“Angry Monkey.”

”Sometimes I like to dig a hole and pretend I am a carrot.”

No, really.

Ok, not really.

But you fully believed me for a second there I bet, which brings me nicely on to my point.

Usually I would Bitch and Moan about how Google is useless!!!!

That actually when I am looking for the Island of ‘Male’ (pronounced Marlay) in the Maldives from my desk at work, trying to show my NEW boss, who is stood behind me peering over my shouler, where we are going on holiday, I really do not appreciate a million photographs of bulbous and hairy purple genetalia type appendages flashing and swinging across my screen.

But today, as I notice another search for ‘Angry monkey on the rampage’ directing folks my way, I actually have to commend Google on their obviously emotional and instinctive search engine accuracy calculation process.

Angry monkey?

Digging holes so I can pretend I am a root vegetable? (Are carrots root vegetables? Yeah… they must be. There is no such thing as a Carrot tree is there? … Is there? NO!  ’Carrots don’t grow on trees you know Addison! Eat your greens’… or oranges… lets move on.)

Fair play Google.

You’ve probably just summed my little Blog and I up, more accurately and concisely than The Irish one or even any of my close friends or family would dare too, and you are at the very least, honest.

Because I am often angry.

And sometimes I do throw poo.

I may even change my Bio.

MammyWoo.
An Angry monkey who likes to dig holes and pretend she is a carrot.

While I am on the subject of Stats, I will be honest and tell you I also seem to get a lot of traffic from people searching for a ‘Hulk woman with a flabby belly.’

I am not actually sure though whether that is in fact a genuine search term or whether the Irish one is just trying to send me subliminal messages that aren’t really that subliminal.

I am of the opinion you see, that men, unlike women, are useless at subliminal messages.

For example; when I want sexy time, I tend to lean in seductively and suck on a sausage, or maybe prance about a bit even, in my high heels saying things like ‘saddle up baby.’ (I don’t.)

When he wants sexy time?

Do I even need to go on?

HONK HONK.

Hulk woman with a flabby belly?

That sounds like one of his compliments.

The next time he shakes his head at me and tuts while I am cramming a mayonnaise and Square Crisp sarnie in my mouth like the world is about to end, I may pay more attention to his finger flicking.

I also get the odd search for ‘Petrol Bumhole Torture.’

Seriously.

I am pretty sure I would remember that as a life event, and come on.

You know how honest I am.

If I had ever had an experience involving my bum hole and anything flammable, you would have definately heard about it by now.

Move on whoever you are, move on, but seriously, good luck in all of your endeavours.

And one last one?

For the person that actually typed in the Mammywoo search box yesterday

‘Do hippos have knees?’

I can confirm that yes.

I do.

And yes.

I am also ‘A bit of a dog who wears big pants and likes cash.’

Oh actually…

That last one was probably just The Irish One again.

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?

Your Moose or Mine?

Apparently if you give a Swedish moose an apple it gets drunk.

I have never given a Swedish moose an apple firsthand, but I believe this to be true because a Swedish person told me it was true, so it must be.

According to this Swedish person, who isn’t called Inga, this happens because the apple ferments in the moose’s stomach, and if you happen to be in Sweden near an apple tree and a moose, at the right time and you look out of your window (presuming you also have a window,) you can watch in sheer awe (I would be in awe anyway) as hammered moose’s (moosei?) drunkenly bounce off trees, knock over lampposts and generally behave like you would expect Swedish drunk mooses to behave.

(I believe it is only British moose’s that ask for kebabs, make drunken phone calls to their ex moose’s (moosei?) and hang their high heels off their antlers on the cold walk home, but this may not be a fact so you may want to check it with the British Moose tourist board before telling anyone else. Or not. You know. Your choice. Whatever.)

This all happens because the moose ate an apple.

They must know, (the moose) from trial and error I imagine, what the outcome of eating an apple will be, and yet, they still eat them.

Maybe they continue to eat them because basically, they want to and they actually know what they like? And who’s business is it but theirs really anyway?

(Unless it is always different moose’s eating the apples? But how many moose can there actually be in Sweden? I didn’t get in to this with the Swedish person but I am assuming here, that a moose, lets call him Tony for the purpose of this example, will go out, sink twenty apples, get steaming drunk, knock over a tree, manage to get home somehow, although he has no recollection of it, and wake up the next morning moosificantly hung-over, swear he is never eating an apple again, but then when all his moose friends invite him out again, he eventually goes back to the apple farm and starts the cycle all over again. I mean, I’m no David Attenborough but come on! How different from humans can they actually be? The moose is called Tony!)

Anyway, last week I bought new boots. Sensible thick soled boots. Boots I wouldn’t usually be caught dead in but I bought them anyway because in all honesty I was getting a bit sick of people telling me to be careful I didn’t fall when they saw me carrying Addison in my normal 7 inch stilettos.

Cause and effect at its most simplest, people.

Someone tells me not to fall, so I think I need flat shoes. Because they must be right! I DON’T HAVE MY OWN MIND!!! I shouldn’t be wearing high shoes, mothers don’t wear high shoes, I’m a bad mother… yada yada yoda…Anyway…

Yesterday, while wearing these new boots, carrying Addison out of the doctors office, texting my other half to tell him Addison was fine, feeding Addison an apple and generally multi-tasking like only a mother can, I fell absolutely antler over tit and ended up sliding about a mile down a gravel hill, using my face as a break pad to slow us both down to a grinding halt.

My phone screen is smashed, my shoulder may or may not be sticking out of my spinal chord at a jaunty angle, my wrist is refusing to cooperate with the rest of my body and my face looks like something the dog actually dragged in, across sandpaper.

Addison has a small bump on his head but testament to my thrill seeking two year old, the moment we slid to a bumpy stop and I had spat out a mouthful of stones and dust, twisted around to see how he had come off, half expecting the passersby’s observing to be holding up score cards, such was the magnitude of my Olympic dive, he gave me a toothy grin, burst out laughing and shouted, and I quote ‘again again! Mama, again! Funny mama!’

Meanwhile I lay on the floor in the middle of the road, like a hung-over moose, groaning and moaning and swearing to never wear flat shoes again.

I like wearing high shoes. I am aware of the potential risks, why can’t I trust myself to make my own decisions?

I’m not sure what the full point of this post was. I did, but it’s gone.

Basically, I guess, some things are inevitable? Like learning lessons the hard way?

Maybe I should trust my own judgment not the opinions of others?

My son is mental?

Sweden sounds like a cool place?

I need more sleep?

My medication is too strong?

You decide. I can’t make up my mind.

But I do want a pet moose.

And an apple tree.

I know that much.

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.

I’m like, totally Vulnerable. (Are you?)

My legs are hairy.

Like really hairy.

Like hairy where you aren’t sure if there is actually skin under there anymore of whether you are slowly morphing in to a gorilla woman from the caves of the Outer Hebredi jungle. (Which is somewhere near north wales, according to my Sat Nav.)

The Irish one hasn’t noticed, which basically tells me one of two things.

Either he secretly has a penchant for cave women with furry shins, or it has been far too long since he got up close and personal with my knees.

Probably a bit of both to be honest.

But anyway.

I am telling you this because apparently, according to my therapist, I have this affliction where apparently, I put myself down in front of people and then laugh it off, because apparently I have this fear they will do it, and so if I get in there first and then I do hear an interject, I think it will be easier for me to shrug off.

Are you following?

An interject, just in case you aren’t aware (I wasn’t) is when somebody will say something to you like;

‘Oooo you look like you’ve lost weight!’ and even if you know it not to be the case, you automatically believe it, as why in the hell would somebody say it if it wasn’t the case?

Which is great if people tell you are skinny all the time (and like me, you then allow yourself a big mac on the way home, cos its put you in such a great mood and you feel positively waif like) but not so great if someone says something like, oooo, I don’t know….

‘You are over sensitive.’

And you laugh it off, cos you know you’re not.

You know you aren’t.

But… and this is the bastard thing about interjects… while washing the pots an hour later….you catch yourself…

Am I? Am I? Am I over sensitive? Am I over sensitive?

…You even put the sponge down for a minute while you have a proper think…

‘I must be. I must be!! Otherwise, why would they have said it, if it weren’t the case? Oh my god I’m over sensitive! I am such a dick!’

You knew at the time you weren’t… but… the sneaky interject… it creeps up on you…

And by the time you have washed the knives and forks (that he ‘forgot’) you have ultimately and concretely decided nothing is ever allowed to upset you again, because that person was right!!!! And you just need to get a grip.

Once upon a time…3 days later…

You are in a great mood, but then, out of no where, while you are busy thinking about how you may shave your legs tonight and maybe if he is very very lucky, the Irish one may get some, Tom the office plank walks over and…

‘What’s up with you today misery guts?’

… ‘Hey planky Tom!’ you respond, averting your eyes ‘No, I’m not miserable! I’m having a great day thanks!’ you sing as you walk away, muttering ‘dickhead!’ under your breath for good measure…

And fighting the sneaky interject…

You know you aren’t miserable; you even have lipstick on today!!!

But…an hour later, after one other person, who you actually like, has said something similar…

You put down your pen and..

‘Do I? Do I look miserable? DO I? Do I look miserable? AM I miserable?’

…You even go to the toilets to get a look at yourself in the mirror to check…

‘Oh my god!’ you think to yourself, ‘I do look miserable! I thought I looked ok today but I really do look miserable. I must do! Because why would they have said it, if it simply weren’t the case?’

And there you were thinking you were feeling great!

The sneaky interject, it creeps up on you…

By the time you get back to your desk, you have plastered on a fake smile so bright, you look like the village idiot and unsurprisingly… you are starting to feel completely and utterly miserable.

Shocking right?

Either I am completely weak… or I am not the only one life has this annoying effect on?

Hellloo?

Oh god.

I hope I’m not the only one.

So what was I saying?

Yeah!

Even if I am the only one!

It’s ok! Cos I have a plan!! I can beat the interjects!! (And I sincerely hope you join me!)

Basically, by telling you I have hairy legs (and have my hair tied up with a pair of knickers right now – god the Irish One is one lucky man) I am essentially guarding myself from interjects by not putting myself down, but by being honest and proud!

I am proud of every one of my crispy, stubborn hairs! (Honest…)

Apparently I should have gotten to know myself well enough over the last 32 years that only I, Lexy Ellis, should be able to control my own mind.

And I need to share with you my vulnerable side so that I get more comfortable with human contact (blah cringe blah) and ward off others controlling me.

So with that in mind… I share with you some therapy… honesty… cringe, cringe, cringe…

I am miserable but no longer psychotic. (DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME ON THIS ONE!) But sometimes I wish I still were psychotic, because when I was, everyone left me alone except when they brought me cups of tea. Now no one ever brings me cups of tea anymore. I miss that.

I hate shaving my legs and this makes me a bad mother. (Look I don’t know why ok? I just think if I was a good mother I would probably want to shave my legs more often, but I don’t… how do you get over the knee without slicing yourself? It’s a nightmare! Scabby knees aren’t sexy!!)

I am curvy and I love it (but call me fat and ill cry for a week…. Ok a month, maybe a year.) Ok, I don’t love it. Sometimes I wish I were really thin, but only so I could eat my way back up to a size 16.  Why do Diam bars taunt me so?

I can’t stand people who hurt others by telling nonsensical and cruel lies. Sometimes when somebody hurts me, I sing nasty songs to him or her really loud in the car and picture myself being interviewed on the telly about it. It’s actually fun. ‘No Oprah, I believed her completely, until I found out she thought I was a mug.’

I am all talk. Except when I am thinking, and then mostly I am analysing. Like, could someone actually swim to America from Blackpool? And, if I eat a donut and keep my eyes shut, maybe my hips won’t notice. And, did they really walk on the moon, or was that a cow in the background? What will Addison look like when he is 21? Will they ever invent a self filling car that doesn’t need petrol?

I love my son. And it scares the living shit out of me, because if anything ever happens to him, and he gets stolen from me, I will stop breathing.  I will actually fold from the outside in. The thought of this happening sometimes makes me want to die. Sometimes I wonder if this feeling is worse than the possibility of perhaps not having ever felt anything for him at all. Love is terrifying to me.

When I was younger somebody stole an important part of me. One day I will tell them this. I will be brave.

I suffer with clinical depression brought on from postnatal depression brought on from a life of not knowing I was missing something.

I AM NOT ASHAMED.

Right now, I am trying to think about me. It’s really hard! (See how I snuck the real stuff in there? DONT MENTION IT!! PRETEND IT DIDNT HAPPEN!!! ARGHHHH I HATE BEING VULNERABLE!)

I hate interjects, because one way or another, I usually end up believing them, but from today, I will try really hard not to.

I am a good mum. What I lack in money I have in love.

I am kind, friendly and loving.

Occasionally I am psychotic.

I take no sugar in my tea and love a nice chocolate biscuit…

Ahem.

I’d Say No Anyway…Honest. (I wouldn’t… or would I?)

I sometimes wonder, usually late at night when I am unable to sleep, due to too much caffeine and too little romantic pillow talk (last night we discussed the origins of the humble sprout, apparently they originated in Ireland, like most things) if it is likely I will be married before my face starts to resemble a walnut.

At the rate the Irish one gets around to things (faulty light switches, smoke alarms and fixing the washer) probably not, which unfortunately can only mean one thing.

Botox. (And no clean clothes for months.)

These are the thoughts that tumble across my skull as I toss and turn in bed trying to ignore the (Irish) snoring and disregard the tugging from my darker self, willing me to lie there and regret everything I have ever done in my life.

Insomnia ain’t nice especially when your insomnia taunts you, so while lying there the other night regretting a cake I made, which gave everyone the most god almighty shits, when I was 17, I decided to try and coerce my brain in to thinking about something a little more pleasant.

Inadvertently, because of this, as the nights have turned in to days, and then back in to nights, my wedding plans have taken flight.

The one small snag being, he hasn’t asked. Yet.

But it is ok, as I have decided, that if and when he finally gets around to dropping to one knee, (Yes, my proposal is planned too) if my face looks like a gnarled tree, I will allow myself some Botox.

I do believe in growing old gradually and of course, I do believe in growing old gracefully. (Although I also love Donatella Versace for her complete denial of the passing of time. If I had her money, my belly button would already be a chin dimple. Believe me.)

I completely believe though, that lines can make women look beautiful, they tell a story, they show laughter, they show pain, they show immense strength but most of all, to me, they show courage.

A life being lived.

But, soppiness aside, here is the issue I currently have.

I seem to have caught some sort of era ignoring condition, which is making me grow old before my time.

I am only 32 but on some days I am sure people in the street assume I am Addison’s grandma.

Hell, on some days I feel old enough to be his grandma. (And the stoop doesn’t help I suppose. It’s that bloody pram though. It’s too low! And seriously? Car seat in the back? With the weight of this child? My back in in bits!! Never mind looking like a walnut as I walk down the aisle! I will need a Zimmer soon!)

It may be conjunctivitis, this condition, as according to my not very proficient GP, it does seem to be, as my eyes are all swollen and puffy.

(What is it with Gp’s these days? Are they so scared of being sued they now refuse to diagnose? Excuse me Dr. Quack; ‘I seem to have a baby coming out of my bum, could I be in labour?’ ‘Well you certainly seem to be!’ Ergh!)

It may be called Lazy-itis too, according to the Irish one, as some days I do wear the same clothes from the day previous due to (THE BLOODY WASHER STILL BEING BROKEN!) Tiredness.

But if I were to be completely honest, and I usually am, I actually think the condition I have definitely caught causing me to look less yummy mummy and more scummy granmummy has been with me a lot longer than the last few weeks.

It started around the same time the postnatal condition I have suffered with, did. (I.e.; Post NATALLY.)

68 hours in to labour, the Irish one ready to take a blunt fork and perform an impromptu caesarean section at my sweary, teary, insistence, noticed a shock of my hair, right at the back, had turned completely white.

Since then, my natural highlights, as I like to call them, have been coming thick and fast, even hair dye doesn’t cover them. (Spray paint does.)

Since being hospitalized, Eczema has ravaged, chomped and chewed my poor fingers away to that of a 90 year old, dashing my dreams of being a hand model, and the only way I can hide the bags under my eyes is by touching them up with black makeup, so it looks like they are part of my look.

As if I still have a look. (Dodgy old rocker is what I seem to be pulling off these days… is it me? Or does that sound rude?…moving on… )

I really don’t know what the condition is, but every time I look at my face in the mirror, I seem to have grown another crevice.

The last one to materialise runs right across my forehead from left to right, (or right to left, if you are Japanese) and after a few minutes of screaming, for the first time in my life, I flirted with the idea of a fringe, before I Google searched face lifts and affordable on a shoe string surgical enhancement.

Botox of course, being a much safer option than a fringe in the Irish One’s opinion.

His reasoning being that my chin is too big for a fringe, (nice huh?) and the effects of Botox, should it all go “awfully” wrong and I end up with shelf at the top of my face, wouldn’t last long enough for it too make too much of a negative impact and hey! At least he would have somewhere to rest his brew while I was…

Who was it that said romance was dead?  (Oh and FYI? That NEVER happens.)

Yes ladies and gents, this is the man I want to marry.

And yes, questioning his motives for our relationship, green snot pouring from my eyes, face all bright red and wrinkly from an hour in the bath and my knickers holding my hair back, I am probably doing myself no favours.

But I want to know you know?

Its not that I don’t already think I will be stuck with him, enjoying his company until death do us part anyway, and it isn’t that I plan on leaving him if he doesn’t propose soon, it’s just…

It’s just…

I need something to think about (Read; stare at in the form of diamond) at night instead of the long days ahead.

And er, yeah, I suppose I love him.

I didn’t dream of a wedding as a little girl, in fact I never believed in marriage until recently, I just never thought it could work, that a legal piece of paper with your names on it could ever or would ever make a difference to the inevitable. (That you break up, hate each other and unsuccessfully plot each other’s deaths at least twice a year, from a far, for the rest of your lives…. In case you were wondering, my parents don’t get on.)

But now, after 18 weeks of therapy, 132 stiches in my vaganzza, a year of absolute hell and the love still going strong… (ish)… despite all infrequent ups and soul destroying lows, I want the bloody fairytale all the Disney films promised me.

I actually believe we could have it, check me out, I believe in love.

(You can stick your fingers down your throat now, it is ok, I am.)

We’ve had our bit with the villains, as far as I am concerned, and now I want a great big flipping dress, a teary declaration of our love, and a baileys fountain that you dip chocolate in.

I want to thank him, for everything he has supported me through, as he really has, by giving him a promise I will be around to enjoy our future.

And I want a hen night/hen world tour. (I will be honest, most nights this is what I can be found planning. Rio De Janiero, Australia for 6 weeks and Route 66 have all been on the ‘When I finally win the lottery and finally get married/ Hen night’ list.)

I want a party and I want to be able to say I have been committed in to something other than a mental house.

I want him. (Even if he doesn’t fix the washer.)

So married ladies, help me out here please.

Do I need to stop wearing my trackies to bed and bitching about his razor being on the floor? (AGAIN!!!!!!) Do I need to start cooking steak and giving him a foot massage? Do I need to plaster my face with make up every day and hold my trumps in again? Do I need to avoid onion breath and change Addison’s every bum, while chasing his every whim and making his dreams come true? Do I need to start allowing him to have a poo while I am in the bath? (In the toilet, just to clarify, turns out there is a limit, and that would be mine!!!)

Whatever it takes, I will do it, (within reason!) as I have spent the last few weeks planning this between the hours of 10pm and 5am.

The longer it takes the more outlandish it is becoming, so really, more fool him.

Brazil at sunrise, is where I currently am, him wearing a toga, me looking like a brazilian goddess (courtesy of Tantastic in Bolton!) and believe me I am completely focused on getting the party of my dreams!!!

I mean man.

Of course, hahaha, I mean man.

But just in case, it takes longer than planned…

How much is Botox and does anyone have Donatella’s number, or a winning lottery fund they want to share?

(Route 66 would be a hoot girls, marriage or no marriage!!)

*The condition seems to be known by most as;  Mother (posh mum, still harassed as child will only use this when child wants something.) Mom (American mum.) Mommy (Still American mum- and yeah I’m still jealous.) Mum, (Stop drinking cold tea immediately and get me what I need!!) Mummy (Dogs body but loved.) Motherhood (film.) Motherhood (makes you look gnarly, and not in a cool surfer way.)

See this woman? She is 18.

She is beautiful, there is no denying that, but maybe, just maybe, she should have kept her trumps in a bit longer, much like me.

No ring on has she?

I’ll invite her on our girls trip. She deserves it.

Separation, Desperation and a Broken Washer.

This weekend I am home alone.

Which is why when the washing machine decided to go on an unscheduled sabbatical to an ashram somewhere in the West Indies (or somewhere equally as laid back as it has clearly decided life in my kitchen is too stressful) I took matters in to my own hands and decided to call a man to get it fixed.

‘Hello? Is this A1 Fixing Stuff?’

‘Yeah’ (yawn)

‘My washer is broke can you come fix it please?’ (Furrowed brow at the lack of his professionalism.)

‘Yeah what’s your address?’ (Creepy scream voice followed by another yawn.)

I gave it to him. (Thinking I probably shouldn’t be, and yawned back.)

‘Are you home alone?’

‘Eh?’ (Concerned now.)

‘I mean, will you be home about 2? I will bring a colleague with me.’

At this point, as he began to sound like Dial a Danger, and I seriously began worrying that I had called 1-800 porno handy men, it was the way he said colleague, I instantly got visions of them turning up ‘We are here to fix your washer missis!’ wearing dungarees and carrying huge…. anyway, I changed my mind about letting him come (stop it) and decided not to get murdered while the Irish one was away.

‘You know what?’ I gushed kicking myself for divulging my address so freely ‘My husband who plays rugby and just got back from passing his black belt exam at kick boxing, just managed to fix it, thanks anyway!’

And I hung up, to the sound of his disgruntled goodbye’s before wondering why I thought it would be ok to invite a random ‘handy man’ off the internet, in to my home, to have a good nosy at the inside of my flat, while there is only me and my wobbly belly and no jujitsu training available here, just because he had advertised he was ‘handy.’

He may not have been a murderer (he wasn’t listed as one, I checked, although I am not sure murderers list themselves as murderers to be honest, as I would imagine if they did, they wouldn’t get much work) but I couldn’t take the chance.

I am too busy to be murdered this weekend.

And honestly think of the mess? I have only just mopped up the last crime scene. (Doodle. Need I say more? Would it be wrong to use a champagne cork to … never mind. I am pretty sure it would be, and the last thing I need as well as a murderer and a porn star on my door step is the RSPCA.)

So when I say home alone, I mean in the most obvious sense.

I will be completely alone, to behave as I please, to make decisions as I see fit, to run naked, wobbly and free in a meadow of long grass shouting ‘I’m free, I’m finally freeee!’ (If I so chose), while both the teething child that never lets go of my leg, and the Poodle with the leaky anal cyst, trail behind me wondering what time dinner will be served at, and at any point will we be considering leaving the house?

When I get hungry and No.

So not completely alone (for all you killers out there.)

But as alone as I am going to get at this juncture.

And I lied when I told the handy predator from A1 Fixing Stuff that I had a Husband. I don’t. I have an Irish One. But we aren’t married, choosing instead to live in sin for a couple of years while he decides if I am worth it or not.

(I ripped my arse open the day before your birthday and delivered you a healthy (ish) son for god sake!! What more does a girl have to do around here!!! Buy me a bloody ring! I don’t care how they do it where you are from, but where I am from, when a girl rips her bumhole open in the name of love, you buy her a new ring!! A new ring with diamonds on!!)

He is from Dublin, the Irish one, in case you were wondering, as I have been for the last 3 years, (I swear he said he was from Cork!) and has asked me to tell you that he would be more than happy to regale you with stories about the potato famine, about how his country have suffered at the hands of my country (Spain??) for trillions of years, and how amazing the floozy in the Jacuzzi is (not me on this occasion) anytime you want.

(May I suggest this as a viable solution to insomnia? It has worked wonders for me honestly, I had to call him every night from the mental institution due to the fact none of the anti psychotics they prescribed were nearly as effective as re-living the last 20 years of Irelands history again, so if you struggle to sleep, give him a call.)

*Just to be clear here, I am not and never will slate Ireland, or their history. I love the country and I adore the people, I just liken it to the first time I watched toy story and loved it, but by the millionth time, I was ready to rip my eyes out, take to my ears with a rusty knife and feed all four of them to the dog. The same rule applies here.

I have to admit though, as much as I will miss the romantic pillow talk I usually have to endure really enjoy about moldy potato’s and some bloke who signed a piece of paper that started a revolution a few decades ago (or something) and how to make Coddle (Boiled sausages, chicken cuppa soup, Oxo cube) I am actually really looking forward to this chance to do the lone living mum thing. (And have the remote all to myself for a full three nights!)

Even though I am not used to being home alone, so am a bit creeped out, Addison isn’t feeling very well so I will probably need some assistance in the night and we will be wearing the same clothes for the entire weekend due to the lack of my desire to be snuffed out, dowsed in hot oil and extinguished (or however ‘handy’ murderers do these things- I don’t know, it wasn’t listed) from not having the washer fixed and some random in Salford now knows where I live and that I am probably alone, and actually, (shit I really didn’t think this post through) now all you lot know that I am alone too, I am still going to try very hard to be carefree and enjoy the experience.

I am having pizza for tea. (Just in case you wanted to drop round. You may as well. You all know where I liiivvvveee (creepy scream voice.)

I am about to watch Drop dead diva and then I am going to have an early night ready for another full day of picking up, putting down, picking up, putting down ADDISON DECIDE WHAT YOU WANT FROM MUMMY!!! Doodle please clench those furry bum cheeks until mummy can open the back door, DOODLE NO!!! NOT ON THE RUG!! OH FOR THE LOVE OF… and maybe just maybe, if Addison is feeling well enough, I may be able to escape the house for a couple of hours and watch a good friend of mine get married.

Ahh another wedding.

Always a guest, never the bride…I wonder when it will be my turn…. She didn’t even have to tear her anus for her fiancée to propose, now that is real love.

Are you listing over there in Ireland?

Hello?

Shit.

What was that noise?

Oh my GOD, IS THAT A SPIDER?

IRISH ONE COME HOME!!! I want to know more about the potatoes… I don’t mind living in sin, honest!!!

Hello?

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘Yes who is this? I would rather have a husband to be honest but who is this? Why do you want to know?

‘Because I wanna know who I am looking at…’

ARGHHHHHHHHHH QUICK DOODLE POO ON THE MURDERER! POO ON THE MURDERER!

An Eye for an Eye. (An Eye Related Post.) …Eye.

My son permanently sleeps with one eye open.

I assume this isn’t because he doesn’t trust me and his father not to steal his worldly possessions from out under him (snot encrusted Spot the dog puppet, nah your alright you keep it) while he dozes, or because he doesn’t trust me not to do a runner during the periods he tentatively grabs 14 winks (I have to be honest, I have considered it) but because in fact his palpebral portion of the orbicularis oculi muscle covered with skin on the superficial, anterior surface and lined with conjunctiva on the deep, posterior surface; (eye lid) is, according to his father, a little bit like his mother.

Lazy.

(I’m not going to try and deny it, I am, I hold my hands up. I am lazy. When I get chance that is, in between putting eight washes on a day, bathing the dog, cleaning up poodle poop, cleaning up baby poop, washing the dishes, hoovering the carpet 26 times an hour (spam me Dyson, spam me!) Drying the dishes, making a bottle, frying fish, slow cooking curry, ironing baby clothes, putting on another wash, dancing to Thomas the tank engine, reading Thomas the tank engine, making Thomas the tank engine pasta, coaxing the monster to eat, making a cup of tea and forgetting to drink it, getting my head around going back to work (for a rest!) Overcoming post natal depression and putting another wash in for good measure that is. Yeah-Irish one, Lazy is what I am. Most definitely Lazy. Grr…)

Anyyyywayyy, back to the point.

Addison has always slept with one eye open. Ok, maybe open is a slight exaggeration of the event, perhaps a jar, Addison sleeps with one eye somewhat a-jar would probably be closer to the truth here.

However, unlike most freaky night zombie types who sleep with the whites of their eyes on show, snoring like a bear and resembling the living dead (Irish One – sexy!), when it comes to Addison you can absolutely still see his pupil bobbing about underneath his lashes and occasionally, just occasionally, if he falls asleep on the sofa and I am tip toeing around ‘pretending’ to clean, I would swear blind he is watching me.

Yes. My son sometimes falls asleep watching Upsy daisy messing about with Iggle Piggle on the tele. Should we move on? I’m an honest mother, who on occasion will allow this to happen as I’m sorry Supernanny, spending 25 minutes coaxing him down for a nap when he is overtired, is impossible when the dog walks in from outside with shit dripping down to his doggy ankles. I am not American (much to my disappointment), I cannot afford for you to visit me and show me the ‘technique’ and unfortunately my poodle isn’t known for having the best digestive anal tract. Explosive would be a word I would probably use here, and if I had the choice between Jo frost and Ceaser Milan, unfortunately for us, I would have to choose Ceaser.

(Oh to be the leader of a pack, that is my dream. Any pack will do.)

But anyway, back to the point.

When I was a kid, me and my best friend Kate used to live in each other’s pockets, our mothers wouldn’t hesitate to tell both children off for being disrespectful, if need be, and on the odd occasion, should we behave atrociously we would receive a healthy smack. (Big deal. I mean, I won’t smack Addy, because times have changed but back in the day? A smack was really not a big deal. Which is probably why we were such little gits, but anyway.)

One Friday afternoon as we arrived home from school, both of us excited over the 48 hours of freedom about to follow, her mother called us in to the kitchen.

‘Kate’ she said ‘Aunty Barbara bought you a new cabbage patch poster, I put it up earlier for you, go and have a look.’

We absolutely loved the cabbage patch kids so both of us thundered up the stairs breathlessly anticipating our favourite dolls cavorting and smiling down at us from the small amount of wall space belonging only to us.

(Just while we are on the subject of stairs, do you remember those stairs with the gaps in between them, just big enough to hang your legs over so you could dangle upside down? She had those types of stairs in her house and I was always so jealous. Until, that is, on one fateful Sunday, her mum had come rushing down the stairs dressed up to the nines and heading for church. We, also dressed in our Sunday best, had grown a little bored of waiting so had decided to partake in a small game of stair gymnastics. He mother unfortunately failed to notice, in her haste, my precariously placed shins holding me up from the other side, and proceeded to stand directly on to them and fall four feet on to a concrete floor flat on her face (farmhouse flooring, outfit ruined, hat flattened.) Meanwhile I was also horrendously concussed after falling heavily directly on my head due to the shock of having her Sunday best stiletto pierce my shin bone and was lying on the floor in a heap cursing the day church was invented. (I hated going to church.) The bollocking, and subsequent remodeling of the staircase, ensured we never played stair Olympics again. Shame really.)

Anyway, arriving in her room that fateful Friday, unharmed, animated and eager we were appalled to find, it wasn’t actually a cabbage patch poster.

It was a garbage pail kids poster.

If you don’t remember the difference, I seriously urge you to check on Google, or Bing, or Wikipedia, or even ‘Toys that should never have been made.com’ and feel our genuine horror for yourself.

This horrendous doll, grimacing down at us, was elegantly placed in the midst of a large dustbin tip, with a huge gash down the side of its face, and stiches holding it’s head together. In the background, 3 other garbage pail dolls were dressed in black, injuries adorning every inch of their bodies and were looking decidedly annoyed, at no doubt being rejected from the cabbage patch. (With good reason!!)

How anybody could have confused the two, still to this day, is beyond me.

After an hour of begging her mum to take it down, the requests falling on deaf ears due to the impending visit from aunty Barbara later that evening, we were forced in to heading back to her room and changing out of our school clothes and in to our ‘weekend attire.’

‘When aunty Barbara gets here girls, be sure to shower her with thanks, these posters aren’t cheap.’ Was her parting shot.

Thanking Aunty Barbara through clenched teeth however, was not the problem.

The problem in fact was that the Garbage pail dolls seemed to be focused on us no matter what corner of the room we were pressed ourselves in to.

Their hollowed out dark circular eyes would follow us no matter where we attempted to hide.

I got changed behind the bed, repeatedly checking they couldn’t spot my naked torso, and kate, in the wardrobe, constantly calling out for me not to open the door.

‘I won’t!’ I had shouted back ‘I couldn’t anyway, I am half naked and they are still staring at me!!’

Horrific.

Also back when torture really was only being allowed one biscuit after dinner, whenever we were ordered by our parents to ‘clean this pig sty up before I pick all your toys up and throw them in the bin’ (yeah right) we would always clean up in slow motion.

Like what we had observed the gorgeous women, falling for their gorgeous men doing, in the many TV movies we weren’t supposed to be watching.

This became our tradition. Any mundane task that needed to be completed, we would complete in slow motion, pretending our hair was blowing in the wind and collapsing in to giggles every five minutes.

Picture two nine year olds washing up while humming Harold Faltermeyer’s one famous track (the tune from Top Gun) and you have yourself a winning combination. (Albeit a slow one.) I really do wonder how her mother didn’t kill us from frustration.

This brings me nicely back to my point, eventually.

Yesterday morning my son fell sound asleep, after a morning of creating havoc, one eye energetically lolling about, on the living room sofa in front of Chuggington, while I was busy lazily washing up last night’s dishes from the casserole The Irish one made, and I didn’t eat.

(What pointed remarks? I have no idea what you are referring to, I really don’t.)

As I wandered back in from the kitchen singing the Irish one’s praises and not for one moment cursing the day we chose a wine rack over a dishwasher (what were we? STUPID?) I realised that I probably needed to do some quiet underfoot damage control before he woke up.

Sod it, I thought, looking at him asleep, on eye focused directly on to me, reminding me of times gone by spent with my eldest friend, I will clean up in slow motion, it’ll be quieter.

I was busy texting Kate advising her of just how far over the edge I had fallen, giggling to myself like an idiot, and imagining Tom Cruise aiding me to clear up all manner of boy toy type paraphernalia, all the while my little angel, was fast asleep beside me.

Much later, after I had successfully managed a decent bru, he woke up, got everything back out again, played all afternoon and I forgot all about it.

This afternoon, however, as I motioned for us to clean up before either of us fell arse over tit on a discarded Buzz light-year, Woody doll or heavily made up Jessie doll (marker pen, 3 minutes not watching. Carnage) Addison began to behave in the most peculiar way.

It took me a few moments, staring at him, feeling the colour drain from my face, the full horror of the situation taking a while to sink in, to decipher that he was in fact, cleaning up in slow motion (!!!!) collapsing in to uncontrollable giggles every time he moved an object.

There is no way, at the age of 18 months, he has ever watched Top Gun (much to my dismay), so what the Flying fu…???

I have clearly birthed an evil genius.

I am genuinely quite perplexed.  (As well as thrilled he now seems to be more interested in cleaning up after himself. (Maybe he could teach his dad a thing or… what??? I’m just saying is all? Jeez. Touchy.)

But yeah, from now on?

No more sleeping on the sofa.

If he unwittingly saw me cleaning up slowly, laughing to myself like a maniac, he has definitely witnessed me doing ‘Coleen Nolan’s disco burn’ and much like the garbage pail kids, that is one thing a child of his age, should never be subjected to.

From now on though, for the sake of my sanity, I will be the one sleeping with one eye on open for business.

You can just never be to sure with these little ones.

That’s if I ever get the chance to sleep again, that is.

The One That Broke The Camels Back.

I am currently inexplicably wedged in to an enormous brown leather armchair munching on a gigantic and sticky Starbucks caramel waffle, so although I feel for the main part, like a bit of a hog, (Starbucks sofa’s must be made for people who weigh nothing! I am actually sinking!) As the gooey caramel lodges itself between my teeth, all over my lips and down my front and while the crumbly biscuit exterior makes best friends with my inner thighs (currently fighting to push each other away and failing miserably) the writing of this post feels strangely apt.

I am about to ask you a question,

She says cocking her head to the side, trying to take on the role of nurturing therapist while continuously munching away and slowly descending in to the back of the couch with every bite, so that my feet are now at a 90% angle above me,

But I would like you to have a good think about this question, and all the possible responses you can imagine before answering.

Ok?

Here goes.

I am about to offer you one of my Caramel waffles.  Really, they are delicious, delectable, mouthwateringly gooey, appetizing, and scrumptious and completely calorie free.

Stay with me here.

They are the ultimate biscuit, a biscuit to rival all other biscuits in their category and you desperately want one. By the time I have finished showing you the full delights of the super tasty taste sensation, and by the time I have finished wafting it under your nose so you can smell the super sweet-scented smell sensation, you are so desperate for a bite you almost snatch my hand off.

And you can have it if you really really want it (a zig a zig ah) but as always in life, there is a catch.

Each and every time you take a bite of this waffle, the waffle you simply cannot imagine turning down at this point, for the disappointment would be too great, I am going to thump and twack you over the head with a bloody big stick I have been surreptitiously hiding behind my back.

(You may have to help me up first though. I think I am actually stuck. I am typing this laying completely flat on my back but still sat on a sofa… only at Starbucks…)

This is the scenario you find yourself in ok?

The waffle is sat on the plate in front of you, calling your name, willing you to have a lick, just a single, tantalizing lick, but out of your peripheral vision you can now see me stick in hand poised and waiting to twat you across the head with every munch you try to enjoy.

(I am a full on bitch in this scenario, I know this. And really I am ok with it.)

So what would you do?

Stop reading now please, look away from your screen if you have to, and deliberate.

What would you do?

I REALLY REALLY want (ah zig a zig ah) for you to have a little think about it. (Get them cogs a-turning folks!)

Last week, while I was still existing on the ward and before I came up for parole, and therefore release, I was asked this very same question.

I mulled it over for a full 7 days.

Arriving back in my support group this morning, the air thick with dismay and rising damp, I was the epitome of smug Sally Wanker. (There was a girl in my class called Sally Wanker. There really was… or maybe that was a nickname. I cant remember, but either way she was smug.)

‘I know what I would do James.’  I proclaimed to my therapist, plonking my bag down, taking a load off (quite literally, I had dressed for Antarctic adventures but somehow it was now 80% and snowing outside…what the hell is going on with our summer??? Anyway, I digress…) and whispering hello’s to the rest of the mentalists with no identity at all. ‘I totally, full on, know what I would do.’

‘I am assuming this is about the waffle Lexy, but before you tell me, and as you have asserted yourself to speak first (damn,) could you please tell me about your week, we have missed you around here, what has been going on for you?’

‘Not much’ I say, keen to get this out of the way and finally be able to give him my answer to Waffle-gate.

‘I notice you are wearing full make up today, including lipstick, that’s a change from the norm, what has been going on for you?’

‘Are you saying I look like a transvestite?’

‘Did it sound like I was saying that?’

‘No. But I think I look like a man.’

‘Ok.’ He smiles kindly ‘I don’t.’

‘I am also wearing Skinny jeans James. Have you noticed my ultra skinny Jeans? I thought I would look skinny in them, well at least that is the effect I was hoping for, but as it is, I can hardly breathe and you may think I am wearing deep purple lipstick James, but it is actually a lack of circulation to my upper reposotries, to be honest.’

‘Your upper what now?’ He asks, concern pushing through the joviality in his voice.

‘My upper reposotaries.’ I retort confidently.

‘Did you make that word up Lexy?’

‘A little bit yes.’ I smile.

“I am sensing that you are (completely mad) a little all over the place this morning, so let us start simple. Tell me one thing this week that made you smile secretly to yourself?’

‘My son.’

‘Stock response, something else.’

‘He did though.’

‘I am sure he did, what else?’

‘Well I smiled when I saw a beautiful friend, and felt truly content for the first time in a long while.’

‘Great but again, stock response, anything else? And really try to hear my question now. Please tell me one thing this week that made you smile TO YOURSELF SECRETLY.’

‘As in, is there something I am secretly proud of myself for?’

‘If you think that is what I meant, then yes.’

(FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!!)

‘I’m taking back control?’ I state, as if asking him permission for this to be true.

‘From who?’

‘Everybody.’

‘Who is everybody?’

The million-dollar question.

Who is everybody?

I know my answer to this, and I am sure in our own way, we all know our own answer to this.

Who shreds our confidence, who pushes our buttons and who do we have to fight to regain some of ourselves back? Each individual story is completely unique, but sometimes (and just to be completely enigmatic here) sometimes the person who commits all these heinous crimes against us, is us, Isn’t it?

Sometimes we need to take control back from ourselves, before we can even consider attempting to win it back from others.

I know I do.

How many times do I beat myself up with a big bastard stick? How many times over a 24 hour period, do I call myself incapable, stupid, fat, ugly, thick, not as good as that person over there, unhealthy, miserable, idiotic. The list is endless. And ok, I may not say them out loud. I may not say;

‘Hey Irish one, sorry I burnt your chips, it is because I am a thoughtless, worthless great big lump of wasted blood and organs ok?’

I may not say it out loud. But I think it.

I may not say;

‘Hey Irish one, please don’t look at me, or try it on with me or touch me because since having this baby my body is truly disgusting and the very thought of you touching it makes me want to curl up and die in shame. I hate myself and I would really prefer if you did too, thanks.’

I may not say it out loud. But I think it.

(I may actually try being honest next time, as I am quickly running out of excuses to not be intimate. Last night I literally told him I couldn’t, as there was a strong possibility of me having scurvy. Luckily, he has no idea what scurvy is, and I assume he imagines it to be a long the same lines as having thrush. Either way I got an early night so all’s well that ends well… Except it isn’t. Because I miss him, and I hate feeling like this… Damn houseboat. Anyway. )

I beat myself up constantly.

And not only that, I allow others to do it too, usually because I am in complete agreement with them.

I deserve to be hit with a huge stick while eating a waffle.

Don’t you?

‘Would you eat the waffle Lexy?’ James asks, eyes wide open.

‘Yes James, I would eat the waffle, I wouldn’t mind so much really,’ I pause for dramatic affect ‘the pain of being hit, because the waffle would be worth it.’

I state this sitting smugly in my bubble of insightful intuition I have learnt over the last three weeks.

He urges me to explain further.

‘I know now,’ I explain thoughtfully ‘after being here for three weeks, just how much pain and torment I can handle, it is nothing new. So the waffle would be worth it you see. Sometimes a small amount of discomfort is worth the enjoyment…’

‘Would you now,’ his eyebrows knot in intrigue ‘you would eat the waffle, are you sure?’

‘Yes. I would eat the waffle.’ (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!)

He is thoughtful in his silence, before looking at me once again and continuing.

‘You would eat the waffle, even while being hit with a great big cricket bat?’

‘Eh? I thought it was just a stick.’

‘Ok. Now it is a cricket bat. Would you still eat the Waffle?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if the immense pain the cricket bat was now causing, began to completely outweigh the enjoyment of the tasty waffle, then what would you do?’

‘I would run away with the waffle James.’ I roll my eyes wondering to myself why I didn’t think of this response sooner. Running with the waffle is the ideal solution. I would be burning off the calories immediately (mine isn’t calorie free) and would avoid being battered.

‘Both of your legs are broken. Would you still eat the waffle?’

‘Do I have a wheelchair to escape on?’

‘No! Would you eat the waffle?’

‘If I had two broken legs?’  (Is it me, or is this getting a little out of hand now? It’s a bloody waffle. They aren’t that nice!)

I sigh, ‘I would have probably given up on the waffle by now to be honest.’

‘So’, his turn to pause for dramatic effect ‘You would deny yourself the pleasure of the waffle when it became too painful?’

‘Yes,’ I reply with a deep sigh ‘If you had broken both of my legs I would be most displeased as not only have I just bought new shoes, but I cannot eat when I am pissed off and although Starbucks waffles are delicious, I would not want my legs broken, so I would leave the waffle where it was.’

I am aware that I am waffling (no pun intended) but when I stop he urges me to go on.

I falter slightly before believing I finally grasp what he is getting at and ploughing on with what I deem to be his revelation full steam ahead ‘because some pleasure isn’t worth getting hurt for is it? I wanted the waffle, you offered me the waffle, but it isn’t worth the pain, so leaving the waffle seems the perfect solution. Even though I miss out on what I wanted…’

He smiles slightly before leaning slowly back on his chair, not losing eye contact with me once.

I am completely confused.

Now I have said it out loud, that doesn’t seem right at all.

The room is deathly quiet.

‘Can I ask you something Lexy?’

‘Go for it.’ I say shitting myself now; sensing something important is about to happen.

‘Did you never consider, even for a moment, that you could just take the stick off me?’

I hadn’t.

‘…And eat your waffle in peace, with no pain, just enjoyment?’

I hadn’t.

Had you?

*This post was brought to you by Postnatal Depression. Finding the inner courage to take the stick away, personal insult by personal insult, believing in myself little by little and opening up and peeping from behind the wrought iron door, tiptoe by tiptoe.

‘Hey Irish one, I burnt your chips because I was busy being a brilliant mummy playing with Addison, and I set the oven a little too high. Ill bang some more in.’

Shit happens.

Want a bite of my waffle?

Sing a Song of Sixpence a Pocket full of Poo.

Today has played out very much like a Disney movie.

In actual fact, the story began very late last night, in an old gnarly flat just outside of Eccles, where an innocent young mother was sat stroking her poodle (is it me or does that sound rude?) and happily typing away.

Here, in the dead of night, we find our heroine happily slurping away on a cold cup of tea and chatting to her beloved laptop, which obviously (this being Disney and all) chats back in a terrible ‘I’ve got two plums rattling around my mouth’ English accent. (Fruit plums. This is Disney. Stop being rude.)

But, alas, like most naïve maidens in Disney movies (who are all thin, do not dip their fish cakes in full fat mayo and have perky boobs) I was completely unaware of the drama unfolding around me and completely oblivious to the fact that seemingly without my consent, I had been given the lead role in this creepy animated and random adventure.

I was just sat minding my own business on the, quite frankly, filthy sofa in my, quite frankly, messy, living room typing on my, quite frankly, ancient but very much-loved laptop preparing to indulge my readers with a dark and, quite frankly, horrendous secret I have been keeping locked away in my, quite frankly, flabby gut.

I had finished baring my soul with an exhausted sigh and was staring off in to the middle distance imagining the horrified reaction my sordid little secret would undoubtedly bring early in the morrow, while unbeknownst to me, in the hallway leading to the bedroom, Doodle the poodle (in true Disney style) had begun drumming his paws on to the laminate flooring in an attempt to create a more fairytale like ambience.

The dog was brewing this movie’s first song.

By the time I had shut the laptop down and was busy checking the windows in the living room were all locked, ensuring all murderers in the undergrowth remained murderous in the undergrowth for the night, Doodle Mc. Poodle was in full flow, throwing his legs about around him and preparing for his first verse.

As the hard done to heroine of this movie, obviously I was still completely oblivious to all this musical mayhem going on around me, and was just wandering through the methodical routine of getting ready for bed totally un perturbed by the fact my four-legged friend seemed to be doing jazz paws and the splits in front of me while I had a wee and took out my lenses.

‘Doodle,’ I admonished after blindly tripping over him, ‘stop farting around and let’s go to bed!’

I stumbled in to the bedroom just as the orchestra prepared for their final foreboding crescendo. The trumpets had built up to a deafening volume and when you coupled that with the sound of hundreds of doggy paws tapping on laminate, it was a wonder that the Irish one hadn’t woken up to the noise and decided to do a bit of river dancing. (I didn’t hear any of this, by the way, as it was all far too high pitched for my delicate ears, but evidentially that bitch next door heard it all and was only too pleased to come over and have a jolly good moan about it.)

‘Yergen flergen, what she doesn’t know…’Doodley poo sings stage right, his hundreds of poodle mirror images copying his every move behind him, creating the illusion that there are 76 poodles all wearing lederhosen in my hallway ‘ is that tomorrow is going to be a bugger, a bugger, a bugggggggeeerrrrrrrrr!’

I don’t know why they are wearing lederhosen. It just felt right.

And with that, the fair and gentle (read; clapped out and falling to bits) maiden (read; slave) gently layed her head down on to her plushy soft pillow (read; plonked her head down on no pillow due to little prince of doom also sleeping in the bed with her and having claimed all pillow material for himself) and fell in to a deep and peaceful sleep about the local squirrel’s doing the washing up (read; got up 3 minutes later after being booted in the nose, to find the Bonjela.)

Doodle, exhausted and sore after weeks of rehearsal, also gets in to his own spacious bed and falls in to a deep slumber, dreaming of Oscar nominations and walking Angelina Jolie down the red carpet.

Ok so you get the picture.

I am a Disney Heroine and basically, I had a shit day.

My trusted and most enjoyed companion, who we shall call Dick van dyke for the purpose of this post, died a horrible, horrifying and horrendous death.

He could turn himself on but his screen would stay blank. (Too many jokes not enough time.)

Steve at the Kingdom of PC, who in this scene is wearing a long black cape and has pointy vampire like teeth dripping in fake blood, is shockingly, not very sympathetic.

‘Your computer is buggered,’ he cackles meanly, while comedy creeping behind baby Addison who, in this scene is wearing nothing but an oversized nappy  ‘Do you want a bite of my tasty Apple (mac)?’

(And sleep for 100 years? I wish!!!!)

At the thought of this Addison spins around and stares at the heroine, who in this scene is now currently attempting to keep her butt crack hidden and wondering why she thought these jeans fit when she put them on this morning.

‘Waaaaaaaaaaa!’’ Addison screams in fright as he sees the vampire behind him with the apple (which he is allergic to nursery! ALLERGIC TO!) and immediately fills his nappy.

‘Waaaaaaaa!’ Screams Mammy, realizing she has left the changing bag in the house in her rush to get to the Kingdom of PC.

‘Waaaaaa!’ Screams Mammy, as she realizes she will no longer have a tool to write on and could possibly have lost 220000 words of her, slaved over hot coals for, novel. And,

‘I told her, I told her, she didn’t know but I told herrrrrr’ sings Doodle back in a flat somewhere in Eccles as his little doggy soul senses something is a miss with both Mammy and Addy back in central Manchester.

And that is it really. I am the heroine without a clue. Addison is the baby with ability to shit up his back on demand and Doodle really should consider running away with the circus.

My day was rubbish.

The end.

….But wait….. What is that I can hear? … Is that a tap, tap tapping?  Disney movies always have a happy ending! Quick pan back to the action! Pan back to the action!!

The maiden is sitting on the sofa again, staring at the TV and thinking violent thoughts about Mr. Tumble when, what is this?

Enter stage right The Irish one on a donkey (we couldn’t afford a white stallion…) he was also unable to find a suit of shining armor (even though I had told him on numerous occasions where it bloody was!) and all the tinfoil had been used for making bacon sandwiches earlier (and was still stinking out the oven even though I had asked him plenty of times to move it!) so he was wearing his one summer outfit instead, consisting of white pants a white shirt and some brown sandals.

‘Wait! Heroin!’ He called nonchalantly before remembering that one really shouldn’t shout a word like heroin out, at the top of ones voice, in a place like Eccles, and quickly changes his plea to ‘Wait, Lexy!’

I look up surprised at the sound of his voice from where I am sat on a my rock-like sofa scrubbing out poo from under my fingernails and see immediately he is incredibly proud of himself over something. (Maybe he has finally found the Allen key for the crib!!)

‘I,’ He proclaims, using his best knightly voice ‘bloody told you so!’

I sigh internally as I remember he did, he did tell me so, but then squeal in delight as I also remember he is a stubborn bastard and even though he looks suspiciously like Jesus on that donkey, that I do love him and he never takes no for an answer.

‘Did you actually use the external hard drive when I specifically told you not to?’ I scream up at him  hopefully while stroking the Donkey’s nose. (Again, is it me? or does that sound rude?)

‘Yes,’ he replies back cockily before suddenly coming over all camp. ‘Yes, I did. That crap, unimaginative and unromantic present I bought you last month, just saved your bacon didn’t it? In fact, I just saved your bacon, didn’t I?’ he says waving his hand about like Graham Norton. ‘I, the Most Irish of Ones, am a godsend! Say it! Say I am a godsend!’

‘flababagrablabab’ I mumble back ‘I think Prince Addison has woken up…’

‘SAY IT!’ he bellows as the donkey poops all over the carpet in shock. (Doodle missed all of this, he was on the internet next door searching for more opportunities on stage and screen. One taste of fame and he’s gone. That is one fickle pooch.)

‘Yes.’ I respond back looking up at him. ‘Yes, you Irish One of Irish background are quite possibly a flabaglabaraglab, and you definitely saved my bacon, even though there may still be some at the bottom of the oven…if you fancied some…because you haven’t cleaned it…’

And with that, the humble maiden, the stinky prince and the donkey riding disciple wannabe all rode off in to the sunset clinging on to the external hard drive (Stop being rude!!) and arguing over what to have for tea.

The end.

Except, much like lord of the rings (Except not, because I have no ring, because even though The Irish One likes it he has so far failed to put a ring on it…) it isn’t the end is it?

Because I am sat here typing this now aren’t I?

This story is to be continued… and there is a happy ending.

And no, I am still not telling you my sordid little secret today. I will save it for another day. Or maybe, I will never tell you.

Maybe Dick van Dyke was trying to warn me not to tell you, by taking his own life… (Stop thinking about his plums. Mary Poppins will hear you.)

Maybe, this maiden should stay quiet.

but stay tuned for;

Dick Van Dyke 2.  The return of Miss Woo. The happy ending. (Starring Doodle as cowboy tight rope walker.)

Tappety tap tap tap…