The cow, the club, and the crazy person.
Three things happened this week.
Well ok, that is not entirely true.
A million things happened this week, but I am not sure you would want to hear about me washing bottles one hundred and fifty times (my fingers are permanently wrinkled and I am permanently wet around the stomach area (messy washer/crap sink, you tell me) or the dogs runny bum ( I can’t spell diaherria, diahoreia, diahheria! Damn it!) or about the fact I burnt off half an eyebrow using the gas hob while cooking my son’s sausages. (First time I have ever made sausages ALL by myself! Mammy wow! I’m a big girl now! …Yes I am missing half an eyebrow and yes they were burnt but STILL! It’s progress!)
So I have whittled my week down to 3 significant occurrences for your reading pleasure.
1) I have decided to become a vegetarian again.
Back in the 1990’s (when I was young and carefree, had a flat tummy and my bits were still in working order) I never ate meat. I used to live permanently on salt and vinegar square crisps, diamond white and the odd packet of Macdonald’s fries. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a vegetarian per say. More, that as I grew up with my father (who’s idea of teaching me to cook was to get the take away menu out) I didn’t actually know how to cook meat, or have the inclination to do so. Plus. Being a vegetarian seemed funky and edgy at the time, and I had no money for take out’s.
Fast forward 12 years and I love a good steak sandwich. (I was veggie for five years until one night, after far too much diamond white, we visited the golden arches and I shoved a big Mac down my face by accident. I never looked back.
This week I visited Carlisle. I was outside my friend’s house popping some bits in the car when I heard an ear pinching screech. It sounded like a baby in a horrendous amount of pain. After sprinting in the house to ensure that Addy wasn’t being tortured (I didn’t think my friend was torturing him, just to be clear. I just thought maybe he had his fingers stuck in the plug hole again…) and was actually safe and sound, I went back outside, heart pounding, to lock the car.
I heard it again. Only this time it was louder and there seemed to be more babies. (It sounded like a thousand babies with their fingers stuck in plugs!) They were squealing and screeching in a way that made my heart break in to a million pieces. I stopped and cocked my head to the side and tucked my hair behind my ear (Because everybody knows this helps you hear better) and listened again, properly this time. Before long it started again. It was a truly soul sickening sound. It was the sound of fear and suffering.
Walking back in to the house I asked my friend if she had heard this awful racket coming from outside.
‘Hey, Kate – have you heard that screaming from outside? I think we should call the police or something.’
‘Yes, don’t worry. It’s just the local abattoir.’
After I had picked my jaw off the floor and got myself together a little (It doesn’t take much to put me on the cliff edge of breakdown these days) I proceeded down a line of questioning I knew I wasn’t going to like. (I should have just left it there! I can’t handle anything remotely upsetting at the moment. Why woman! Why did you continue? You are a glutton for punishment is what you are!…. Whispered the voices in my head amongst themselves… )
‘But they kill them humanely don’t they? They don’t even know what is going on? Why are they screaming? WHY for the love of god, are they howling?’
‘Well,’ she whispered confidentially ‘I, personally, think it is because they know what’s coming.’
And bang. I fell off the cliff. I fell off the cliff with such force I had to hold my heart in to my chest to stop it falling out. I couldn’t stop picturing mummy and daddy cows, and baby cows, and uncle David cows, all waiting for… knowing it was coming… knowing they were going to be big macs by the end of the week.
And Bang! (That wasn’t me shooting a cow.) I am a veggie again
I love sheep too much (not in an unhealthy way Jeez!) and for this reason I have never eaten lamb. I am not a cow lover, but I don’t think I will ever get the sound of those screams out of my head.
I will miss bacon though. But yeah. If I am going to do it, I may as well go the whole hog. (Ha! See what I did there?)
But I am not giving up prawns, just so you know. I could never give up prawns. Sorry Sean. (Sean is a prawn – he lives on my mantle piece, he is plastic. If he wasn’t plastic, I would eat him.)
(DISCLAIMER; I do not have any opinion on meat eaters, abattoir’s or anything else remotely argument inducing. This is a personal tale of woe and whether it is true or not. It is my tale. Please don’t take offense if you love a good steak sarnie. It is, what it is… and yes I will still feed my son meat.)
2) I realised in no uncertain terms, I am an in-betweener.
I had my first proper night out in what feels like years. I have been out before but not out out, if you know what I mean.
- I couldn’t wait to drink, laugh and chat.
- I couldn’t wait to eye up some totty. (Window shopping only!)
- I couldn’t wait to throw some shapes on a heaving, pounding, sweaty dance floor.
I really needed to feel young and free again, even if it was only for a few hours.
Don’t get me wrong! We had a fantastic night. A FANTASTIC night. (I didn’t get in until 4! I know!! 4am! Who knew I still had it in me? I keep telling anybody who will listen! 4AM that is! 4AM! And it probably would have been later! The only reason we had to leave when we did was because I had been dancing and had forgotten my inhaler and couldn’t breathe… oh god. I just lost all my cool points didn’t I?)
- I drank vodka cranberry with my chavvy nails, fake eye lashes and orange complexion shown off to the world! I was like a proud little umpa lumpa!
But as for eyeing up some totty?
The clubs were full of 18-year-old staggering, swearing and stinking spotty boys in half ripped shirts, swaying to some snoop doggy dog, imaginary beat while stinking of cheap over powering cologne, or very young, midriff baring, lycra clad, short skirt wearing, big haired, let’s get it all on display, let me pretend to give you a blowy (what’s that?) while dancing to some god awful, snoop doggy dog imaginary beat, all guzzling some cheap bottled alco pop, falling over on their heels, teenage girls. (Turns out they don’t do diamond white anymore either! The horror, the horror!)
The pubs were full of old men and women. And I don’t mean old like we are old. (You know, still young but slightly in denial) I mean old old. I mean men who are old enough to be my granddad and women who are old enough to be my auntie Florence. They were not sipping on gin and juice as snoop doggy dog had suggested in the last place (or wearing white lycra, thank god). But instead they were chatting in hushed tones while sipping on southern comfort (the men) and tea (the women. TEA! Tea I tell thee!) They were lovely people, and if I am honest, I was beginning to consider an earl grey myself. So we left before i started to use phrases like ‘the youth of today..’ and continued on in our hunt for a more suitable place.
The bars were full of the alternative (but still bloody young) crowd of kids, all cooing over their student loans and lack of funding while playing pool and admiring each other’s dress sense and originality. I will hammer this point home by telling you we actually saw Marty McFly in a more ‘trendy’ bar. He thought he was the dog’s bollocks, in his white high tops and life-preserver with his cap jauntily sat to the side on his head. The fact we found it hilarious and he had no idea who we were referring to… ‘HELLO HELLO MCFLY!!!’….hammered home, just how much I have aged in the last 10 years.
I am not old. But I am not young and alternative either, and I certainly can’t pull off (or on) Lycra! I am a mid-life mum who still wants to dance!
Suffice to say,
I am going to open a club.
There will be dancing and drinking and fun, for people like us.
The only rules on the door will be;
- No white Lycra or cheap cologne.
- No tea, unless you are driving. And even then it will be served in a cocktail glass.
- If you are thin, I am happy for you, but i still don’t want to see your midriff.
- Music on request at any point. (No classical, No hardcore techno.)
- If you are a woman, you get in free. (I don’t care if that’s sexist, Irish One! Us women have to endure labour. You’ve had your free pass as far is im concerned!
- If you want to dance like nobody’s watching, there are blindfolds behind the bar.
- There is a sleep room, for a quick nap, in the back. (No sex. We are British!)
- Tena lady and inhalers available on request.
- All bar men are friendly and know just what you need. (Not in that way! God you’re a dirty lot!)
We could offer a free babysitting service too! Get those door men multi-tasking!
Maybe Richard Branson could get involved! He has the kind of money that could really help.
Yes, yes! I will write to Richard Branson. I can see it now!! He and I could open the first Virgin mother club. I am sure he would be up for it. It is sure to make an absolute fortune, and after all, he has his fingers in so many pies? Why not put one in mine? (Oh god, that came out wrong… But you know what I mean!) I think this could be huge!! (Stop it!!)
We could even have those mirrors in the bathroom, they have at fun fairs! (But only the ones that make you look tall and thin.)
It would be the perfect place to go when you still have your baby weight and need a good boogie!
I just need a name for it…. hmmmm….. I’ll come back to that.
And last but not least,
3) I booked myself in for some counselling.
I have an appointment at 1pm on Saturday.
Why have I done this?
Well all of the above really, (and the rest of this bloody blog!) but mainly because my post natal depression has come to a head. It is now what i would call, out of control, and something needs doing.
I am terrified of taking antidepressants after the last three failed attempts which resulted in me having to change a nappy, vacuum the floor, wash the bedding, feed the dog, change a nappy again, sing nursery rhymes, drive to soft play, play at soft play, change a nappy again, give cuddles, watch telly and wipe tears away all the while having my head down the loo. Not a fun day.
But something needs to be done.
Let me explain.
Addison loves his spot the dog. (I am gutted. I spent a fortune on Mickey, Pluto, even bloody goofy in a failed attempt to get him cuddling something cool,but alas it is spot the bloody british dog, he loves!) After an unfortunate incident including a puddle of oil and some very buttery fingers (which left spot looking more mixed race than yellow) we decided to invest in a spare spot the dog teddy, in case anything more untoward happened.
Something more untoward happened!
He was in the car one minute, and the next…
He was gone. (GASP SHOCK HORROR GASP!)
Addison wasn’t particularly bothered. (He didn’t even notice and in fairness i gave him spare spot at bedtime.) I, on the other hand was in absolute bits.
I spent an hour and a half driving around Manchester, back to all the places we had visited that day, trying to find him. (A £12 stained toy, this is, of which we have another.)
All I could picture was lots o’ hugs or hugs o’lot or whatever that strawberry bear is called, from Toy Story, abandoned on the side of the road, all hurt and desolate. I was picturing Spot lying there (a £12 stained toy, this is, of which we have another.) remembering the happy times with Addison while sad music played in the background. I was in tears as each and every place we visited confirmed they had not found the beloved spot.
I got home wracked with guilt and with a crying, hungry little boy shouting for some potato smiley faces. Night fall was coming! Spot would be cold! Spot would be lonely! Spot would feel like we didn’t care for him! But i did care! I was traumatized for the little fellow!! I fed my hungry boy and continued the evening as normally as I possibly could.
As soon as Addison was in bed, however, I broke down in tears. I was sobbing my heart out.
Because I was picturing poor little Spot lying out in the cold at the side of a road somewhere, in the dark. (A £12 stained toy, this is, of which we have another.)
Toy story has a lot to answer for!
This, though, unfortunately, triggered 5 days of wading through mud. (Metaphorically speaking.)
My head is in a pickle and even though I can laugh about it now, I know this isn’t going to get better on its own.
So I’m off to speak to my ‘therapist.’ (Do I sound American yet?? They are so bloody cool those americans! Therapist sounds waaay better than counsellor! Or is it just me?)
I’ll let you know how it goes, BUT, if i am not back in 5 days, chances are I’ve been committed!
Send Starbucks and Quality Street!!
Now, back to naming this club.
What about ‘Crazy chuffing moo’s’ ?
Yes I like that.
It’s true on so many levels.