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Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Well I did it. I had a baby. 4 simple words which kind of fail to really describe the immense pain and pride of giving birth. Alula Grace is 6 weeks old and I doubt any other baby has her name nor is as beautiful. She is gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous and really i'm not biased. Birth was an experience. I wonder what it was like for Lula bean...i mean it can't have been fun for her. The cord was wrapped round her neck and under her arm and every time i pushed she bounced back like she was on a bungee rope. hence the forceps and ventouse delivery...ouch. yes indeedy. ouch. if you want to know what stitches in your minky feel like - ouch about sums it up. walking like john wayne for a fortnight. but worth it everytime i look at her.

anyway i'm stuck at home and bored out of my brain. Not that looking after a baby that sleeps 16 hours a day (10 more than me) and can't yet talk or do anything is anything less than scintillating but i'm struggling to renounce my working life and friends. It's tough this stay at home business. I can't wait to get back to work. I'm just not a stay at home mum type. I can't do the NCT coffee morning stuff anymore - discussing baby weight and labour length and the relative merits of gas and air over an epidural (is there a contest?).

I went to the Hampstead everyman cinema avec bebe...the cinema was awash with bugaboos it was like a bugaboo showroom...you couldn't move for cashmere clad suv driving mummies breastfeeding and talking bout the latest armani junior collections. depressed me something chronic.

Monday, July 31, 2006

oh how things have changed in a year.

A year ago it was free bike services, now i can't remember what it feels like to be ogled or desired. Being 8 months pregnant is weird.

my legs hurt so much i feel about 100 years old.

today i phoned the will maker man. arranged for double glazing quotes and made a casserole. that too made me feel about 100 years old. i want to be able to squeeze into my skinny jeans, go out, get drunk and dance all night...instead i am a casserole making, lumbering, knackered-after-walking-up-the-stairs suburban mum with a honda civic, arranging my life insurance and thinking ahead about gas bill increases and calculating the cost of double glazing.

8 months ago i was traipsing round Paris, drinking red wine, falling over and trying on couture...and not bothering to calculate anything more than how many beers would suffice to get me happy and how many pairs of shoes i could reasonably fit in my suitcase.

Ahh the joys of pregnancy...

Saturday, July 30, 2005

here is a story with many themes. The title of the story is 'Irony'. Another title for this story could be 'a tale of a man, a woman and a wall'

The day had been long. The commuter train was packed. The conversation was really an argument but because of the packed train was really a strained, hushed conversation of tight syllables and whipped consonants.

Girl: You don't have to go with me to the hospital (subtext: you so have to go with me to the hospital or I'm so dumping you)
Boy: No, really it's um fine, I can borrow my mum's car (subtext as heard by girl:I really cannot be arsed to go with her, I have far more important things to do like alphabetising my records)
Girl: I told you it's fine, it's just a small operation (subtext: it's a huge operation, a huge deal and if you dont come with me you're gonna hugely regret it)
Boy: And I told you, it's fine. I'm taking you. (Subtext as heard by girl: What a pussy, it's just a silly operation, can't someone else take her?)
Girl: My dad can take me (Subtext: If my dad has to take me, it's over your dead body)

And so on until the train arrives at the station and the rest of the carriage can smirk at each other as the boy and girl exit the train.

Now the argument can enter the open air and it escalates until the boy in a stress manages in his frustration to smack a carrier bag against the curb. Two bottles of wine smash over the street. The girl stares in horror at the thought of all that wasted wine ' that's my wine you just smashed. That was expensive wine. You just smashed it. I can't believe you smashed my wine' (subtext as heard by boy: nah nah nah NAH, nah NAH, NAH NAH nah nah it's all your fault')

the boy is doubly frustrated now he has accidentally smashed the girls wine. Nothing is going to go right now. There is only one thing left to do and that is to take it out on the wall.

cut to 1 month later:
Boy: You don't have to take me to the hospital if you dont' want to (subtext: you were right about it being broken, I'm a heroic fool')
Girl: It's fine. I don't mind. I'll borrow my mum's car (subtext: only a man would punch a wall then walk around with a broken hand for a month)
Boy: Ok thanks (subtext: if only girls could take things at surface level and stop analysing the subtexts we wouldn't be having this conversation)
today I love being a girl.

I love being a girl because I get things for free.

Today I knew I would get things for free and engineered it so.

In order to do this you have to know men's weaknesses;

1) they like to feel clever(er than women)
2) they like to 'rescue' poor damsels in distress
3) they like boobs

Which is why not wearing a bra, asking the nice man to 'pump my tyres up' and looking all confused and wide eyed when asked about chains got me a free bicycle service.

Now I feel ashamed and hussylike. There must be porn films with better plots than that. But then, perhaps that is just how the world works. Plus I think he received adequate payment; he got to look at my boobs, and was made to feel manly and powerful as he pumped my tyres whilst I looked on admiringly. In fact now i think about it, maybe he should have been paying me.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Started this morning like a crazed loon pulling apart the kitchen cupboards, searching like a demented woman for my risotto. There was a creeping feeling that perhaps I was going mad, that maybe I hadn't cooked it the night before at all, let alone stored it in a container and put it in the fridge. Was it right in front of my face staring back at me between the milk and juice in the fridge door? I had to concentrate fully and stare for a good 5 minutes at every inch of fridge space to reassure myself it wasn't there. I even checked the freezer. Then I thought, perhaps it's in the dishwasher - maybe I was simultaneously loading the dishwasher whilst packing the risotto up and got confused. Not there. The microwave? The Oven? Under the kitchen sink? The windowsill, the cutlery draw and the breadbin yeilded similar results. Having exhausted all risotto hiding places and convinced beyond doubt of my own failing sanity, I wondered frowning into the bedroom. And there. Littered beneath the bed. On its side casually discarded. An empty container…
Ooooh honey … no response…... Oooooh honey….have you seen my risotto the one I was saving for lunch? The risotto I made yesterday and of which you had two large portions already for dinner. The risotto I put in a container after telling you it was my lunch. The container I put in the fridge whilst telling you again it was my lunch. The container now guiltily cast off under the bed. The container that is now EMPTY. Risotto-less?????
I'm so sorry. I was hungry.
But you knew it was my lunch
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
I can't believe what a pig you are.
I'll bring you lunch into work.
It's 6pm. I'm still waiting.

Monday, March 28, 2005

I don't do heels. I'm a fully paid up lifelong peerage holding m ember of the trainer club. I'd happily spend the rest of my waking life in a pair of nikes and nothing else. Shopping for heels is surely like shopping for a gimp suit, both are uncomfortable, restrictive and worn to excite a man's lust - so why would you bother? With heels I enter this weird Fashion northpole where my usual style compass goes all batty and exorcist like, flipping round and round and never settling and pointing true north (to style nirvanaland) Instead I am lost and clueless in a new and unsettling world where I don't belong and don't speak the language, the landscape made up of towering spikes, wooden wedges, round toe patent leather, pointy toes in an array of colours, buckles, straps and laces. I feel like the amazonian tribeswoman brought to the city by her anthropologist husband and let loose on the mall...with no framework or style references to go on and clothes being a relatively new concept to her, she returned decked out in a smorgasbord of cheques, paisley, polkadots, tweed and gold lamme. I am the same with heels. I have no frame of reference, apart from the style a-z that is heat and vogue magazines - but they are both telling me wedges are cool and that's like telling me Tottenham is the new chelsea - I don't believe it and I sure as hell aren't going there to find out. I am a high heeled shoe virgin, and like any virgin desparate to lose her shoe cherry (god i'm 27 I had practically given up on it ever happening), and to lose it painlessly, to a good shoe, one my friends would like but not want to try on themselves or worse, go out and buy, one that I wouldn't look back on in years to come with a tinge of embarassment or regret, I chose a conservative, inoffensive, neutral shoe, one that seemed so nice in the shop, on the surface quite kind to my feet, sensitive, good looking, smart and expensive... and like a virgin, boy did it hurt, and boy did i regret it in the morning.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

I am going to be Tony Blair. The anti-christ. Not that I'm going to be doing some scary voodoo possession on the man… just imagine waking up in the morning and seeing first cherie without makeup and then those jug ears staring at you in the mirror. Tony is cheap. I am borrowing a mask from a friend who wore it to a gods and monsters party. Far cheaper than spending a fortune on a nun's outfit from the nearest fancy dress/sex shop or buying a blue pashmina (the horror), shoving it on my head and calling myself Mary. The theme is Christian but I've never been one for fancy dress… the words 'fancy' and 'dress' coming in the same sentence should only mean 'expensive frock bought for posh occasion' in my mind. There's a picture of me aged 4 holding hands with my 7 year old cowboy brother, large red nose distinctly out of joint, eyes pooling dollops of tears, mouth a downturned grimace, wearing a pair of butchered pyjamas with frilly cuffs. Even then I was aware that my mother's crimes against fashion (like Pinochet, she's yet to be tried for them) were too heinous for words. My face conveys all the angst of a four year old forced to be a clown whilst all her little friends get to be fairies, with wings and wands and everything.
The boyfriend is going as that funny man who marches daily up and down oxford street (he must be doing the purgatory bit now so that he can get into heaven quicker when he gets hit by the no.73) asking anyone who'll listen ' Are you a Sinner? Or are you a winner?'. Telling me to repent or live with the devil (lived with him at University - been there done that) he was on the receiving end of one of my now notorious looks, perfected since the clown incident. Repent? I thought, the only thing I'll be repenting is the fact that the dress I bought before Christmas is now on sale a hundred quid cheaper. Anyway having seen my raised eyebrows and rolling eyeballs, he decided to chastise me through his megaphone. I and the rest of the shoppers on Oxford Street now know that my life is joyless as I haven't let Jesus into my heart.
Before settling on the Tony Blair option, which admittedly is a little weak, I googled 'sexy christians', ' beautiful christians' ' dead famous christians' and 'sexy women in the bible'. The first one alerted me only to the hundreds of online dating sites for christians and an interesting article 'are christian rock stars too sexy for the Lord?' I can just see St. Peter turning away Cliff Richard at the pearly gates ' no sorry cliff, you're just too goddamn sexy'. The latter google turned up a few more interesting leads; Delilah does she count? She's a philistine and I'm not sure that's the same thing as a Christian. Plus she cut off Samson's hair which wasn't a very charitable thing to do. In fact all the sexy, temptress women in the bible are bad. Look at Mary Magdalene's rap. So I'll be a cross-dressing, hot-arsed Tony Blair instead.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

it's 6pm i'm leaving work to meet a friend. the gestapo like conditions of our office building where the security would give MI5 a run for their money have clearly seeped into the mindsets of some of the wankier members of the floor. (when i say wankier I mean it both literally and figuratively because clearly these people spend a lot of time wanking as who, quite frankly, would shag such anal fuckwits?) I'm stuck between lift and office due to the swipe entry system and the fact that the little black swipe with my name on it is still on my desk. On my hands and knees i'm tearing apart three bags to find the damn thing or my phone to call someone to let me in...

man enters on way to lift, hold the door i yell, as i scrabble to reassemble wreckage and flotsam from bags before he wonders what i'm doing with a leek, a pair of pants and two courgettes on my hands and knees, i fling myself heroicly forward, door slams in face, in desparation i turn to him with pleading expression on face, please can you let me in, i've left my pass on my desk, i'm sorry i' dont' know you, oh come on, i work here, i spoke to you in the kitchen the other day i just need to get my pass, lift doors open, i'm sorry i don't know you (this in sterner tones though camp at the same time, if he'd been straight i'd have had no trouble but jeeeesus the batting eyelash maneouvre holds no sway over your average gay guy. fucker.) the lift doors go to close, blood boiling i spit wanker fuckwit arsewipe through the doors, giving up all my left over christmas cheer (and resolutions to be more zen) in the prayer that the lift cables will chose that second to fray and send him careering 10 flights...but i mean what a FUCKER. seriously...do i look like a thief or terrorist? are most maniacal suicide bombers 5'5, small, blonde, and carrying agent provacateur carrier bags I DON'T THINK SO. What person is gonna steal a PC when they are already carrying enough to weigh down a mule train? and who's gonna blow themselves up when they've just had to remortgage to afford a pair of knickers. clearly the man was no poirot. but i can't just let this go.

oh no. he ain't getting away with it. it's time to get the stink bombs out the drawer and initiate a proper campaign of terror. he want bombing he gonna get bombing.

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