Don’t ask why. (Warning: Emotional Hoover.)

There is gravel under my skin.

As I march up the slight incline towards the prehistoric building where my morning therapy session is being held, I can feel it biting and scraping at my skin, creating irritation from the inside out.

I want to rip my own skin off and shake it out.

I am seething today, and it is only seven fifteen in the morning.

I am bubbling over with hatred, struggling to contain my disgust.

If I were able to, I would vehemently spit pure bile in my own eye.

The dawn air is bitter cold on my teeth and as I grasp at gaspfuls in an attempt to calm my racing heart, they begin to ache. I clamp my eyes shut and resist the urge to stand completely still, pull my hair out and scream in to the morning silence.

Create a ripple of angst in an otherwise numb millpond.

‘Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend, somewhere along in the bitterness yeah, and I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life…’

The Fray is pounding out of my headphones headed directly in to the last remaining corner of my soul which still respond to stimulus.

I feel like a teenager again, drawing similarities from lyrics in to my own life. Struggling to feel anything but numbness or anger for more than just a second.

I am the friend. Aren’t I?

My eyes watering now from poorly concealed wrath which is burning inside me, I continue to plough ahead, onwards and upwards, as the stillness throughout the hospital grounds catches at my insecurities.

I flick my head around, my hair whipping my cheek for the third time in a matter of moments, once again for a split moment sensing somebody is walking with me.

There is nobody else around at this hour but me.

I am a lonely morning plodder in a world filled with Glums, and yet somehow I know you are here. I wish you weren’t. I do not deserve your company, especially not here, especially not now. But I can feel you watching me.

Is this a true sign of madness, or are you actually around me?

The sun peeps out from behind a bustle of angry black clouds which seem to be gathering in preparation for a stormy ambush, quickly and without even thinking I turn my face up towards it, trying, just a moment to feel the warmth, to feel some self- care in a lonely and agonizing world.

It quickly fades, giving up, and with it, so do I.

Like me, the weather is unable to decipher the way forward today.

Except I suppose I do know what is coming today.

That is why you are here.

Resisting the urge to shout abuse at Jeff, I push open the heavy metal door and stomp up the stairs, really settling in to ‘angry teenager’ mode now, and locate the correct room.

‘Room B3. A room for being a right royal misery guts.’

12 spacious pale red cushioned armchairs are placed in a jaunty semi circle against the back wall. In the center of the room opposite, another lonely chair sits waiting for the facilitator.

The room smells of sadness, mold and morning.

Nobody is here; I am the first to arrive.

This is nothing new.

I plonk myself down on the only green chair in the room, thankfully located by the window, and turn from the fray to Eminem.

Angry rap. Just what the psychologist didn’t order.  I kick off my wet shoes and fold my legs up underneath me, small comforts.

From here I can look down on all three therapy buildings, the garden and the back of reception.

From here I can watch the early morning goings on of a busy hospital ward, without anybody even knowing I am here. I like it. I feel like Jason Bourne.

But miserable. And without binoculars. And female. Obviously. (Maybe they could cast me in the sequel….call me Janet Bourne… hmmm… anyway…)

Jeff perches himself on the windowsill, gives me a cursory wink and turns around to have a nosy with me at the madness which is sure to erupt from below. Against my will I have somehow become like that man from the Shawshank redemption. Woman and bird. No library though.

I begin to wonder if Jeff will follow me home when I leave, or if maybe he is a therapist in disguise. It wouldn’t surprise me in this place. Either way, he has become my new companion, and I like him.

I don’t think he is lonely or filled with sorrow either. That clever little ditty may read one for sorrow but we’ve discussed it and Jeff and I are thinking of writing a strongly worded letter to the Oxford literary academy. We want action.  We want the shitty ditty changed.

One for Ice cream, maybe.

Yes. We like Ice cream Jeff and me.

One for ice cream.

Two for a dream.

Three for jeans that make you look lean. 

Four for Prozac.

Five for (liquid) gold.

Six for a friendship to really behold.

Seven for coffee

Eight for tea

Nine for a lie down under the tree.

Or something like that. Yes we like that. Jeff is nodding.

My (completely normal in the grand scheme of things) thoughts are interrupted by the whirlwind arrival of my favorite therapist Barry.

Barry is a Scouser, a jolly Scouser, who speaks the truth and makes me laugh while doing it. He is friendly from the top of his head to the tip of his toe. I imagine his wife and children feel very lucky to have him, I know I would. I trust him with my broken heart. I trust him to go easy on me and I trust him to know when to stop.

7 other mentalists, none of whom I am allowed to describe, and most of who will probably never check this to ensure I haven’t (but still), follow closely behind him and the session begins.

After a brief introduction, Barry takes off his anorak and gets comfy. (He must live by a train station.)

‘Who would like some help today?’

‘Oh fuck off!’ is spat out in to the silence of the room.

There is an audible gasp from yours truly, as I realise that horrendous language had come from me.

I am usually such a lady! 

Oops.

‘Lexy?’

‘I do not have an illness!! I just want to die!!’ My legs bob up and down in uncontrollable annoyance ‘I am not depressed. I just cannot be bothered to live the rest of my life! I am fine! I do not struggle to get out of bed in the morning, lord knows us mothers have no choice in the matter and I do not battle to put make up on or clean up, I do not find leaving the house particularly difficult and I can laugh until my sides hurt if something funny happens. It just never does!! I can play with my baby, I can make him something to eat, I can walk around Asda and I can take a bath and read a book, so surely, so obviously, so clearly there is absolutely nothing wrong with me really is there? You can’t be depressed if you can go and get your nails done. You can’t be depressed if you manage to smile on a daily basis and for the love of god, you can’t be depressed if you have hope for the future. CAN YOU? So can I just leave now please? Can I? I do not deserve or need to be here? I am a fake!’

‘What is making you angry today Lexy?’

(I bite down on my tongue hard. One fuck off I may get away with, but 2 would see me sent out of the class, my head hung in shame) ‘I just am, I don’t know why.’  (If I knew why I wouldn’t bloody be in here you Scouse muppet!!)

‘Try not to ask why,’ Barry mumbles in his thick Liverpudlian accent grabbing the back of his head and looking at the floor ‘it takes you inside yourself, instead ask what or who.’

I glare at him. If my eyes could speak they would be saying ‘DIE!’

‘Who are you angry at Lexy?’

‘Myself, my brother, Jeff the magpie, Myself.’

‘How does this anger feel?’

‘Brilliant. Like a hot sunny day!!! What the hell do you think it feels like???’ I catch myself and pause….’Overwhelming.’

‘Do you feel guilty?’

‘Guilty, upset, hurt, annoyed, pissed off, fucked off, irritated, ready to cry.’

‘What do you feel guilty about?’

‘Being in here, I should be with my son. I don’t need to be here! I am not ill!’ I stamp my feet.

Barry sits motionless and stares at me for what feels like an eternity.  I try very hard not to break the silence and am about to falter when he takes a deep breath and goes in for the kill.

‘Lexy. Tell me what you loved about your brother.’

An unexpected blow.

5 years of anger crumpled in to hurt by one single question. 5 years of sorrow and guilt, racing to the surface.  31 years of grief rising up and suffocating me, extinguishing the fury like water on a flame.

An hour later when the group slowly draws to an end, I head back to my room on the ward.

I am broken, and alone.

You didn’t follow me out. I assume you heard what you needed to hear.

Jeff did though.

So for the moment,

It is just my hurt, my magpie and me.

*This post was sponsored by Post Natal Depression. We would like to tell it ‘to fuck right off you sadistic bastard’ but are far too polite.

On your marks, Get set… (A three parter. Pt 2)

My time as Queen of the world is running out.

I really have enjoyed being pregnant.

I have reveled in bossing people about, having an excuse to be lazy, and being the centre of everybody’s universe! (What? I’m only being honest here!)

And even though, I probably shouldn’t admit this, I have really enjoyed playing the pregnancy card at every available opportunity to get my own way. I do not care about women’s lib. I am pregnant. Get me a drink. 

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. (Everyone keeps telling me that after the baby is born it won’t be about me anymore. I just smile politely and ignore them because clearly that can’t be right?!?! It is always about me?? Helloooo!!!)

I have officially been in labour for approximately 16 hours and so far it has been as dull as a Mars bar.

Ok. Actually let me re-phrase that. (The labour bit, not the Mars bar bit. I stand by my opinion of Mars bars. Dullsville, Arizona. )

My waters officially broke 16 hours ago, all over the new carpet and the dogs bum. He was stood underneath me. (His fault. Not mine) And I have been experiencing random contractions for the last year and a half, and so far I am hugely unimpressed with labour.

I have been in labour forever. At least that’s what it feels like. I am so Bored! What is wrong with this picture? Where is the rushing around? Where is the urgency? Where are the screaming ambulance sirens and the running midwives? Where are the sweaty women clambering to hold my hand and screaming PUSH!! Why aren’t I shouting out expletives at the Irish one and threatening to cut his gonads off if he comes near me again? Where is the drama? I asked you a question! Did you miss it? I repeat, where the hell is the DRAMA?

I was promised drama!

Every book I have read over the last 10 months has regaled me with tales of Drama. I was positively wetting myself in anticipation. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.) I live for the drama! Labour is supposed to be high octave. Labour is supposed to be all Go! Go! Go! Isn’t it? I’ve waited 10 months for this moment for god sake! All previous dramas have been leading up to this monumental occurrence! This is the main event! This is what I have been in training for my whole life!

Surely, I am not supposed to be just sat here on a damp and fraying old towel, munching on a kit Kat while moaning about the weather, in my own home, watching The Irish one play Mario Kart? (I was bought a Wii and a Wii fit, last week as a ‘thank you for having my baby’ present. The Wii fit got broken when I launched it at his head. I asked for a rock knobhead… and no it isn’t hormones!!!) 

Up until about an hour ago, I was playing too, out of sheer frustration. (If you can’t beat him (literally) then you may as well join him) and if nobody was going to pay me any attention, then I thought I may as well enjoy my last moments ‘of freedom’ by kicking The Irish one’s arse with Bowser the wonder dragon! But, as it wasn’t going to plan, with my highly un-dramatic contractions beginning to distract me from the cause, I made my excuses to the Flower cup and bowed out. Gracefully. So technically I didn’t lose. I retired!

I am in labour. Get me a drink.

I need to stop thinking about Mars bar’s (I want one now) and start counting my contractions. The thing is, these random contractions are a pain in the arse. (No pun intended.) I can’t even time them. They are so totally random. When I feel one starting, by the time I have worked out how to use the stop watch on my phone, they are finished.

They don’t even hurt. They are just uncomfortable. They feel like a very sharp pain, followed by a bit of an ache and then as if I have leg cramp, but across my belly. Does that make sense? Not too bad at all. (Although that last one was a little bit stronger.) Maybe next time instead of timing them, I will name them. That would make a nice change wouldn’t it?

‘How long was that one Lexy?’
‘I don’t know Irish One. But it was called Veronica. And she was a bitch.’

Yes. I think I will name them instead. That would be much more fun.

Time seems to have slowed right down to a complete stop. So far the only excitement has been my waters breaking. And I swear that shouldn’t have happened yet. It was that bloody chilli and that freaky bloody film. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that chilli. It was hot as hell and it is impossible to jump up and down when you are this pregnant. (Everybody knows that is how you cool your mouth down.)

Instead of being sat here now, I could be out shopping for post pregnancy wear. I miss shopping. I miss shopping and I need some new skinny jeans. Do they do skinny jeans with a kangaroo pouch? Because apparently I will be left with a kangaroo pouch. Hopefully It will go fairly quickly as I refuse to do sit ups. Maybe River Island do funky girdles. I want to go shopping!

I want to go shopping for post pregnancy clothes. I wonder what size I will be. 

I didn’t mean to put on so much weight. It just sort of, happened. I just sort of, kept eating. After every mouthful, every meal and every king size MacDonald’s meal I would promise myself tomorrow I will be good. I will eat healthy. But tomorrow just never came. So five stone later (at least one stone will be baby right? This baby is going to be huge.) I am a bit of a heffa. A pregnant heffa, and like I say, if this baby ever gets its arse in gear and moves down my canal, I will lose like, what? 3 stone immediately? It will be fine. I am not even supposed to be in labour yet! I blame Leonardo de Caprio.

The excitement, (have I mentioned it was the only bloody excitement so far?) began at 11pm last night. We had just watched Shutter Island, which by the way is a god awful film in my opinion. It’s dark and freaky and full of thunder storms and lunatics. Two things I cannot stand.

• Thunderstorms because as a kid, I got stuck in a bus shelter with my big brother during one particularly bad storm and he told me the clouds were banging thier heads together, as they were angry with me because I was such a naughty child. He also told me that if I got hit by lightening my head would fall off.

By the time I got home I was a five year old nervous wreck.  My brother thought this was hilarious. I never quite recovered. It was terrifying!

• And lunatics because I see too much of myself in them.  

I think it would be very easy for me to slip in to a quiet corner and repeatedly count to one hundred over and over again, with a tissue on my head. I sometimes think it must be lovely to be a lunatic, like taking a break from your brain. Which is precisely why I don’t like lunacy. It’s too relatable. And maybe I’m a bit jealous.

Anyway back to the exciting bit. So, I was stood over the bed trying to get it slightly more comfortable using 800 pillows, a broom handle (don’t ask.) and a hot water bottle, when my waters broke. I thought I was peeing myself. I stood up straight and grabbed my bump in shock (ooo drama!) before rushing to the toilet. (When I say rushing, I use this term lightly. Think of perhaps, what an elephant would look like rushing.) I called out to the Irish one who was watching the football.

‘Honey I’ve weed myself again.’ (And who said romance was dead?)
‘Ok babes, I’ll be there is a second.’ (He is well used to this by now.)

We have now officially been together a grand total of 16 months. The man has seen waaaay more of me than I had officially planned by this point.

Pregnancy; killing romance dead, fart by fart.

Anyway, It was while I was trying to remove my Basque and sexy thong, (ha ha yeah right! Have you ever seen an elephant in a thong? No? Well there is a reason for that! I was actually wearing the oldest tattiest jogging bottoms I own. They are comfy! Comfort is key at this stage! And with sex well and truly out of the window anyway why bother making an effort? (Did I mention the elephant in a thong?) That the water (slime…) continued to wane and gush out of me like a leaky tap, I realised this probably meant something more monumental than another bed wetting incident. (Yes, I did say another.)

‘Honey?’ (Starting to panic.)
‘Yes babes?’ (Shut up woman! I’m watching match of the day!)
‘I haven’t weed myself actually.’
‘Oh well done yourself, do you want a cup of tea?’ (That should shut her up.)

Sigh.

‘No I mean, I think my waters have broken.’
‘Is this another joke? Because I’m not laughing. It is not funny.’

Have you ever read a fable called ‘The boy who cried wolf?’ 

Let’s just say he has an annoying habit of not listening to me, and I have an annoying habit of trying to shock him out of his football reverie in order to get his attention (so he can get me a drink, or give me a foot massage, or something equally as necessary! I am pregnant. Get me a bloody drink!)

It was funny at the time. (The panic on his face, as he would come running in, bless him! Your waters have broken?!? No, I would say. I just want a drink. Ha! Serves him right.)

‘No I’m serious. COME HERE!’
‘You said that last time, piss off and get your own drink.’

Serves me right.

‘No, I’m serious. Please come here!! It’s everywhere and the dog is licking it up.’
‘That’s disgusting Lexy.’
‘COME HERE YOU BLOODY MORON!’
‘Coming….’

We rang the hospital not long after, and I was shouting and sobbing down the phone before they even picked up. (It heightened the drama.)

‘My waters have broken and I am scared.’ (Which was true, I was.)
‘Pardon?’ The midwife picked up, she seemed a little confused.
‘My name is Lexy Ellis, my waters have broken and although my due date is tomorrow I am really scared.’

It has begun!!! Surely you were waiting for my call with baited breath?? I mean, the world will clearly never be the same again, for I, Lexy Ellis am having a baby! Help me!!

‘And what do you want love?’ she sounded bored.
‘Er, well, I don’t know. I just thought I should inform you, as I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, ok.’ she finally answered…… ‘if I were you I would go to the nearest hospital’
‘Is this not the maternity unit at Hope hospital?’ I shrieked.
‘No love, its Picolino’s Pizza on Oxford road.’ (I am sure she was creasing herself laughing but I can’t be sure.)

Arghhhhhh! Wrong number! Damn it!

Ok. Deep breath.

I dialled again. This time checking I had the right number, and was connected immediately.  

‘Hello? Are you a midwife?’
‘Yes. How can I help?’
‘Are you sure you are a midwife?’
‘Pretty sure, yes.’
‘And is this Hope Hospital?’
‘Yes’
‘And you’re definitely a midwife?’
‘Yes, how can I help?’ beginning to lose her rag now.
‘My waters have broken and I am embarrassed. And a bit scared.’
‘Ok, Are you having contractions?’ she asked patiently.
‘I’m not sure’
‘That probably means you aren’t.’

How rude!!!

‘But come down and see us and we will check you out anyway.’

So we did. And because my contractions were too random and pathetic, they sent us home and told us to come back when my contractions were five minutes apart. They are now every, either 17 minutes, or every hour. Depending on how they feel.

My due date is tomorrow. So maybe, like me, pleb is just hanging around as he/she likes to be punctual. There is nothing worse than turning up early for a party is there? So I understand pleb’s rationale to be honest. (Oh, we nicknamed the bump, Pleb.)

Maybe I will have another game on Mario Kart. Show the Irish One how amazing I am at multi-tasking. Or maybe I will make him go get me a Mars bar.

I am in labour. Get me a Mars bar.

But I tell you this. If this is labour? It’s a bit dull. And certainly a doddle! Why do all these women go on like its hell on earth? I can handle this!!

It’s not even that painful…

Live fast, die young…

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning,
For a split second,
I forget.
If I hear the theme tune for the sopranos,
For a split second,
I forget.
When I see a motorbike zooming past,
For a split second,
I forget.

When I hear a voice in a crowd that sounds like you,
For a split second,
I am hopeful.
Every now and again I hear you laughing,
For a split second,
My heart soars.
Sometimes I see your face in a stranger,
For a split second,
The pain is gone.

When I look at my son and I know how much he would have loved you,
For a split second,
I am angry.
When I drive past your old house and feel the need to talk,
For a split second,
I am overcome.
When I see your name still in my phone,
For a split second,
I am crushed. 

When I think of growing up without you,
For a split second,
I hate you.
When I think of the years gone by and the fun we had,
For a split second,
I love you.
When I remember the times you held my hand,
For a split second,
I feel safe.
When I remember all you meant to me,
For a split second,
I am proud.

After all of these years, when my heart is still screaming,
For a split second,
I feel your hugs.
When I look at your photos, my face all stained,
For a split second, 
You are here.

If you could return to me just once,
For a split second,
I’d shout at you!
And when I’d finished giving you grief,
As is my job as your sister,
I would tell you how lucky we were to have you,
In our lives,
Even for a split second.

I love you Jason.
I will miss you forever.
Wherever you are now, pull out a barstool for me.
But this time, you are right,  I won’t have a Guinness.
I will have a hug.

Not for a split second, but forever,
Proud to be your little sister.  

Is there a therapist in the house?

When I was little I wanted an eye patch.

One of my earliest childhood memories, is of a little girl appearing at my front door with her over -dressed mother  (for some reason when I remember this moment, I always picture the mother wearing a red and white poker-dot ball gown. But I’m sure that can’t be right. Unless her mum was Minnie Mouse… and then wouldnt i just remember the ears? but anyway.. )

I had first noticed this little girl hanging around by the slide at the playground.

I was also aware, little busy -body that I was, (not much changed there, just call me Noris) that she had only just moved in next door with her mummy and daddy. So when the doorbell rang, and there she was stood in all her glory, her mother dancing to ‘hot dog hot dog hot, digetty dog’ in the background (teehee), it wasn’t a huge surprise to me.

It was unscheduled though.

She had turned up out of the blue, as my mother would say. Had she not heard of the phone? Was she born in a barn?

I was a planner as a child. I couldn’t plan a glass of milk in a dairy farm now, but there you go. Back then anything unscheduled threw my whole diary out of whack. I was a pain in the arse, even at the age of five.

Now I remember very distinctly being in a mood on this day. I was ‘huffy’ and ‘puffy’ that this girl should step foot in my house because;

A) I was totally intimidated by her, only the brave and rough kids hung around by the slide!! Anybody reading this who grew up in England during the 1980’s and earlier will understand why. Do you remember those death slides? They were the highest, narrowest, steepest and scariest looking apparatus ever constructed and allowed within 30 feet of a child. With at least a million tiny steps leading up to the tip and only 2 little (wobbly) bars at the top to stop you falling off the side and plummeting 100 feet on to the tarmac below, it really is a wonder any of us made it in to our 30’s. There was no shredded cork in my day! If you fell off that slide it was game over. (Do not pass GO!, do NOT collect £200!) When you were at the top of that slide you could literally see Morocco. Your friends waiting down below looked like jumping fleas. And if you did manage to sit your podgy arse on the narrow slip of metal at the summit without falling to your untimely death, you would usually reach the bottom shaking like a shitting dog and covered from head to toe in heat burns. This would be from attempting to slow yourself down from warp speed to light speed during the shaky, terrifying and usually painful decent.

If those slides were about now, The Department of health and safety would be all over them like a rash. (not unlike the graffiti that was always all over them at that time! Sharon luvs Derek 4eva!.) The children of this decade would (quite rightly) be made to wear harnesses and helmets, and would only be permitted to climb, said death trap under the supervision of the Greater Manchester fire service. They were really scary! Forget a sky dive for cancer research! Come and try this 80’s torture slide! You’ll crap yourself!

And B) She was a big girl. I don’t mean this in the literal sense. I mean, at a whole six months older, she was in the year above me at school and was unattainably cool. I did not want her to see my collection of Care bears and their Care bear friends lined up neatly against the radiator, keeping their bums warm. Or my collection of Polly pockets (which FYI! Were pocket sized then! Have you seen Polly recently? She ain’t pocket sized! They should change her name to Polly -carrier bag!) sitting in a circle having a pocket séance (Did i mention my family may as well have been the Adams Family?) And I definitely did not want her to see my He-Man and She-Ra giving in to some much needed grown up love action, in the barbie house upstairs, while Skeletor watched from his castle of doom. (Joke! I was five for gods sake!) So I was well and truly in a mood. If it had been planned, I could have tidied! (or at the very least shoved them all under my bed!)

But mostly I was in a mood because I was jealous.

I recall she was dressed to kill in a neon pink pair of cycling shorts with a matching neon pink and black tank top.

ALL THE RAGE!

On her feet she had some pink glittery slip on’s (which I wasn’t allowed until I was six! Bitch!) and some neon pink pop socks! And it got worse! When she turned around, to hug her mum goodbye, (clearly on purpose to show off – I may have been five but what was I stupid?) she had the most perfect, baby blonde, soft and flowing curls stretching out all the way down her back, complimented perfectly with the most divine pair of plastic, shimmering fairy wings! (Double bitch!) She was perfect!!

Except for the eye patch.

Did I covet the neon cycling shorts? (Im ashamed to say) Yes.

Did I covet the perfect, plastic shimmery fairy wings? Definitely.

Did I covet her perfect bonce? Maybe…

But did I covet the pale peach, fraying, NHS standard issue, slightly lifted on one side, leaves a dirty grey sticky mess on the side of your face, eye patch? More than anything in the world!!

I remember standing, frozen to the spot, glaring at her (with my perfectly healthy eyes) and thinking lucky cow. She’s got a dodgy eye.

Here is one for the psychologists.

I was a lucky child.

I had a loving mother, a loving father and the best big brother in the whole world.

I did not feel unloved or jealous or forgotten.

I was spoilt but grateful (most of the time) and I was deliriously happy. (My family life was great until the age of 13. Then all hell broke loose. But that’s another post altogether! A password protected one!)

My only worries were; Could I push bedtime back another half an hour if I sat here quietly? Maybe they would forget I existed? And how many times can I whine ‘pleeeaase’ to my dad for a another bag of crisps, before he goes mental. So what gives?

All I know is, that was my first experience of lusting after some sort of medical badge of honour. An eye patch showed you were different! An Inhaler said you were cutting edge!

(A couple of years later, I moved on to wanting an inhaler. All the cool kids had them and if you remember, they were pretty funky back then. The 80’s equivalent of an Iphone. But better. Because it helps you breathe! You missed a trick there Apple.)

A cast said you were popular!! (A few years later I went through a stage of trying to break my own leg, I wanted a signed cast. They was cool!)

Braces gave you a certain ‘Je ne sais quoi!’  (I also wanted a retainer I could gently manoeuvre in to my mouth in front of the teachers, that would clearly show I wasn’t able to answer any questions in class, but meant I could sit with a knowing look while others struggled…AND If you were cool enough, you could have little red stars melted on to it! Ooooo!) and the list continues…

It was only last week, after having endured numerous broken bones, with casts that are bloody fibre-glass so cant be signed!!! And having grown bugs bunny teeth (I knew I needed a retainer!) And after having finally being diagnosed with Asthma, (meaning I finally got my inhaler! 27 years later!)that I remembered my somewhat random and strange childhood ambitions of being, well, poorly? Most kids dream of a holiday to Walt Disney World. Not me. I dreamt of spending a week in Hope Hospital.

It took me back. It made me smile. It made me bloody think, that perhaps I should be a little more careful about what I wish for. (Especially after having to use my boring, brown square inhaler in front of a load of snowboarders! So not cool!) It made me shudder remembering the 80’s dress sense but most of all it made me feel excited that Addison has all this to come!!

You can buy child size, funky eye patches now you know?

He is going to look SO cool! (AND SO AM I!!)

Mothers can still ski!!

 When I pick up my snowboard I feel empowered.

 It’s quite similar, I guess, to when you hear a song, or smell a familiar scent (of the perfume, fresh cut grass, and barbecue variety! Not the nasty, ‘for the love of god I’m about to have a bath!’ variety!) and as if by magic you are transported somewhere on a mystical, melancholy, tour through the inner corridors of your mind. You begin frantically opening doors and up turning dusty boxes, searching for the moment this fragrance or melody, first entered your sub-conscience. You know it is there somewhere!! If only you could find it!! And of course on other occasions, you arrive at the right door, the right dusty old box, your ‘memory destination’ if you will, before you even know you were on a mental trip in the first place! The destination, once reached will no doubt wash over you like a huge wave,  you will stop what you are doing, if only for an instant (unless you are driving/doing open heart surgery/wiping your arse. I hope) and you will be immersed in the moment, smiling to yourself like a lunatic, lost to a magical memory, if only for a few seconds, of a time or moment once experienced but long forgotten.

 For instance; I can be walking around Morrison’s trying to remember where they keep the coriander (cough cough microwave meal cough cough) with an unreachable itch just below my shoulder blade and a stone in my boot (don’t you just hate that!!) feeling frustrated (old people with trolleys annoy me, Im sorry, they just do! Must you stop in the walkway to discuss with Vera the price of bacon?! There is a traffic jam forming!) and the next thing I know I’m 22 again, playing air guitar on a beach in Barcelona with 5 of my oldest friends. I can actually feel the sun on my back, the sand beneath my toes and I can remember like yesterday the feeling of complete freedom, no responsibility and nights spent laughing and dancing under the stars.(Starship – We built this city.) Or alternatively I can be sat in the car, stuck in traffic, trying to console a screaming Addy while pacifying a howling Doodle while refusing to admit to a grumpy Other half, that he was right, I shouldn’t have come this way, when in an instant, I am 24, sat in the car with my older brother and my nieces, singing at the top of our voices, laughing our heads off, on our way to Blackpool. (Lynard Skynard- Sweet home Alabama. That song will forever belong to my beloved brother. May he rest in peace.)

It has been a very long time since I have been on my snowboard. Almost two years. Which when you think, in that time, I have conceived, been pregnant, thrown up a gazillion times, gained four stone in weight, given birth, had stitches in my anus (there is no way of sugar coating that, the saying I mean, not my anus. I tried. It is what it is, I apologise to those faint at heart) breastfed and failed, hugged a screaming baby, played with a happy baby, lost 3 stone, shopped a million times for a million different things, torn my stitches, been re-stitched, learnt how to multitask like a professional and slept for only an hour max, it feels like a lot longer. I am a different person now. In the last two years I have lived a lifetime. Does that make sense?

 So after feeling a little lost, a little down and a little overwhelmed, my other half (angel that he is – usually) bought me a lift pass, as a gift to Chill Factore. This, he said, was an attempt to remind me, that even though I am a mummy, I can still be the fun loving girl I once was, before my dignity was wheeled out on a stretcher for the entire world to see! At the time I had groaned internally. I couldn’t snowboard anymore. I wasn’t that person anymore. I was a mother! Mothers don’t do things like that! They knit! They sit in on Saturday night watching Strictly and growing love handles! They nag! (They also get millions of smiles, give a million hugs and kisses and have the best job in the world but that’s another blog.) Mothers don’t ski!!

After much deliberation, which included a full nights worth of thought bubbles (baa!) and no sleep. I thought ‘what the hell I’ll do it!’ I frantically opened doors, and upturned wardrobes and located my long forgotten, baby blue and shiny, trusty Nidecker stead, and squidged most unladylike- like in to my once baggy outfit. (I was skinny for a short time prior to ‘babygate 2009’) I was nervous, to say the least.
And then the oddest thing happened. The minute I unzipped my board from its bag and slung it under my arm, I was instantly in another time. I was instantly in another place. My head shot up like a rocket on bonfire night, (up, not off!), my shoulders forced themselves back, back, back and (Im mortified by this now!) I cockily swaggered towards the car!  I even smirked, like only a teenager knows how, at a man getting in to his car outside my house. (He shot me a look of confusion, and looking back now he must have thought I was a lunatic. ‘Not much snow in Eccles in October love!’) But I was woman with board; I was woman who could take on the world! I was confident again. I was passionate, I was excited and most of all I felt like me. I haven’t felt like me in such a long time.

 What a bloody fantastic afternoon! I forgot I’d had no sleep. I forgot about the bills, the looming return to work, my creaky knees, my flappy skinned, stretch marked tummy and my achy breaky back and I was 25 again! I was powerful. I was passionate and exhilarated. I was walking around the place and zipping down the slope, like I owned it. I was smiling, grinning and eventually laughing as I began to regain my mojo. I probably looked like a complete knob! A middle aged woman on an artificial slope attached to a board, dressed in an outfit 2 sizes to small and surrounded by 19 year olds with ‘tudes!’ but I did not care! I could snowboard better than they could. I was faster, I was more experienced and I was, most importantly, having an absolute ball! I was woman! Hear me roar!!

 It makes me see so clearly now, how I have gotten used to questioning myself, feeling inadequate, unsure and doubting my own ability. I have grown comfortable with constantly learning and am used to feeling like a stranger in my own mind. I forgot I could be this confident person. Being reminded, by simply taking an hour out for me and me alone, was enlightening. I can be a confident woman. I was a confident girl. I can be a confident mother! And it has nothing to do with that extra stone I need to shift! I will be a confident mother!

 All I need to do is find a changing bag big enough to fit a snowboard, and we are good to go!

Bumping in to an ex. Social suicide of the third degree..

I don’t care what anyone says.
Bumping in to an ‘ex’ is a certified nightmare.
They should issue you with an award. An ‘I bumped in to my ex and survived’ award. Or a t-shirt. Remember those t-shirts? ‘My family went to Skegness and all I got was this lousy shirt’?

Well I may start printing ‘I bumped in to my ex and all I got was an evening of over analysing’ t-shirt. Although Im not sure I would have anything it would go with, to be honest.

 Every woman (and maybe even some men) at the end of any relationship, regardless of how long this relationship lasted, will make themselves feel better with a casual ‘next time I see him ill make him regret it.’

Take Josie in Big Brother. ‘Big Brother, when I get out of here I am going to have my hair done and lose 2 stone and I’m going to smooth him right over’.

 We have all done it, we have all thought it, and I bet most of us have said it. Whether you are the dumper or dumpee is irrespective. Next time you see this person you will be, feel and most importantly look fabulous. (and thin! Thinner than I have ever been.)

 Unfortunately for most of us mere mortals the law of sod sees to it that this rarely, if ever happens. I am yet to meet a woman who can tell me in all honesty she bumped in to her ex and was certain ‘he regretted the moment he left me, let me tell you’ Although we know this rarely is the case it doesn’t stop us repeating our mantra, post dump.

 As I’ve mentioned. Bumping in to an ex is horrific. So why does the law of sod taunt us so?
Why can’t we bump in to the Fecker that cheated, the Fecker that never called and the Fecker we lived with for 2 years who ‘didn’t believe in marriage’ but has since met someone who changed his mind and had him gallivanting up the aisle quicker than JLO, when we look our very best?  Im not sure about you, but I have days when I wake up, get dressed, slap on my Morrison’s eyeliner, look in the mirror and know the wardrobe gods have been on my side. You stop, double check it’s actually you you’re in fact looking at and think , jaysus. I don’t look half bad today. How did that happen? Those days, albeit infrequent are the days when bumping in to an ex would be almost manageable. Almost.

 But, alas, then there are the days you fall out of bed late. Tie your greasy hair up with a pair of old tights, (ok an old bobble if tights are a step too far), rub last night’s foundation back in around your nose, use your spit to quickly eradicate the panda eyes. (We’ve all done it; don’t even bother to deny it.) Pull on last night stained top and the ‘these will do another day’ jeans. Run to your car. Forget your keys. Run back to the house. Run back to the car. Forget the baby. (Painting a picture here, bear with me.) Run back to the house, run back to the car, sniff your armpit, wish you’d put deodorant on. Get in the car, realise your right boob is leaking, get out of car, pour half a bottle of water over your chest to hide one leaky boob, get in the car, drive to destination swearing at tardiness, get baby out of car just in time for baby to spit up on your right shoulder, pick up changing bag upside down but realise too late, just as nappies, wipes and trusty hemorrhoid cream roll all over the car park, put baby down, turn around to pick it all up and….…BANG!! There’s fecker 2. In all his glory, a shocked, but slightly relieved and possibly victorious expression on his face. He looks good and the Fecking Fecker knows it.

 ‘fuck’
‘Hi lexy’
‘Hi Fecker 2’
‘How’s things? (Code for – bloody hell love, what have you been eating? Ever heard of a shower?)
‘Grand. I just had a baby which is why I look fat. I’m not fat. I mean, well I am. But only because I just had another man’s baby. A gorgeous man…(silence)…With lots of money. And we are so happy. Really very happy. I also got a new job…(silence) .. and won the lottery. So yeah I’m really happy…….you?’ (FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK)
‘Im well Lexy. Clearly regretting leaving you, and marrying a goddess who dances on the west end.’ (Because let’s face it, the new woman never works at ASDA)…

 On this particular evening you come home and appreciate your gorgeous Irish Fecker. And then ring your best mate for post-ex analysis. Your first words?  

 ’He well regretted leaving me. Let me tell you.’

 It may be a lie. (There is no ‘may’ about it.) But It feels better.

 And who needs that Fecker anyway? I got myself a new Fecker. I mean, man. And I always look gorgeous and thin and fabulous for him.

Mostly.