaks who fed Jane and I several more large glasses of Armagnac than two women who had already consumed several bottles of wine have any right to drink.

She phoned up and launched straight in as if we had just been talking and one of us had popped out the room for a wee or something and then come back.
‘So, when you go to Marks and Spencer, you can pick me up a coat. I desperately need a coat now it’s getting so cold.’
I was slightly nonplussed. Not only because it’s the mildest November I’ve ever experienced but because….well…..
‘But, Mum, you don’t go out. Why do you need a coat?’
A sharp intake of breath down the phone. ‘I don’t go out because I don’t have a coat.’ Said very sharply with more than a tinge of asperity.
‘Right. OK. What kind of coat?’
‘Oh, you know. A coat.’
‘How about if I come over and we look through the Next catalogue and you can show me the kind of thing you want.’
‘I don’t want it from Next. Their clothes don’t fit me.’
‘No, I know. But if we find one you quite like, I can get something similar from Marks.’
Much harrumphing and irritation palpable down the line.
‘I just want a coat.’
‘Yes, but what kind?’
Long, short, mid-length? Wool, tweed, polyester, cotton? Zipped, buttoned, toggled? Hooded, collared, non-collared? Colour? Style? Parka, military, swing, cloak?
‘Just a coat. For God’s sake, it’s not that difficult. You know what I mean.’
Last time I checked, I wasn’t a mind-reader. I am guessing a sort of padded casual jacket type thing. But really, who knows? Whatever I get it’s bound to be wrong.

Just like the slippers. ‘They’ll have to go back, you know.’ They were exactly the same as the ones she’s always had – same size, same style, same colour. Aaaghhh. Big big deep breath. Buddhist daughtering came to mind. Centre, Jane. Ground yourself. Follow the breath.
‘Oh, and don’t cook me anything else. I’ve got the freezer jammed with meals. You don’t need to do any for ages.’

Well, one good bit of news at least. Except that today, while I was out, Adrian took a call from SZM in which she told him that she was ‘nearly out’ of food and that all she had was celeriac soup which she couldn’t possibly eat because ‘as Jane well knows, I can’t eat celery.’
He told her it wasn’t celery but celeriac.
‘Which is the same thing,’ she said.
‘Er, no, not really. Related but not the same,’ he said. Then continued, ‘Out of interest, why can’t you eat celery?’
‘I’ve NEVER eaten celery,’ she replied vehemently. ‘When I had rheumatic fever as a child I was told never to eat celery and I never have.’
Except she has. She always has. I remember clearly the celery soup that was her favourite (and my most loathed). And her saying you should always add celery and cut down on salt. Really, it’s getting mad.

So tonight, when I was hoping to sit down and try to catch up a bit with Nanowrimo, I will be frantically cooking batches of very odd meals. Just great.

Funnily enough my Nanowrimo ‘novel’ has suddenly spawned a harridan of a mother, a true fairy tale evil witch of a woman and a poor pathetic middle-aged daughter who spends her entire time bitterly mulling over her blighted life. What is really interesting is that it’s the daughter, not the mother, who is driving me really potty. Why on earth is she such a doormat? Why doesn’t she stand up to her vile mother? What in the name of heaven is the matter with her that she can’t just say ‘no’, that she is consumed with guilt and self-loathing?
Ah, how art mirrors life….

PS - the pic is of the Loo of Doom. So horrible that I refuse to go anywhere near it and really only remember what it looks like by looking at this picture. I keep hoping I will go down there one day and it will have vanished.

PPS - apparently I am arranging tickets and a bus trip to see some band called The Dropkick Murphies with half the reprobates from the pub.....this I don't remember. One of the dangers of too many armagnacs.

PPPS - my dear friend Jane is not happy with me. While at Oaks I was telling Paddy (owner) how she really needed a good man with a labrador (and actually the man wasn't totally essential) in what I thought was very sotto voce. Jane (who was standing at the bar) was apparently wincing as my voice was carrying rather too clearly and every single bloke there was, she said, looking her up and down 'to see the sad cow who can't get a bloke.'

I need to redeem myself so, if anyone happens to know any nice labradors (with relatively decent men attached), do get in touch.