Whiplash…

I guess, in the grand scheme of things, I do take a lot for granted.

It seems however that perhaps I should be more appreciative of stuff.

Like, my neck.

I never truly appreciated the momentous amount of effort my neck puts in everyday, not only keeping my humongous Sindy doll head with its erratic and uncontrollable bonce sitting on top upright, but it also seems to have some influence over my voice box too.

Who knew?

The neck and the voice in cahoots, I wonder if any medical people are aware of this phenomenon? Maybe I should write to … um… er… Google?

For the past week having been suffering with some pretty intense whiplash following on from my surprise fondling session with a glass wall, it has dawned on me just how much of my life I owe to my neck.

‘You are taking it a bit far Lexy. I am sure you could speak normally even if you are unable to swivel your head!’

The Irish one was frustrated with my whiplash.

The Irish one was wrong (as usual) as I had tried but totally couldn’t do ANYTHING normally without my neck agreeing.

It was like my GSCE drama was coming back to haunt me and for some reason I was really getting in to character.

As a Dalek.

Not only did I find myself having to walk and operate generally like I was in some dodgy parental version of Dr Who, but I was also, on account of my (Immense and fabulous theatrical background – seriously you should have seen me in the local theatre’s version of Drop dead Fred! I was the most life-like tree you ever saw!) I was also beginning to sound like a Dalek too.

‘Talk normally!’  He bellowed as he approached me from behind (not in a dodgy way) in the kitchen.

‘I ser-iou-sly carnt.’ I had mechanically responded turning slowly around to face him with my shoulders, a look of horror etched on to my face.

Just before this happened you see, I had been in the throws of attempting to erect a makeshift splint for my neck made out of an empty KFC bargain bucket and seven ice lolly sticks all glued together.

Addison, who had eaten the 7 ice lolly’s in a bid to seem useful was now swinging from the light fixtures screeching like an over sugared Russian monkey gymnast. Seriously, only dogs could hear him.

So upon shuffling in to the kitchen to fetch more glue for my whiffy chicken sponsored neck upholstery and discovering as I felt something remotely poo like squidge between my bare toes (as obviously Dalek’s cant look down) that Doodle had released his bowel all over the floor, I totally felt it normal if not necessary to shout.

‘EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!!’  In the most mechanical Dalek voice I could muster.

It just came out naturally, actually. (Which is also how doodle later explained himself.)

I have noticed though, that having whiplash is also akin to having just given birth.

In that, you are in all this pain but no one gives a damn cos now there is a baby (ours who was by now licking the windows,) you may as well be a lump of whale skin. (Although saying that, I’d make a nice lipstick me. They could call me – Shit Tinkle Brown.)

So anyway, here are my new years resolutions.

1) Stop walking in to glass walls as this ultimately leads to runny poo ending up between your toes and you being unable to clean your feet cos you cant bend down without either a) screaming like a girl or B)…. Screaming like a girl.

2) Keep the fish alive, because when the fish are dead they hold no entertainment value and a ‘holiday down the toilet’ is now just not cutting the mustard with the child. He is also now starting to believe, on account of us having to change the story, that to get to heaven, you have to flush the loo. Awkward.

3) Do more stuff that involves vodka.

4) Stop forgetting to take my medication.

And that’s me out.

‘Irish one!’

‘What?’ he replies a look of concern passing over his features.

‘Lick my poo toes!!’ I snort at how funny I think I am.

‘You are gross. I can not believe we are getting married this year!’

OH MY GOD.

I want to walk down the aisle dressed like a Dalek!

‘HE MUST OBEY! OBEY!’

I wonder if Disney would allow it? I bet they have the costume and everything…

A proposal, and a Bucket full of Hamsters. (Yeah.)

‘Who the hell do you think you are Lexy? What kind of person are you? Tell me!’

I catch my annoying therapist’s eye very deliberately for a very brief, uncomfortable moment in the silence immediately following this onslaught; but instead of answering him, I lean down very slowly and purposely, to unlace my big brown boots with their big brown laces.

I wasn’t expecting James and his bucket full of dead hamster questions to be so direct today.

(I call them his ‘dead hamster questions’ because nobody likes a dead hamster do they? And It also kind of reminds me of the ‘Harry and his bucket full of dinosaurs’ song, so I often whistle it on my way in to therapy, and it cheers me up, but yeah, I’m weird I know this. But you get me right?)

I glance up at him once more, a little less confidently, it has to be said, as I pull my legs up underneath me and prepare to respond by reaching for and wrapping my arms around, one of the very many purple cushions with the gold tassels and Latin writing (Classy,) which share the sofa of doom with me.

I push it in to my chest, using it as a sort of shield to protect myself.

Now.

Now that I am all folded in on myself I may continue.

When I am ready.

I intend to make him wait at least half an hour before responding but then I remember this therapy is actually is costing me a fortune and he would probably love to sit there and have a snooze, so actually the sensible thing to do would be to get on with it. (DAMN IT!)

‘I am a manager. A tired one who bullies herself daily…’ I fire out like a machine gun in to the thick silence.

‘Not in your day job Lexy, I mean…’

‘I am not talking about my day job James;’ I interrupt boldly.  ‘I am talking about my life. I feel like a bloody manager all of the time, in that, I feel responsible for everybody and their happiness, all of the time. I feel pressured by every relationship I have in my life. I live in constant fear that I will let somebody down or upset him or her and then he or she will end up hating me for it. But then at the same time, I almost want them to hate me for it because then I no longer have those expectations and I can happily push them away and live in peace. Does that make sense?’

He doesn’t answer, so I begin to finger the cushion, (not in a porno way just to be clear here,) and continue to ignore his gaze burning holes in to my face, before I carry on.

‘I live in constant fear of letting people down, of not being enough, my insecurities are out of control, and I am exhausted.’

‘And if you let them down, that will mean they don’t like you, or that you are actually worthless?’

(Whahiiiiiii… –that’s the sound of a dead hamster being tossed through the air towards me, by the way.)

‘It will mean I am not perfect.’

(PHALUT. That’s me batting the hamster away with a table tennis bat.)

‘Do you think you are perfect?’

(WHAhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii… he bats the hamster back. Poor little dead creature.)

‘No. I personally think I am a dog poo. I just don’t want everybody else to see that. I want them to think I am a cool you know? So I end up putting everyone before myself and then when I do let them down, because eventually I cant live up to my own expectations I set for myself, I can push them away, cut them off, even if I don’t want to because I like them, and it is a relief. ’ (PHALUTTTTTTT. That ones brains exploded.)

‘This makes no sense.’

‘Welcome to my brain James, right now as we talk I am picturing dead hamsters flying through the air between us!’

His words catch in his mouth and he looks at me quizzically for a split second, before he raises his hand, refusing to take me up on a change of conversation, even a conversation about dead hamsters (everyone knows conversations about dead hamsters are intriguing!) And instead decides to plough on with the therapy. (Boring bastard.)

‘You have to keep people happy? That in its self is impossible. What if you aren’t successful, what if you don’t keep them happy? (Whahiiiiiii…)

‘Then I feel selfish and naughty.’ (Phalut.)

‘Naughty?’ (Whahiiiiiii…)

‘Naughty.’ (PHALUT.)

‘And what do these friends have to do for you?’ (Whahiiiiii…)

‘Nothing.’ (PHALUT.)

‘That doesn’t seem very fair.’ He responds.

I shrug, like a miffed teen.

None of this conversation makes sense to me anymore, how could he expect me to be following this with all these dead animals flying everywhere?

‘How would you feel about being naughty this week?’

‘Whahiiiiiiiiii…. Sorry what?’ I stop doing dead hamster sound effects and concentrate.

‘I want you to have a week off, shirk the responsibility be ‘selfish’, be ‘Naughty.’

As I positively bounced out of his big therapy house twenty minutes later, my big boots crunching over the gravel, I smiled a little smile to myself.

I will take you up on your challenge James; I need a week off from my brain! I need a week off to just be, to just be, without the guilt or the worry of upsetting people constantly, I want to just be! Without the constant insecurity that having an opinion or doing what I want to do will result in me being unloved. 

I am going to do what I want to do, be who I want to be.

OOOO what fun!

(Erm… I may have got a little carried away…) 

‘Have you packed for our weekend away?’ The Irish one asked me excitedly as I walked through the front door two hours later, all excited as he was taking me away for my birthday.

‘Nope.’ I responded happily launching my bag on to the bed with flamboyant disregard  ‘You booked it. You pack.’

And with that I lay on the floor and let my little boy climb all over me while the Irish one stood in front of me with a boc boc fish mouth, stumped and surprised.

‘Have you put petrol in the car?’ He asked me as we pulled out of the drive a few hours later, after I had watched him wandering around aimlessly trying to remember how to do stuff for himself, with an evil grin on my face.

‘Nope.’ I answered, flicking the indicator. ‘You think we will need some? Do you have money? You booked it.’

He didn’t fly off the handle as I suspected he might if I wasn’t my usual people pleasing self; he merely smiled between gritted teeth and advised me we would need to stop for some.

A little later on, once I had eaten cake for dinner because that’s all I wanted, once I had drank far too much red wine because that’s what I wanted to do and once I had refused to do anything remotely romantic because I didn’t feel like it, I gave him a hug, told him I thought I loved him (drunk me is even less self assured than sober me) and fell asleep with a fart. (The fart was for effect.)

The next morning he seemed a little disappointed when I refused to walk up a dobbing great big hill in the park, because ‘I didn’t feel like it.’

‘Do you think I am the hill walker type Irish one?’ I asked petulantly ‘I mean, do I look like I am the kind of girl that looks comfortable in wellies? DO you not know me at all?’

(For the record, I told him earlier in our relationship that I loved hill walks. But that was when I was trying to snatch him in my lare, and I thought HE loved hill walks, if you know what I mean. So yeah, I lied about a tiny part of me, the anti hill walking part, so that we had more stuff in common. We’ve all done it!!! Right?)

‘Why are you being such a grumpy bitch?’ he mumbled kicking a stone towards the stream where Addison was currently trying to hand pick a fish, unfortunately downstream from where Doodle was helpfully having a poo.

‘I am not being grumpy Irish one. I am no longer managing you, or anyone else, for that matter. I am being like everyone else and not worrying about if you hate me when I say stuff I want and don’t like. And yeah I may be taking it a bit far, but that is my god given right as a WOMAN! I AM A WOMAN AND I DON’T LIKE HILL WALKING! I HAVE SPENT YEARS HILL WALKING WHEN I DON’T LIKE HILL WALKING DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN IRISH ONE? WELL DO YOU?’

‘Not really no.’ he responded before being distracted by the troublesome twosome and jumping in to action  ‘Addison NO! THAT’S NOT A FISH, THAT’S NOT A FISHHHH! PUT IT DOWN! PUT IT DOWN!’

He then turned back to me and smiled sadly before searching in his bag for bleach and a butt plug. (Antiseptic wipes really.)

‘Do you hate me?’ I asked him feeling a little guilty after my outburst and desperately wanting a hug, but not knowing how to ask for one, especially seen as he was now busy trying to save Buxton’s famous streams from being ruined in history forever by Poodle Squit.

‘No. I hate James. Come on lets go home. ADDISON PUT THE DOG DOWN!’

And off home we went, me in a guilty mood, him in a disappointed mood, Addison piss wet through and Doodle covered in shit with 3 tadpoles in his belly.

Ahhh good times…

*It didn’t end there … (HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE WAS PLANNING TO PROPOSE????) But anyway…  I have to go now… because I want to go home and see my son… I’m sorry to cut off the story half way through… it really is a good ending too…. Do you hate me?

Another baby!!! (Really??)

What is wrong with people?

It is like a mental assault on a daily basis.

When did mugging someone’s privacy become conventional in idle chitchat?

It is happening at the moment, All. Of. The. Damn. Time!

Example.

Picture the scene.

I’m stood in the lift, it is 7am and I am busy minding my own business.

I am bleary eyed and trying to re-focus my mind before the day ahead.

I am barely awake myself but being a mother, even at this early hour, I feel like I have already lived a full day of emotions, having just abandoned a distraught baby at nursery, nearly ran over a woman at the bus stop while screaming at the baby in the back to stop hitting himself, spilling coffee all over my only work shirt because I’m now wobbly on sky scraper heels that seemed like a good idea pre child but now I am precariously tottering on, like a hippo on stilts, all the while clutching on to the remains of said coffee like a 2 year old to an Ice pop wrapper that used to be an airplane. (?!)

And in they come, one by one.

My tormentors.

Which one will it be today?

I try to avoid eye contact.

Stare at the floor. Stare at the floor.

Nope never works.

‘Morning Lexy! How are you?’

(Obligatory head cock of course if they know I went stark raving mental, and in a normal chirpy voice with no head tilt if they don’t.)

‘I haven’t seen you in ages!!! How old is your little one now? What is his name again?’

‘Oh, Hi person I have spoken to 3 times in my entire life and only in the lift’  I will respond politely  ‘Nice to see you too. Wow it is so early!’ (HINT – Stop talking to me!) ‘He is 2. Addison.’

The lift by now has began to fill up, the doors refusing to close as more people press the PING BUTTON (official name) just as we are about to depart upwards, thus ensuring we have now been joined by an uncomfortable audience of morning zombies trying to stifle yawns and checking their watches, and we are inadvertently shoved backward and pressed against the wall.

‘Wow 2!’ the person will expectedly gawp head bent at an awkward angle so they can continue the conversation over the top of another strangers head. ‘WOW! That has flown by!’

I of course, respond by sticking a slight smile on my face and widening my eyes obediently before nodding back as if I cant quite believe it myself.

Which FYI?

I totally fucking can. I haven’t slept in 728 nights.  (I just had to do 2 x 364 on my calculator to work that out! Before realising there are actually 365 days in a year and having to re-calculate!! That’s how tired I am!)

But of course, ever the people pleaser in case someone decides they don’t like me, or considers me rude (my worst nightmare), I will nod in agreement as I am supposed to, and maybe murmur a non committal ‘Mmmm’ or sometimes depending on which number coffee I am on, if I am buzzing my boobs off ‘Oh it really has! LIKE TOTALLY!! SO NICE TO SEE YOU!!!’

I do this in a usually failed attempt to avoid, escape or drown out the inevitable next question which always, always, feels like a massive intrusion of my privacy.

‘So, are you trying for anymore?’

‘So, do you think you will have another?’

‘OOOO shall we expect number 2 soon then?

And then the cheeky bastards ALWAYS glance down at my uterus, as if checking to make sure it is still there, and then I ALWAYS end up briefly sucking my stomach in and firing off a warning look, just in case they think I already am up the duff and have the audacity to ask when I am due.

At this point, after we have jumped the hurdle of my uterus never fully retracting (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it!) I usually sigh internally and wish I had the balls to be more like Roxy. My evil twin.

(I just TOTALLY decided I totally need an evil twin!!)

‘Yes actually,’ Roxy would respond for me ‘in fact the Irish one and I just had sex this morning but unfortunately the sperm splurted and glooped down my leg in the shower not long after. I’m devastated of course! But what is a girl to do? I said a little prayer.’

Ok, maybe an evil twin is a bad idea.

But come on!! Surely unless you are engaging in a full conversation with somebody you are relatively good friends with, then this question is a little personal, no?

What is the best policy for answering?

Honestly?

IS honesty always the best policy?

‘Look I just don’t fucking know ok? The thing is actually, my vagina is still pretty sore from the episiotomy I endured after a 68 hour labour, just over 2 years ago. I’m a little bit worried sex will always be painful now, and of course, what with all that nasty business of me being sectioned and almost going mad and killing  myself, I am just not sure if I am ready yet you know?’

Pause to get my breath.

‘The thing is, person in the lift, and 4 other strangers in the lift wishing they could shove their breakfast butty’s in their ears, the Thing is, we are only having sex at the moment on a Sunday, because the rest of the time I’m just too damn busy trying to sleep, and also really, cos I’m still trying to figure out how to work the pelvic floor muscles pregnancy left behind and to be honest, I only have sex at all on a Sunday cos I feel guilty that if I don’t, he will go mad over the credit card bill or start expecting blow jobs.. yeah, like that is ever gonna happen again! Haha!So another baby? Jaysus. I just don’t know.’

Pause for breath.

‘Also, Addison is a handful. He just started saying ‘For fucks sake!’ a lot, and very loud. I mean, I know it’s not funny but it’s hard not to laugh, could I put up with that in stereo and not lose my marbles again? What do you think I should do stranger in the lift? What are you going to do? Yes, what about you semi stranger? Have you abandoned condoms yet? How are your pelvic floor muscles? Husband’s swimmers ok? Does he like blow jobs? What is your sunday schedule?’

It’s just too long an answer for a lift ride. Isn’t it?

Yes, that’s whats wrong with that answer. Its too long.

But you know why I really really hate this question more than anything?

Because, I don’t actually have an answer to be honest.

(Ok. We do have sex more than on a Sunday…. Honest. (He told me to put that in here as a slight amenddendadum. Yeah I can’t spell it, but you know what I mean. Notice there is no amendadedendam on the blowys. Ahem.)

It is just all so complicated.

I just don’t know.

If I won the lottery, yeah I would be barefoot and pregnant constantly somewhere across the Atlantic taking my brood on fabulous holidays all the time, and I’d have all their names tattooed on my toes, but in reality? I’m not sure we could afford it.

I don’t mean that just from a money perspective either, although that obviously does massively come in to it , what I  also mean is, we can’t really afford it from an Irish perspective.

‘What if you go freaking mental again?’ He will balk when I bring the subject up. ‘Then I’d be responsible for a feet shuffling, god mumbling, suicidal pill popping wife, a ferocious 2 year old and a baby! Anyway why are we discussing this now?’

‘Some woman in the lift wants to know.’ I will respond munching on square crisps and swatting the child away ‘’Wait, hang on… Wife? I’ll be your wife? WHEN? You know I want a square diamond right?’

And that is usually as far as we get before he heaves himself off the sofa and wanders off muttering about priorities and medication.

What if the minute the sperm made contact with the egg I lost the plot again?

What if I wanted to die again?

What if I couldn’t afford square crisps?

What if my belly flopped back down to my ankles?

What if I can’t get pregnant?

What if I deserve to be punished because I tried to die when my baby was relying on me, and I die during labour and never get to see Addison grow up?

What if one day I want to die again and never get to cuddle Addison again or the new baby? What if the illness grabs me again and tears my soul out and I lose my little boy again, the baby, and myself, but forever?

What if I end up in hospital again and miss out on all the bits I yearned to feel the first time around?

What if my heart breaks open again?

Why am I even thinking of this?

I am happy at the moment!!

Oh yeah that’s right, it’s the seemingly dangerous after effects of idle chitchat with semi zombie stranger’s!!!!

I think on Monday I will respond;

‘Another one? No I couldn’t you see because, basically my vagina was so badly torn with Addison, right from chuff to anus..’

At which point I will bend over and show them a cutting hand movement from front to back, for effect.

‘So I had this gaping, flapping hole where my bits should have been, for ages!’

At which point I will pause again, and proceed to mime a gaping, wide flapping hole that lives between my legs.

I may even add in a ‘swoosh’ and an echo for affect.

‘So basically when the doctor eventually did get round to stitching it back up again, which took hours by the way, he ended up having to re route my birth canal out of my arse, so essentially if I do get pregnant again, i’d have to poo the baby out while squatting. That scares me a bit to be honest. Big poo’s hurt.’

At which point I may or may not imitate a giving birth squat, depending on my mood and the time of day.

Then, just as the lift doors open, I will stand up and grin before strutting out with a fabulous Timotei toss of my hair.

‘Have a great day!” I will shout.  ‘Enjoy your bagel!’

Bloody intrusive lift folk.

Another baby indeed.

Like it is that simple!

It is true though, my gaping hole is none of their business.

Just Say Yes… (Exceptions.)

So apparently, and I only found this out recently, so if anyone asks where you heard this from, you absolutely didn’t hear it from me ok? I will totally deny all knowledge of ever telling you this should it come up in court ok?

Can you keep a secret?

So apparently if you call an ambulance and you happen to say you are in a lot of pain, they give you gas and air.

Now.

You all know me well enough by now to know I would never waste ambulance time and jokingly make a farce of somebody else’s funding (Irish one’s funding excluded because his funding doesn’t count – I needed that dress) especially the funding of the NHS, as in the past they have saved my life… twice.

Addison thanks them for that.

I thank them for that. No longer begrudgingly.

And I’m pretty sure the Irish one thanked them for that (right before he looked at his bank statement and wondered whether he just shouldn’t have perverted the course of nature, and that way he could have claimed it all back on the life insurance.)

(I’m not saying he wished me dead, It’s just I probably should have warned him that I’d popped to Selfridges with his card, right before he dialed 999. And I would have done you know, if I had been conscious.)

Anyway, back to topic.

I would never hoax the ambulance service for gas and air, as, as well as the above, I’m also you know, not a druggie (wine doesn’t count) and I’m not an idiot (falling off tram stops sober doesn’t count) and I am absolutely not a time waster (21 pregnancy tests the day after my period doesn’t count) and I am not irresponsible (getting pregnant 7 months in to a relationship and having no money, not withstanding.)

So I hope you understand I am telling you this in deepest confidence (and you are not to tell anyone else) for you know, hypothetical reasons only.

On Wikipedia, Baby Centre and Scoredrugsnow.com (that last one may not be the best example) it clearly states that Gas and air or Entonox as it also commonly referred to, is to be used only in emergency treatment, labour and childbirth to alleviate the common and excruciating symptoms of ‘pain’.

Well I think the government need to add to that list, and so I came up with some exceptions to the rule where I think gas and air should be administered immediately, or at the very least be made available for when people aren’t necessarily in labour, or in pain. (Define – ‘Pain.’)

I think this would have a very positive impact on NHS funding and you know, loads of other political reasons that ill have a think about later. I may even speak to the queen.

A home supply for every mother, father, and clumsy human being, I think, would be ideal.

So, I made a list.

My list is handily called;

Exceptions to the rule. 

• I have run out of wine.  I deserve gas and air.

• My son just ate bird poo. Hand it over.

• A huge wasp just flew near my head.  I screamed and ran around the garden but the little bastard followed me. It was terrifying. (Also – while I’m on this point – how quickly must they be able to three point turn to reverse the sting in to you? Sting or not that shit is impressive.) Give me gas and air.

• Doodle just shat all over my neighbor, as he was sat on his knee, and it was runny. Now please, a mask would be good.

• The Irish one left the used toilet roll on the side again. RIGHT BY THE BIN! Three gulps should do it.

• I noticed my Iphone bobbing about, at the bottom of the toilet, as I stood up to flush!!!  AND I have the stomach flu. Thank you Addison. Hand mummy that canister.

• Addison’s new favourite song ‘BOOBIES, BOOBIES, POO POO AND BIG BOOBIES, MAMMY’S SMELLY BOTTOM BOOBIES’ was just sung at full volume in the queue at the post office. I need a spare bottle for the car. Hand it me. Now.

• Grandma is on her way around. Give me some. Just in case.

• The Word ‘mine.’ Just anytime that word comes out of my son’s mouth. Just to prepare me for the upcoming onslaught of drama when I try to explain that a cucumber will never play music and that I need it, to make dinner. Hand it over.

• Potty training. You better bring a few mouthpieces, as I think I may accidentally end up with the majority of them lodged in my lung. DON’T COCK YOUR LEG, ONLY DOODLE IS ALLOWED TO DO THAT!!! (In a crowded park… against a tree.) NOW ENTONOX NOW.

• Grey’s anatomy. Every. Single. Episode. Gas and air at mine y’all.

• I think I may be pregnant. Oh dear god. Yes I know I am still sat on the loo, and I may not be, but the very thought alone…  Hand it over.

• 6 AM Monday morning? ‘Mammy, I poo poo on pillow.’  All proud of himself. Happy new week. Puff puff. Oh god it’s in his ears.

• What’s that in your mouth honey? What are you chewing? OH MY GOD IT’S A DECAPITATED SPIDER. Mine. Canister. Now.

• Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. FOR THE LOVE OF … Entonox.

• I just stood on the cast and crew of Thomas the tank engine. I now have a Toby shaped hole in the sole of my foot. Gas and air thank you pleeeaase. Ow ow ow ow ow Mother FUCCCCC…

• Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Clean the garage Saturday yes? Did he clean the BASTARD garage? NO! HE WATCHED FOOTBALL. I swear to god if you don’t pass me that bottle right now…

Like I say. Exceptions need to be made.

The humans need the gas and air. It is our god given right.

Please add more. Can you think of any more? I am sure you can!

I’m thinking of starting a petition.

*If gas and air makes you sick or you didn’t like it during labour, I have another option. It is called – morphine.

*It says on one of those websites that if you have psychological problems then you probably shouldn’t have gas and air but Pah! What do they know? And anyway… Define- ‘problems.’ I’m being made to listen to Chris De burgh for god sake! I NEED SOME.

*Gas and air is only to be shared with your spouse in extreme circumstances. Like at the arrival of the credit card statement, or when you want to hit him, really hard, but don’t want him to remember.

Hickory Dickory STOP!!

I had an argument with my mother last week.

This isn’t an oddity, as my mother and I, well, although we do get on famously well when discussing anything important like  ‘handbags, make up, perfume and when the Selfridges sale starts’, we don’t always seem to see eye to eye when it comes to the more miniscule of life’s details, like, oooo I don’t know, successful parenting?

She has her tried, tested and successful parenting techniques you see, parenting techniques that ‘did you no harm’ and ‘worked fine with you so I don’t know why it’s all changed now’, and I of course have my ‘new fangled, totally wrong but go ahead and try it, I look forward to saying I told you so’ techniques.

*DO not ever bring up Baby led weaning in our presence PLEASE. I’m serious. Just don’t. Baby led weaning is the root of all-evil! I have been reliably informed it was to blame for the bubonic plague and also that the Queen and Kate Winslet themselves think it is cruel, just cruel!!! It is obviously also the reason Addison doesn’t like vegetables now too, as I ruined his early childhood memories of eating. (Obviously.) So just don’t mention it ok? Please.

I love my mother, I love her lots, Addison adores her, she has done us countless favours and even though over the years we have had our differences (usually because she has been right and I don’t like to admit it)  I have to be honest, she has and is right most of the time when it comes to stuff like… handbags and make-up.

And ok, I relent. She has been right occasionally when it comes to Addison too. (Turns out ice pops aren’t full of goodness and aren’t one of the daily recommended 1 of 5! – Who knew?) ok, she is always right. Thanks mum. I love you.

Anyway, last week as I approached the drive to her house at a sensible 60 miles an hour with ‘that awful Rihanna’ blaring out and Addison ‘head banging in the back of the car’ (this is how she would describe it) we ended up having a little tete-a-tete about suitable childhood music, and I like a naughty teenager, was duly handed a CD of nursery rhymes for the drive home.

Much to my dismay, Addison seems to prefer it to Eminem (It was radio 1!!!! Its not my fault what they play is it? But ok whatever) so I have been forced to endure HOURS OF MINDLESS NUMPTYNESS over the past week instead of the usual array of musical greatness we usually head bang, I, erm, I mean, listen to and I have, in fact come to this conclusion.

NURSERY RHYMES, or EARLY LEARNING SONGS as they are called on this CD actually teach much crueler and much more careless lessons than Rihanna or black Sabbath ever could. (….I don’t actually listen to Black Sabbath, I’m more of a Chesney Hawkes kind of girl, but that’s totally beside the point….was I the only one who grieved when he got his mole removed? Anyway… )

Don’t believe me?

Check these out!!

5 little ducks went swimming one day, over the hills and far away, mummy duck shouted quack quack quack….  Ok, first off, who in their right mind lets their children swim over a hill and far away? Even if it’s a sunny day, that just bad parenting, I mean, and to let them keep going even though she seems to be losing one at a time?? DOES SHE NOT CARE? She is lucky to get any of them back I’m telling you, I’m seriously considering ringing duck protection services the next time I forget to take my meds!!

Hickory Dickory dock…. Ok there is too many things wrong with this song. Firstly why have they rhymed dock with clock and why use dickery? That’s just too funny and I intend to use it the next time The irish one and I are trying not to swear. ‘WHAT THE DICKERY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’ and then lets see if mum thinks it’s appropriate huh? And also, Have these people never heard of pest control? Mice are vermin for godsake!! If it’s run down the clock may I suggest a) setting a trap? And b) sealing the hole in the back of the clock? I mean what if it messes with the time? Then what!!!! You’d be dickery Docked!

12345 once I caught a fish alive, 678910, then I threw it back again…  Did you even stop to consider the impact this would have on the fish? It’s just inconsideration.

This old man (what old man?) he played… KNICK KNACK PADDY WHACK ON YOUR WHAT??? Who is this old man and why do I need to give a dog a bone? Is he rolling home from the pub? What kind of lesson is that? I am trying to teach Addison to respect women and not drink in pubs, sure he is only 2, but you can never start too early, and what if he asks me what knick knack paddy whack is huh? What do I say then? His daddy is a paddy!!! Is that not politically correct? WELL THEN NIETHER IS THE SONG! (Just go with me.)

Please pudding hot, please pudding cold? Please pudding in the pot nine days old…some like it hot, some like it cold, and some like it in the pot nine days old… SERIOUSLY? Yes, and some prefer not to get GASTROENTERITIS.

Pat a cake bakers man…– now I like that one. Apart from all the tossing and pricking that is. Just give me the damn cake and baby isn’t getting any. It’s mine.

Do your ears hang low, do they waggle to and fro, (?!?!?!) can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder like a regimental soldier? – Why? What if they did? WHAT IS THE POINT IN THIS SONG???? Is it ok if I can’t do it with my ears, but can with my boobs? DO I still count????

There was a farmer who had a dog and bingo was his name… STOP RIGHT THERE PLEASE DON’T SPELL IT… oh my god. You spelled it. 40 times. And now I need to go back to the mental hospital. But seriously, what was the name of that dog? I forgot.

Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, (OK SHE HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!) Polly put the kettle on, we will all have tea. Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away… I’m unsure as to whether they all left because you refused to stop singing at Polly or because this song is trying to teach children it is ok to mess with kettles. IT ISNT!! THIS SONG IS DANGEROUS!!!

I’m a little teapot… HERE IS MY SPOUT?  Really? I am re-naming willy to spout from now on. IRISH ONE! KEEP YOUR SPOUT AWAY FROM ME. That is an order, and I will throw my boobs over my shoulder like a regimental soldier to prove it.

Wind the bobbin up… What is a bobbin thank you please? To be honest, it seems to involve a little too much effort for my liking. Why am I pointing to the ceiling? Why am I pointing to the floor? And WHY do I need to put my hand on my knee? IM DRIVING!!! HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD THAT OPERATING A BOBBIN WHILE DRIVING IS DANGEROUS?  I should have this CD reported to the DVLA.

And don’t even get me started on the spider ones!

I like hey Diddle Diddle though. It was clearly written by somebody on day 2 of new medication while staying in a mental institute. I remember it well.

It was me who jumped over the moon, and the dish did run away with the spoon. I KNEW IT!!!!

ANYWAY, as of tomorrow we will be listening to Rihanna again*.

‘When the sun shine, we shine together, told you I’d be here forever, said I’d always be your friend, took a note and now I’m gonna stick it out till the end, now that its raining more than ever, know that we’ll still have each other, you can stand under my umbrella…EE EEE EEE EEE !!!’

Those lyrics say more to my son, inspire more hope in me, and ensure more smiles, than 5 little speckled frogs sitting on a speckled log eating poop (not original lyrics) ever could. (That’s my excuse and I am sticking to it.)

HEAD BANG ADDY HEAD BANG!

*I may change to nursery rhymes sometimes. If I have to. On a Wednesday. Between 10-11. If it’s raining… or if he tantrums… which is likely…  you know what? I’ll just buy ear plugs.

Jubilee Memory’s. (Who the hell is Edward?)

‘Why would a gorilla be on the boat with the queen?’

He plonks himself down on the sofa in front of where Addison and I are now attempting to re-create the leaning tower of pizza out of mega blocks, well I am, Addison has now grown bored and has taken to throwing them at Doodle instead, and stares at me with an odd look.

The television is blaring out the jubilee celebrations in the background, while Doodle tries to shimmy up my jumper in a desperate bid to get away from the plastic pellet attack currently taking place, and outside as ever the rain is pouring.

‘Pardon?’ I ask him confused from my crossed legged position in mini Italy. (Thinking about it now, I totally should have been building Buckingham Palace. Damn it. Nevermind…)

‘Eh?’ he responds tiredly rubbing his eyes ‘which bit? Are we going to the supermarket at some point?’

‘All of it.’ I yawn, ‘who said anything about a gorilla? And yes I suppose we are.’

‘You did. When?’

‘What? When? I don’t know, in a bit. I’m not even dressed.’

‘Just then!’ he half shouts growing irritated by the noise Doodle is now emitting as Addison pins him down and tries to shove a single red block where a single red block should never be shoved.

‘Addison Stop it!’ he yells, as Addison being Addison jumps up and tries to look innocent, this child has an unhealthy fascination with trying to shove things in Doodle’s behind ‘you JUST asked me why there is a gorilla on the boat with the queen.’

‘Camilla.’ I spell out slowly at the realisation of his dimwitted half heard error, but kind of wishing I had asked him that and imaging how random that would have been, before prizing the mega block from my sons hand and batting Doodle away from where he is now trying to reverse in to my mouth backwards to escape the torture. ‘I asked you if that was CAMILLA on the boat with the queen. Doodle get down!’ I admonish. ‘My mouth is not a place for you to hide!’

‘Ah. Yes I suppose it would have been, she is married to Edward now isn’t she? A gorilla would have been more interesting to watch though.’

‘True.’ I relent nodding. ‘So are we going to the supermarket? Wait, Edward? Who is Edward?’

‘TRAIN SHOP, TRAIN SHOP AND SAUSAGES?’ Addison climbs on my knee, shouts this in my face and bites my nose. While I am trying to detangle myself from his tiny teeth, The Irish one grabs the remote from beside me on the floor.

‘The queen’s son.’ He says pointing the remote at the telly and starting to flick through the channels ‘is there nothing else on apart from jubilee stuff?’

‘Edward isn’t the queen’s son.’ I respond trying to stand up, planning on going and getting dressed so we can go to the supermarket but being severely hindered by the two year old I seem to be wearing like a necklace.

‘Yes he is. He’s the one married to Camilla, you know, the one who used to be married to Diana but then ran off with Camilla after she died.’

I look at him confused and try to respond, even though I now have ten fingers in my mouth, none of which belong to me.

‘That’s Charles.’ I say, my voice muffled ‘And I’m not sure they ran off. She is on the boat with the queen isn’t she? Are you going to get dressed so we can go out? We need bread and sausages. We could walk?’

Doodle jumps at the sound of the word ‘walk’ directly on to The Irish One’s knee and begins licking his face. He spits, laughs, wipes his mouth and pushes him down ‘we don’t. I got some yesterday. No let’s drive. So who is the queen’s husband then? Is that Edward?’

I limp in to the hallway dragging Addison, who now, like a limpet, is clinging to my leg and singing ‘Incy wincy Spider’ at top volume and shout that the queens husband is ‘Phillip, I think. Do I have to drive? We only need juice!’

‘Is he the one with the bladder infection?’ He responds from behind me, also coming to get dressed. ‘We don’t need juice. I got some yesterday.’

‘I don’t know?!’ I laugh while tearing Addison off my leg and pulling my jeans on. ‘How would I know? How do you even know that?’

‘Doodle Get down!!’ we both shout in unison as Doodle jumps on the bed, and attempts to pin Addison down.

‘He text me.’ He responds smugly, shimmying off to the bathroom with a grin. ‘We are pretty close are Phil and I. We are best buds.’

‘Addison go brush your teeth’ I smile, sending him after his mad daddy.

‘Well maybe you should ask him who Edward is then!’ I laugh, running a brush through my hair, ‘and if that was Camilla on the boat!’

He sticks his head around the bedroom door and winks.

‘Why would there be a gorilla on the boat?’

I laugh and start the search for my boots.

‘TRAIN SHOP TRAIN SHOP TRAIN SHOP!’ Addison shouts, spitting tooth paste everywhere. ‘TRAIN SHOP WITH EDWARD AND A GORILLA!’

‘Addison, bathroom!’ We both command simultaneously as Doodle comes trotting in with his lead hanging  out of his mouth and trips Addison up. (Revenge. No doubt about it.)

‘So who is Edward?’ I think momentarily before starting the search for my car keys.

It was only when we got to the supermarket that we realised we didn’t actually need anything and we had left the telly on, and I still didn’t know who Edward was. By now, however, the conversation had moved on to crowns and trucks, vespa’s and pork pies. It was a very british conversation.

So what did we buy?

3 union Jack flags, some cake and a bottle of coke. (It was the only british food we all could agree on. Is coke even british? Anyway…)

We then returned to the flat, waved our flags, sat on the sofa, ate some cake,  drank our coke and watched… Toy story.

Proud to all be british, although I may need to brush up on my knowledge before Addison starts school and I need to know this stuff.

Having grown up in Spain, see, I was only taught about the spanish Monarchy. (That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it, but don’t ask me about the Spanish Monarchy because… erm… ill be too busy waving my british flag to answer!’)

Long live the queen! (Who was in fact talking to CAMILLA on the boat, I think. Well. I’m not sure they spoke, but I’m pretty sure she was there. Wasn’t Kate’s dress nice?)

Happy Jubilee.

What would your Jubilee memory be?

Home is Where the Vomit is. *

‘Time waits for no man but true love lasts forever.’

Well, except when it doesn’t.

Because lets face it I am sure we have all ‘fallen in true love’  a few times, at some point.

You know, back in our histories, back when true love didn’t involve cleaning vomit out of our eyelashes at 3am, we must have all, at some point,  lay in our beds at the age of 19 or 13 or whatever and fantasized and Romancasized (and other words ending in ‘sized,’) about this ‘one true love’ we just met!!!

And we all also no doubt whittled away countless hours day dreaming happily and excitedly to ourselves before falling in to a contented sleep about this amazing ‘true love’ who we had totally ‘fallen for’ who we really believed was the dogs gingganggooli’s.

(Sorry. I could have just written the ‘dogs bollocks’, but I have been trying to get ging gang gooli’s in a post for so long now and I saw this as my opportunity. Go on… it’s ok. Sing the song! I am! Ging gang goooli goooli goooli gooli gooli, ging gang goo, ging gang goo!)

Because that’s what girls do!! It’s the whole fairytale thing!

‘This is it. This person is ‘the one! THIS is TRUE LOVE’ we surely have all smiled to ourselves excitedly in bed, picturing the wedding and the ring and, well usually I would think about how fabulous and drunken my hen party would be but whatever, this isn’t about me, this is about us, ‘this person is the one!!!’

Yes you.

Me and you. We have all done it.

Me as in the one writing this, and you as in the one reading it. Ok? Admit it. Even if it was Jason Donovan you were picturing, you pictured it. I know you did. You did? Right?

And now we, (us) can undoubtedly and inevitably look back on those failed flings and relationships and think ‘how did I not see back when I was with him that he had a penchant for, I don’t know, watching animals fornicate or something. (Seriously reader, you have been out with some right weirdo’s!!) How could I have not seen what an absolute Tool he was back when I first starting dating him?’ and we shudder and carry on washing up, changing a nappy, cleaning up sick bleary eyed or talking to the wall or something.

So the tagline for the film ‘Forever Young’ a 1992 classic starring Mel Gibson, (bear with me this will all make sense in a second) isn’t exactly true but whatever, I am willing to overlook that for the purpose of this post.

Have you ever felt homesick for a time that has passed?

Mel Gibson is a soldier or something, don’t quote me on that, and in this breath catching, stress popcorn eating film, he basically asks his friend to freeze him cos he thinks his girlfriend is dead. (As you do) Which his friend actually does for him (FYI- what kind of friend does that?? Why couldn’t he just, I don’t know, let him grieve at the pub or whatever? And seriously! Who has a person freezing machine handy anyway?! ‘Oh come in, make yourself at home! This is not a sunbed no! It’s my cryogenic coffin, just in case you fancy becoming an ice pop later!!’ I mean it is so bizarre but anyway.) What ends up happening (spoiler alert!) is that he wakes up forty years later in 1992 (which is such a coincidence cos that’s the year they made the film) and his whole world has zoomed on forty years and it turns out his girlfriend wasn’t even dead and they find each other, and well she turns in to a frog.  (That last bit may not be true but I didn’t want to ruin it for you if you hadn’t seen it.)

But basically the point I am making is, that is how I have felt for the last two weeks while I have been ‘home’ in Spain. (But without the dead girlfriend, the frog and the friend who wants to cryogenically freeze me. Because with friends like that, who needs enemies??)

I sat on my dad’s wall one night while I was there, staring at the coastline lit up by the clear night sky, legs dangling down on to the rocky mountain below, glass of wine in hand and feeling a bit well… melancholy.

The silence, as I sat there, drinking it all in, was only broken by the odd echo of a car horn in the distance and the ever present night time sound, the deep hum that gives away the baseline to a party that is no doubt happening somewhere without you.

It came as a shock to me right then, with the palm trees rustling and blowing in the wind beside me to my left, and the humid air dancing around my shoulders, that I had been homesick for a very long time.

It was overwhelming how acutely this speared through me.

I must (seriously!!!) be an idiot not to realise how homesick I have been. Why has this never come up in therapy? Had I blocked it out because it was just too painful? Or was I really, just a flipping idiot, and had not realised?

Every light, every car horn and every twinkle has a memory attached, but, but… it isn’t the same as it was…  everything has moved on, has changed, has evolved.

I pressed the side of my forehead against the cool air-conditioned car window as we weaved down strange roads during the daytime, roads, streets and alleyways, which I used to know and adore, like family.

Every corner had a memory attached, every smell made me inadvertently close my eyes, breath in and secretly smile to myself.

But when I would open my eyes, having seen and felt myself so vibrantly in the moments of the past, heartbreakingly, everything was different and I couldn’t recognise the place it now was.

Different school children running down the street, not my friends or their younger siblings, instead faces I would never know, could never have known, and would never recognise.

10 years have passed.

How could 10 years have passed?

My friends all grown up now, and with children who vomit on them at 3am, all of their own.

The flats where I lived, where I spent my happiest years, demolished. A Starbucks and a shopping center instead, stood majestically and polished in the place where I laid my head every night, and grew up.*

That night I sat on that bloody mountain (with my ever present glass of wine) and I re-lived the way it was.

I took in as many deep breaths as I could and I smiled.

I remembered the laughter (3 girls all squished on my moped piss drunk at the age of 14?) and I laughed.

I remembered the tears (1 of the 3 girls crashing my moped because she encountered a rock and didn’t know what to do – DRIVE OVER IT LAURA!) and I cried for the way it was, for the times I didn’t appreciate until right at that instant.

I remembered my home, when it was my home and I was sad. Sad that now people were drinking frozen Frappuccino’s in the exact place where we buried the dog. *

And maybe it was never as perfect as I remembered it, but if I could just go back and touch it, revisit it, for just one evening, I would.

My childhood. (The good bit.)

Because I miss it, and I am pretty sure that is how Mel Gibson must have felt when he woke up after 40 years of being a human choc-ice, and found out his girlfriend used to be a tadpole and he had made a stupid choice and missed all the bits in between. (Like the bit where she grew legs and hopped out of the pond.)

Before I licked the wine glass clean though, I caught sight of the stars.

And I smiled.

The stars were still exactly the same.

(Look reader, if you study astrology then you are probably dying to comment right now and tell me that they aren’t the same as they were 10 years ago, as we see them how they are five years ago or something, but I am asking you nicely not to ok? I need the stars to be the same SO JUST LET ME THINK THEY ARE THE DAMN SAME, OK?)

The stars, I noticed, were still EXACTLY THE SAME. Still winking mischievously at me, and cleverly reminding me that I can see them from where ever I am, at any time. (Obviously not in the mornings, but you know what I mean.) And that I carry my memories with me. And they can never be stolen. (Except maybe by dementia, but let’s just ignore that for the moment.)

The stars reminded me of one simple truth, and eased my pain.

Home, is now, and will forever more be, wherever Addison is.

And that is the future for us to carve.

And that, Dear reader is fine with me.

————————————————-

*Why does Addison only every vomit at 3 am?

*How cool is that??? A Starbucks where I used to live!!! Its destiny is what it is!!! I’m like Mel Gibson! Maybe true love doesn’t die?? MAYBE STARBUCKS IS MY TRUE LOVE!!! Oh my god!!! It’s a total sign!!!!

** Not Doodle. Doodle is alive and well. Just so you know I would never bury Doodle while he was still alive.  Well not totally anyway, having fun in the sandpit doesn’t count does it? DOES IT?

Banana’s in Pyjama’s. (Are not Actually that Rare!)

‘Can we get a man in?’

(OH NO SHE DIDN’T!)

I carefully and quietly murmur this, knowing that I will somehow have crossed the line between Venus and Mars, in an unforgivable way.

I immediately avoid eye contact as his head whips up, and look instead with feigned interest at the murky water slowly seeping up my pajama bottoms from my tired ankles, all the way up to my grazed knees.

Knees which have started to creek and click with such regularity I am wondering how much it would cost to trade them in for a bionic pair.

Not only would this help with my day-to-day endurance test, the endurance test I sometimes laughingly refer to as ‘life,’ but it would also mean I could actually call myself the Bionic Woman and mean it.

Ooo, now that would be so cool.

Plus I would then automatically qualify for my very own soundtrack meaning that I could run in slow motion whenever the fancy took me.

Running in slow motion is underrated considering how much fun it looks.

It’s a lot easier on the lungs too, although it does take a while to get anywhere.

Anyway.

As the water aims for my hairy thighs hiding beneath my once dry jammy bottoms, it dawns on me that not only am I living in the house that Jack built but I am also doing so, barely surviving in a body controlled by a brain that wont allow me to walk in a straight line without falling on my face, in the most horrific of circumstances.

A brain that lets me down so often, and stabs at my heart with such ferocity it is all I can do to not bend over and howl in pain the moment the sun creeps in through the crack in the badly fitted curtains. (Not a euphemism! Although in fairness if it was, it would be an accurate one. Anyway…)

He spins unsteadily on the water, like a terrible ice dancer filled with self belief auditioning for Britain’s got talent, from where he was stood staring agog, morning hair sticking up at all angles and eyes deeply hidden beneath two years of no sleep, staring in confusion at the dials on the machine that is supposed to wash our clothes.

A machine, which evidently can no longer be arsed to do the job, it was built for.

A machine, incidentally that I can totally relate to.

As he stumbles in his attempt to stay upright on the slippery floor and avoid an Irish broken tailbone, he propels a fan of water all over the child who, of course finds this absolutely hilarious and giggles loudly from where he is now sat, pounding his fists in to the soapy puddles and watching the ripples spread far and wide to every corner of the kitchen, with glee.

‘Maybe I should just bath him on the kitchen floor from now on, Seen as he wont let me bath him in the actual bath. Maybe that’s what Supernanny means when she talks about finding alternatives’ I think to myself with my 5am brain, cursing the moment we hit ‘2’ and the angel I gave birth to, developed a personality sent to me directly from crazyville Arizona.

Doodle as ever, is also in attendance, stood beside the child, an important input in to family goings on, he is now thigh deep in the water but seems unfazed by the commotion, simply nibbling at his bone shaped biscuits as they float past.

The Irish one roars at me without words, the dancing half-light of the early morning bouncing off the dampness of our situation creating a rainbow halo behind him.

‘No woman!’ he admonishes being careful not to fall on the child, and looking bizarrely, a lot like Jesus.

He needs to trim that beard, I think to myself again, as I picture myself bludgeoning him on to a cross in the name of my sanity.

We don’t have a free hammer though actually, and I think a hammer is an essential tool when one needs to bludgeon something, and as it is currently being used to prop the bed up that plan is a no go.

‘I can fix it! I fixed it myself last week, and I will do it again! Watch me Fecking fix it. AS LONG as I am the man in your life, no other  ‘man’ (he spits this word out, like it is herpes) ‘shall cross this threshold to fix any one thing. I am bloke! I am THE BLOKE! I am the one who sorts things, and therefore I am king of all things in this kingdom. I am THE FIX IT KING! And this is easily sortable. A man? Tish! what do we need a man for???’ His disgust is palpable.

God I love that mad bastard.

I sigh. Can’t bludgeon him today then. Not only is the hammer pre-disposed but also where would I get the wood?

I sigh again.

A deep sigh, belonging to a woman who woke up at 5am to find the ‘fixed’ washing machine had vomited its guts out on to the kitchen floor. Again.

I sigh.

A deep sigh, belonging to a woman, who for the last five months has been using a bent fork to close the washing machine and a length of rope ripped from an iPhone battery to open it.

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman who for the last year has had to beg the light switch in the bedroom to work, trying over and over again to flick it from just the right angle, because of a; (and I quote)

‘A Dodgy electrician who fitted it in the first place who (clearly) cant be trusted to be called back in, because he has made it irreparable (of course he has) for a civilian not electrics trained (Irish) man and there for it is ‘fine’ if you flick it from this angle, I fixed it, look it will do!’ (No it wont blood do! ARGHHHHHHHHH)’

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman who because of this ‘dodgy electrician’ has arrived at work on more than one occasion wearing navy blue tights coupled with a completely black ensemble… an occupational hazard of getting dressed in the dark, and as I am sure you will agree, wardrobe suicide.

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman, who now has wet knees, ankles and thighs, who was forced to use the hoover to unblock the bath drain, and then got a bollocking from Dyson for doing so. (LIKE THE ONLY THING THAT WAS ACTUALLY FIXED GODDAMN IT!)

A sigh belonging to a woman who can no longer cope with a back door that has a pillow in front of it ‘to stop the rain’ seeping in and to prevent a community of ants seeking refuge from the stormy conditions outside.

A pillow, dear Irish one, may be a deterrent to a puddle, but it is almost certainly not a deterrent to a focused and motivated army of ants.

One day I seriously worry that I will go to sleep snuggled under my two duvets (-Because the boiler is temperamental, but ‘its ok Lexy, just put a jumper on!’) and will actually wake up 6 hours later (a full nights sleep these days) in the garden by the oak tree (who’s roots are now heading towards our bathroom causing the sewage to block up –and god help me he is about to buy a chain saw), the GOD DAMN ants having clubbed together and carried me outside in my sleep.

I will bang on the door in bitter regret as they sit on their ant bums on my sofa watching Living TV that I pay for, before one of them will get up and slide the broken curtains shut, my Starbucks mug in his claw, while shaking his antennas at me as if to say ‘you had your chance to exterminate us but you refused to get a man in, so therefor we now rule.’

Ant mutiny.

‘Just tell me what is happening on Grey’s anatomy’ I will shout in desperation ‘please!’

The Queen ant will ignore me from where she is stood in the middle of the living room shaking her behind and singing Beyoncé’s ‘to the left to the left’ wearing my new bikini.

I can picture it now, Addison will be brought up carrying five times his body weight by a colony of ants while Doodle will be saddled up and kept as a slave and used to carry particularly heavy stones for the ant pyramids.

It will be ant mutiny I tell thee! Ant mutiny at 23 Mental road.

Sure you are bobbing for biscuits now Doodle, but you have no idea what is about to happen!

Bless him.

‘Ok’ I mumble, wondering if water skis are a sensible purchase at this point and seriously considering emigrating across the Mexican border without telling him and setting up shop in a shack with a heavily tanned, mustached handy man eating a burrito.

It’s because I love him that I don’t argue.

I don’t want to demasculinate him, or whatever the therapy word is.

But how the hell am I supposed to clean my knickers now?

Do you think perhaps I could get a man in and then pretend he has fixed it all? Drug him or something, and then tell him that it was he who fixed it?

‘Can you get me a crow bar please babe?’ he asks perched on his sodden knees, prying at the washer with his Irish fingertips.

I sigh stepping over the commotion, in to the dry and badly lit hallway (the bulbs need changing and he refuses to buy a ladder.)

It is the sigh of a woman who is deeply in love with a mad man, but who really needs some relationship advice, a new house and the number of a man who can work quietly and discreetly around a drugged up Irish man, and fix stuff!

Drugging is ok right? RIGHT?

I think it is, given the circumstances.

Twinkle Twinkle little Cow Pat…

‘Is it going to hurt?’

‘I honestly thought I was going to die last time.’ She says searching in her Vivienne Westwood handbag for a cigarette and then looking directly in to my eyes.

‘I thought an angel was going to appear from the ceiling and take me to heaven…’

I feel the blood drain from my face as she goes on.

‘I felt this warmth on my back, and thought oh god this it. This is me. I’m off. Off in to the clouds I go…’

Stood on the corner of a quiet street with a gorgeous and hilarious gal pal (she wanted me to call her that) the cool morning air biting at my face, making my lips tingle, the sun just setting up shop, not yet on full throttle but inching it’s way across the road and on to the pavement behind me, as if trying to chase me with a warning of the deep heat I could be in, I take a deep breath.

I am what some may refer to as, shaking like a shitting dog.

I am hopping about like a long tailed skunk in a room full of rocking chairs.

I am feeling no doubt, what every cow must feel right before it gets branded with a red hot poker.

Like releasing a huge cow pat.

‘Then what happened?’ I ask breathless and giddy, my stomach turning over reminding me to clench my buttocks in case I let one rip and embarrass myself.

‘Well. Basically the minute the needle went in’ she takes a long drag on her cigarette as she lights it and grins at me ‘I passed out, and the warmth I felt on my back was the big bloke who caught me waking me up.’

I explode in to nervous and slightly horrified giggles.

‘So not an angel?’ I ask, slightly disappointed. An angel would have been cool.

But fainting? Oh god. What if I faint? I tend to dribble when I faint, and everyone knows that dribbling in a tattoo parlor is social suicide!

‘No.’ she laughs back ‘Aw but he was honestly so lovely. It does hurt, but it’s nothing like childbirth so you should be fine, and at least if you faint you know he will catch you.’

I am about to respond that the catchy ‘its nothing like childbirth’ line has actually done nothing to calm the bowel movements I am currently experiencing when a heavily painted arm, with a neck and head attached appears around the door.

‘Lexy?’ he asked, surprisingly softly spoken, considering how mental and grizzly he looks with his long beard, his beanie hat and the heavy metal rock music providing the soundtrack to his entrance in to my life story.

There is no turning back now.

As I walk through the door I can hear the voices in my head.

‘Do not go ahead with this, or you will regret it! You are an embarrassment! What if it looks stupid? You do realise you are 32?’

‘I forbid you from doing this! You’ll never be cool enough to pull off a tattoo you stupid moose like knob jockey!’

‘You are 32 years old. It is your life, your body and you own your own mind.’

The tattoo man asks me to sit down on the stool opposite him and extend my right wrist.

I am shakily finding somewhere to prop Arthur (my new handbag – so beautiful he deserved a name) when another man appears to the left of me (presumably this is the body catcher) and asks me if I know who Black Sabbath are.

‘Is that the bloke who bit the head off a rabbit?’ I respond nervously, my eyes darting between their faces to the big feck off needle resting on the bench beside the ‘yob’ opposite me. (Yob, was my mothers voice muscling it’s way in to my psychic.)

‘Bat.’ He laughs. ‘ But yes.’

Right.

Bat.

Not rabbit.

Damn it. There goes my street cred. (Oh Jesus, am I actually turning in to my mother? Mental note to self, stop thinking in my mother’s voice.)

‘Are you ready?’ Yob one asks, turning on the stabbing needle gun of death and aiming it towards my clear white beautiful and innocent arm.

I would like to tell you at this point, I calmly and coolly told him I was born ready, and everything went fine, but alas, I didn’t and it didn’t.

‘Hang on!’ I end up shouting directly in to the weapon yielding grizzly’s face before re-adjusting the volume setting on my anxiety and trying to appear calm and collected.

‘Can I ask you some questions?’

‘Shoot!’ he said smiling kindly (which would have been lovely if it wasn’t for the jerking metallic buzzing needle gun of disaster he was holding in his hand approximately 20 cm away from my face.)

‘Will it hurt?’ I asked honestly, the question seemingly pissing off the body catcher as he sighed and stropped off with a roll of his eyes. (Big grizzly men can strop – you learn something every day, as my mother always.. god damn it!)

Oh god. I have no body catcher.

I look down at the tile floor and wonder if Arthur would break my fall.

‘What do you think?’ Grizzly responds interrupting my thoughts and turning off the animated injector of pain and ink.

I breathe a shaky sigh of relief.

2 extra minutes to prepare.

‘I think it will.’ I respond with thought, moving Arthur on to the floor about a foot away from the stool.

If I feel myself going, I will aim my faint towards him.

‘You are right it will,’ he solemnly replies before nodding in the general direction of my left arm and making full eye contact.

‘But I notice you are covered in scars, which tells me one of two things, either you are absolutely crap at fishing (?!?) or you are a self harmer.’

I laugh in shock.

‘If you are the latter, which I am guessing you probably are because you have that sexy but damaged and slightly unhinged look about you, then I will tell you now it wont hurt nearly as much as that.’ He points at a deep bubbly scar above my left thumb. Burn?’

I smile at him gratefully.

‘Yeah.’

He has totally put me at ease, bless his – evil clown tattooed, graveyard scened, burning Jesus dying on the cross-etched inky black- cotton socks.

‘Degree?’

‘Third.’

‘Respect.’ He nods. (There are no words. In my opinion unless you are Eminem, you can not get away with saying ‘Respect.’ but whatever…) 

Before I get chance to jump up and run outside to tell my gal pal (again she wanted me to call her that) that the tattoo man thought I was sexy and unhinged which in my mind passes roughly for cool, he ran his plastic gloved thumb over the trace on my wrist and turned the blade of doom back on.

‘Woo?’

‘Yes.’ I respond enthusiastically.

‘Woo?’ he asks again incredulously, a little louder.

‘Yes.’ I repeat nodding for extra effect. ‘Woo.’

He sighs ‘Go on tell me all about it.’

I close my eyes, as he lowers the tattoo gun towards me and take deep breaths as I do as I am told.

‘Woo saved my life. I used to be cool but then I had Woo. He is my son, he is two next week, he says bugger a lot… I wee when I sneeze’

A pause, and he continues.

Wow this hurts. But I kinda like it…

‘… but Woo also represents the thousands of people who have supported me and cared for me, total strangers, I may add, since I had him. It also represents my dog Doodle…’

The buzzing stops so abruptly, I am forced to open one eye and peep at him.

He is hunched over my hand, pulling the skin on my wrist back tightly, but looking directly up at me, his eyebrows knotted.

‘Doodle?’

‘The poodle.’

The buzzing starts up again as he shakes his head and goes back to concentrating on scaring me for the rest of my god-damn life.

‘So yeah, and basically’ I continue, trying to remember my flow and closing my eyes again with a wince.

Breathe Lexy, breathe.

‘I tried to kill myself, then I went in to a mental hospital, then my therapist asked me when I was going to take control of my own life, and I realised at that exact moment that it was about time I at least tried to free myself from the chains I have, I suppose kept myself under. I want to live my own life, but I never have. I have always asked others ‘Am I ok?’ without actually asking them? You know? Like if they are in a mood then I automatically assume I have done something wrong, and if people feel bad then I have to make them feel better or it could be me that has upset them and then they may not like me anymore. Like they may confirm to me, by not liking me, that I actually don’t like myself. I have always been so afraid, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what of. You know?’

‘No.’

I carry on regardless as he bumps the needle over my crease. (That sounds way ruder on paper than it does in my head.)

‘Well basically, I have always thought I have been living my own life when really I have always been controlled by these voices in my head.’

The buzzing stops again.

It’s ok though. I kind of expected it to.

I open my eyes.

He is looking at me with an expression I am unable to read.

‘Voices in your head?’

‘Yeah.’ I say, looking back at him, focusing on his mono-brow for courage. ‘Like, Sometimes its my mothers voice and sometimes it’s my fathers voice and sometimes its my own harsh voice, and they are always telling me what I can and can’t do. And I am sick of it.’

The buzzing starts up again and once again I close my eyes.

‘Argh!’ I exclaim before continuing between gritted teeth ‘so Woo represents everything I have been, everything I can be, my son, my dog and a new beginning where if I want a freaking tattoo I will get one and I don’t have to answer to anyone.’

He turns off the stabbing needle gun and rubs the blood off my wrist.

‘It represents control, and me, and my son, and my dog, and that mental health is ok and I am never alone.’

He ignores me as he turns away from me and grabs up for some cellophane.

‘Finished. Do you like it?’

I look down at it, and tilt my head.

That’s my wrist.

But.

It looks weird.

‘No.’ I reply honestly, feeling a bit queasy.  Oh shit what have I done?

‘Why?’ he replies.

‘It’s too straight, do some curly bits.’ Oh my god make it better, make it better, holy hell make it better! That looks like a crab pood on me!

The buzzing starts again and I add something.

‘Woo also means, from now on, I am gonna be me, and only me, and the only person who will tell me if I am ok, is me. Or at least, thats the aim.’

The buzzing stops again. He sighs.

‘Do you like it?’

I breath a huge excited breath

‘Yes. I exclaim! I bloody love it! WOO!’ I lift my wrist as I say this.

‘Woo also means Woooooo!’ I add excitedly, lifting my wrist in to his face.

He gets up from his chair and shakes his head.

‘Women’ he mutters as he wraps me up. ‘You’re all as mad as a bag of frogs.’

Whatever! I have a tattoo!!

Woo means ‘Journey.’

Well today it does anyway… tomorrow it may mean destination.

Is it meant to be this itchy though?

Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch!

It’s so itchy!!!

Like thrush but on my wrist!!

Oh hell. 

I have woo on my wrist.

Hold On To The Crazy. The Crazy Spurs You On.

I know it is in there.

I can run at force, and lunge my shoulder in to the door. I can rattle the decaying and stained gold handle and scream, pound and shout through my tears. Let me in, goddamn it let me in.

I can sink to my threadbare knees in front of the bastard armor of thick brown wood, which blocks me from entering and claw at my face with my nails and shout please please, make it stop, just please make it stop.

I can lie down beside it, heaving sobs at midnight, beaten. The cold of the night, the slap of the concrete floor, laying claim to my wet face.

I can get up before the sun rises and plaster on my heavy smile.

A smile plastered on to a face, which is becoming more manufactured with every passing day.

I even have fake eyelashes now you know.

My own eye lashes, you see, weren’t long enough or battery enough to protect me from my own self depreciating thoughts or the preying eyes of vultures trying to catch a glimpse at the crazy woman with the cuts on her arms inside of me.

I just changed Crazy girl, to crazy woman.

Because I am no longer a girl am I.

It is a fact.

I should grow up, I should shut up, I should get a grip, I should… get Botox.

Or fillers!!!

Anyway,

I know it is fucking in there.

I just can’t get to it.

I can visualize it oh so clearly in my minds eye, I feel that if I could only grab a coat hanger, I could shove it under the door and coach it out with a gentle puff and huff, like one does a mini dinosaur.

Or car.

Or chip.

I know what it looks like.

I can almost certainly remember what it feels like, and I can all too easily reminisce about the way it would positively mold itself around me, like a python, ensuring every bone in my body would fill with a fulfilling tingle, a glow, an honest to god fantastic inner smile.

A taste of hope.

If I could just get to it, if I could just find a way.

The problem with medication, one of the problems with medication, should I say, other than the obvious ‘unusual’ side effects;

Included but not limited to,

• Excessive sweating;

Which of course causes me to smell like an old tea bag minutes after I arrive, bounding and false, in to the office gates, only to find the air conditioning ‘has gone down’ and I, of course, am wearing the skin cut from a thousand sheep, (who are all now stood shivering, cursing my name, on the moors.)

• Occasional bouts of Nausea;

Just as I walk in to a full nursery room, stinking of small children, wearing sagging and sloshy nappies and locate my child biting a beetle in half, (YES A BEETLE!) causing me to unceremoniously dump the contents of my stomach in to my new handbag on the way home, while Addy insect chomper wiggly tongue in the back, sings the theme tune to Ghostbusters. AGAIN.

• Increased sex drive;

Before I go in to how truly magnificent The Irish One is finding this particular side effect, let me move swiftly to the next one.

• A loss of orgasm;

Forget ‘it’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife’ for Irony. Alanis Morisette, take note.

My orgasm, however, is not what I have been searching furiously for. (When would I find the time, in between all the stomping around pretending to be happy? And besides that, Doodle is always staring at me, it is very off putting.)

No, what I have been searching for, is me.

My inspiration, my laughter, my hope, my happy vision for the future , the dreams I used to nurture.

My very sense of bloody me.

I know that behind that door.

That gate.

That grotty window that I have my nose pressed up against, struggling to see through the grime, lays a dusty and dampened room filled with boxes upon boxes of regrets. Crates filled with drunken memories I hurriedly discarded and sometimes even hid behind the screw pile labeled – CRINGE.

I know I will also have to bat away the numbers flying around the room, the numbers that of course never add up.

My virginity too, will be hidden somewhere in there. Ashamed and cross with me for throwing it away on the wrong man. A man with a crappy name and not my first love, the first love who I wanted to give it to but couldn’t.

I will also find my orgasm, smirking at me.

I will also no doubt find all the things I used to enjoy. Reading magazines, singing, dancing, cooking, drinking with friends, getting dressed up and going out, chatting, hugging, a good book, a film.

When did I even lose these things?

And of course, packed in there somewhere neatly, will be my ability to write without using brackets. (God damn brackets.)

Me.

Me.

I am in there somewhere.

Regrets, warts, awful memories, but also hope, and kindness, and hope, hope, hope.

I think I could fly through those boxes now, if I was just given the chance.

I am not proud of who I was, but I can be proud of who I can become… right?

Give me back my heart. Give back my mind. Give me back my fun.

I want to take back my life. I want to take back my heart, I know I can hold it together.

And that’s what matters.

If only I could get through the doors and… feel.

With medication I am alive.

But.

Numb.

Without medication,

I want to die.

But if I could just get in that room…

Then surely…

I could stay on the medication AND swallow myself whole again.

Give me back my heart. Give me back my life. I know I can hold it together.

I don’t know.

There just has to be a way in.

Doesn’t there?

Isn’t that where the light switch to the end of this tunnel is kept?

It just all feels so pointless.

I’m back on my knees.

Will somebody please bring me a Krispy Kreme?

This concrete floor is awfully cold.

What time should I expect you?

From what I hear, we don’t have to do this alone.