Dear Self : A Note About Opening Your Mouth

Don't. It gets you into all kinds of bother, such as:

1. Working on a Saturday.

2. Working late nights when all you want to do is rekindle your relationship with your sofa.

3. Working early mornings which mean getting out of bed at 6.45am when you HATE early mornings.

4. Taking on "special projects" at work (where "special projects" means the sh*t jobs nobody else wants to do because they are a NIGHTMARE).

5. Evenings out that you can't afford and can't be bothered with.

6. Judging a card-making competition at a Mother's Union meeting (sometimes it's best not to ask)

7. Also, opening your mouth is an invitation for others to bite your head off. Apparently.

Beluga Whales and Nandos (now there's a combination you don't often come across)

I like food. This is not a secret. My love of food has led to me resembling a Beluga whale. I have been saying this for months now, but only just found out what a Beluga whale actually looks like. I'm posting a picture in case you do not know either.

This love of all things edible has led to many an awkward situation in restaurants, as Mr B rarely eats as much as I do when we eat out. Take yesterday as an example. We went to Nandos. I was feeling rather peckish and ordered half a chicken with two sides (I can see you all recoiling in horror already). By contrast, Mr B ordered a mushroom and halloumi burger with a small side. For those of you unfamiliar with the Nandos experience, you order at the till and they bring the food to your table. This saves the awkwardness of me having to order the biggest meal known to man, whilst Mr B orders the equivalent of a lettuce leaf. However, it does present a problem when the food arrives at the table and there is that awkward moment where the waiter / waitress starts to give my meal to Mr B and I say "actually, that's mine" in a rather demonic tone of voice (the kind that implies I am going to do unspeakable things to them if I don't get my food immediately). Yesterday was no different. On discovering that the aforementioned huge meal was mine, the poor waitress's eyes nearly popped out of her little head. It was mildly amusing, but also made me feel like I actually am a Beluga whale. At this juncture I feel it is appropriate to point out that whilst I am carrying some excess weight, I am not so large that I have my own postcode (yet). Her look of horror when bringing my food to the table was matched only by the expression on her face when she collected my empty plate a mere twenty minutes later.

I didn't dare tell her I wanted pudding too ...

Not A Morning Person

I make no secret of the fact that I am not a morning person. Not one little bit. I find the whole morning process entirely tedious and detest it a large amount. Especially when I have to go through it twice in one day. No, you didn't read it wrong.

The other day I was rudely awakened by my alarm (as usual). I begrudgingly got out of bed, brushed my teeth, spoke to Mr B and hopped in the shower to wash my hair. Only to be woken by Mr B, thus revealing that I hadn't been getting ready at all. A very discombobulating moment. You have to understand, in my head I was actually showering. The only slightly out of place thing was Mr B standing next to me saying "good morning", which seemed a little odd given that I had spoken to him already and sent him downstairs to iron something for me to wear (he's well trained like that). It turns out I hadn't actually woken up at all. I had switched off my alarm, gone straight back to sleep and dreamt that I was getting ready for another tedious day at work. So I had to go through the whole process twice. I was not amused in the slightest, and Mr B mocked me rather a lot about it, insisting that this is not "normal" behaviour.

This is not the first time I have had bizzarre dreams. Many of them involve Mr B and they don't end well for him when I wake up and tell him off for the things he's been doing when I'm asleep. There was the time I dreamt we were getting married and I saw him sneaking out of one of our guest's houses on the morning of the wedding pulling his shirt on. I'll leave you to imagine what he'd been getting up to... On another occasion I was having his baby, but he didn't believe it was his and refused to speak to me unless I made the baby sleep in the shed (for clarification - this was a dream and no small children were harmed in its making). And on another occasion he broke up with me for his ex-girlfriend just because he "felt like a change" (he really suffered for that one).

Last night I dreamt that he had taken up bigamy as a hobby. Yes, that's right. He got married to another woman, a friend of his actually. He didn't seem to see the problem with this. As far as he was concerned, he had married her because she needed a fourth husband (that was the sole reason, nothing more important than that). To him, it seemed completely logical and I was overreacting for being upset about it. I woke up FURIOUS. Sadly, Mr B had already left the house, so I called him to give him a rather stern talking to for getting married behind my back (as you do), only to be completely baffled with his logic when I informed him of his misdemeanour : "actually, I would only be her third husband".

Not Natural

Mr B and I have been watching this new TV programme "One Born Every Minute". For those of you who have not watched this, it is a documentary-type of programme which follows life on a labour ward. Each episode follows two women through the birthing process. There have been two episodes so far, and I have come to two very important conclusions about giving birth:

1. It is not fun.

2. It is (most definitely) not natural. The whole process must be some guy's idea of a very twisted joke. There is just no way that one of those is coming out of there (although it would support my earlier argument that my nether regions are some kind of tardis. Hmmm.)

Having said that, the programme itself has caused much amusement. In the two programmes we've seen, only one of the four women seemed remotely normal, with an apparently normal partner. We've seen one father-to-be lock his wife in the toilet whilst she was in labour (would you even dare), and another decide he is going to Burger King whilst his diabetic wife is waiting for her lunch, an hour after it was due to arrive. To add insult to injury, when she said all she wanted was a huge slab of chocolate cake, his reply was (I kid you not) "I could bring you a slice to look at" - delivered with the most dead-pan face you can possibly imagine. At this point, Mr B turned to me and said "You would murder me for that". He's not wrong ... probably.

Mr B and I have decided that if my plan to purchase our children from Asda / Tesco / Morrisons / Other Supermarket of choice, falls flat (and I am beginning to admit that this is a very real possibility) then there are certain "treats" which I should get for having to actually give birth. I am yet to find out whether these treats still apply if I have to have a C-section, but as I don't ever intend to have children (due to the fact that the aforementioned programme has put me right off the idea) this is an entirely academic matter. We have thus far agreed on an unending number of meals at my all-time favourite chinese restaurant (King Neptune's in Newcastle, just in case you were wondering, although Fortune Star in Lancaster comes a very close second), a lot of chocoate cake (and I mean a LOT) and the ability to play top trumps with absolutely everything for the rest of time by pointing at our offspring and saying "I gave birth to that" (and I don't mean "that" in any kind of pejorative sense before anyone calls in the child protection squad).

After watching the utterly shocking behaviour of the dads-to-be in "One Born Every Minute", we have made another list of things that will not be allowed to occur if I am ever unfortunate enough to end up having a child:

1. Mr B shall not be allowed to lock me in the toilet (thus preventing me access to drugs) on pain of decapitation (of the very literal kind)

2. The words "I am going for a Burger King" will never leave his mouth unless followed by "what can I get you?"

3. There will be no "looking" at chocolate cake. There will not even be the suggestion of bringing chocolate cake unless with the express intention of me eating it.

4. There will be no sitting around staring into space as though bored or stoned (or both), playing with medical equipment and (most importantly of all) using MY gas and air (yes, I am very possessive of the drugs).

I am sure there are many, many more things which should be added to the list, but I cannot think of them right now. All answers on a postcard please...

A Lighter Note? - Updated

Although I am calling this "A Lighter Note", I'm not really sure if it is a lighter note. Given the current circumstances, I'm not even sure if there should be a lighter note. Mr B and I talked about this, and have decided that we are a bit disgruntled. It's like all of a sudden everything has just gone back to normal, and it shouldn't have. I'm still feeling like the world should have stopped for a little while. But it hasn't, which seems a tad unfair and a lot inappropriate.

Anyway, writing something light-hearted and blog-worthy is probably a bit like jumping back on the proverbial horse after you've been booted off it (although I would never give a horse the opportunity to boot me off, which totally isn't the point). Anyway, I have to share this piece of exciting news. Well, exciting in a relative sense. It's not quite as exciting as winning the lottery (which I did, although I only won £8), but more exciting than getting home to find you have a parcel (which is supremely disappointing when you discover that said parcel is the mobile phone you ordered and not a surprise). In short, it is medium-exciting. Well, actually, medium to low,which raises the question, why am I bothering to share this with you? The answer: I don't really know. It's just something to talk about.

So, after all that build up, you will all no doubt be thrilled to know that the tardis saga has reached a happy conclusion. I have a letter from the Scratch and Stare Doctors (I don't think they are actually called that, I just can't be bothered to reach over to the coffee table to find out what they are actually called). Anyway, I digress. The letter proudly informs me that I am "normal" (whatever that means). I presume it means that the fugitive hiding in my tardis is no longer armed and dangerous (personally, I like to think he/she is carrying out a meaningful hermitage, looking for some greater truth and such like). I am quite pleased by this in the strictly tardis related sense, but also thrilled on a more personal level. Never before have I been referred to as "normal". It is an important moment in my life. In fact, I'm so thrilled, I may have to frame it.

Update: I spoke to our friend CA tonight. She had her "bits" referred to as a vault, in writing from one medical professional to another. If we were playing tardis top trumps, she would win. Hands / vault down!!!

Goodbye Grandpa

Again, it's been a whole week since I last wrote (if not a little longer). This week has been one of the saddest ever, and I know that I will never find the tiniest bit of humour in it, so I'm afraid this will be a serious post. I am sure my devoted followers (all two of you), who are also two of my close friends (thank you for that) will not mind.

Sadly, Mr B's Grandpa died this week. His funeral service was on Thursday and was a lovely send off. There's lots of nice things you could say about Grandpa (and many nice things have been said this week) but there is nothing that would really do him justice. This has been one of the hardest and saddest weeks for us and we are both going to miss him lots and always.

The picture above was taken at our wedding last year. Grandpa is on the left of the picture, with his son and then four grandsons in age order. The one in the dress is me (in case you hadn't guessed).

FAB The Photo Shoot

This needs little introduction, it's the very adorable (and photogenic) FAB ...

The Dreaded

It's been the best part of a week since I last posted anything on here. This is largely because I have had nothing much of interest to comment on, and the one thing I could comment on is potentially not blog-post material, and something which I needed some perspective on to find it's (slightly) humorous side.

On Monday, I had to have my first smear test (see I told you it was probably not suitable blog-post material). This in itself is something of a trauma, and those of you who have been through the process will know what I mean. It was a trauma made worse by the fact that the nurse looked scarily like my Nana, which was particularly unsettling as she sat me down to talk about my intimate bits and show me the variety of instruments she intended to use. I stopped short of telling her that there was absolutely no way those were going up there. No way at all. Apparently, I was wrong. So, I'm lying there on the couch trying to mind my own business (a difficult task when Nana-nurse is down there talking to my nether-regions) being told to relax (ah, yes of course, no bother Nan) when I suddenly feel a rather hard and sharp poke, to which I screamed "ouch", only to be asked whether that hurt. No, it didn't, not one bit - I'm just in the habit of shouting "ouch" for no particular reason. Obviously. I was then advised that the reason for the sharp prod was not what I thought (ie to carry out the actual test) but an attempt to find the bugger. I should point out at this moment, that my nether-regions do not resemble the black hole of Calcutta, so when Nana-nurse said "I'm afraid it's hiding", my first thought was "well, there can't be that many places for it to hide". Oh, how wrong was I? It transpires that it is some kind of tardis. It took another ten minutes for her to locate it. I thought she was going to have to call in MI5 (special branch) for assistance. Fortunately, Nana-nurse eventually located the fugitive and carried out the dreaded (an experience I am very pleased I do not have to repeat for a few years). She then started muttering : "oh, erm, ah". I can assure you, these are not sounds you want to hear coming from a nurse (who looks like your Nana) whilst she is fiddling in your downstairs. After a few awkward minutes and a vague attempt to re-gain my lost modesty, the nurse announced that there was "something not quite right". Yes, I thought, this whole process of you tinkering around in my tardis is "not quite right". Apparently, that's not what she meant. She had found something. Up there. Ooooh goody I thought, perhaps it is the winning lottery ticket? Alas, no, I was wrong again. It was something decidedly more sinister than a lottery ticket, and so on Wednesday I had to repeat the whole process with a doctor, who the receptionist was at pains to point out was a lady doctor and knew what she was dealing with (it would appear I am not the only woman with a fugitive hiding in her tardis then, what a terribly comforting thought). Fortunately, she didn't have to call in special branch. Clearly she was so terrifying that the fugitive decided to appear all of its own accord and the whole process took no more than a few minutes. Following which, I was told that there wasn't really anything much up there after all and that the nurse could have called a doctor in to take a look the first time round. Imagine my amusement.