important military hardware

Hi, here I am, in bed, with a hot water bottle and a glass of wine (oh, alright, an empty glass of wine). I have been drinking a whole bottle of wine a night since Hubby left. No, no, it's okay, I have been deliberately buying those teeny tiny bottles (two for three pounds in Tesco right now, hurrah), so I don't turn into a total lush whilst he's away.
At the moment I'm waiting for my cousin's girlfriend to appear on Tibetonline TV news. She's an amazing stained glass window artist and has made a window for a school in Dharamsala, which was officially unveiled the other week. Hmmm, just had another look at the link, and all I'm getting is the weather for Tibet on 19th November (cloudy with only occasional sunny spells, it looks like, so don't go booking any last minute breaks to Lhasa is my advice).
Hubby has been gone just over a week now, and although I have been feeling a bit gloomy, it's fine. Sort of. I sent him a parcel today - he said he needed a hole punch, so I bunged one in  jiffy bag. How army is that? Lets keep up the morale of our brave boys by sending them...hole punchers. Surely by now he should just be able to burn holes through paper with his thousand-yard stare?
Today, apart from sending out important military hardware to the front,  I've been Mary Churchill's autobiography, in order to give me some inspiration for one of my characters. Sitting at home reading a nice book and having cups of tea hardly seems like work, does it, but I keep telling myself that it's essential research. I did break from the 'essential research' to go to circuits for yet another near-death experience. We did shuttle runs interspersed with sit ups, press ups, etc. which I know doesn't sound difficult - and probably wouldn't be for anyone who hasn't spent the last three years sitting on their bum in Nepal - but really was. Will it ever get easier? Will I ever lose any flab off my chubby haunches? Who knows? Not me! xxx

Pam goes magical realist

We're doing something about 'magical realism' on the course at the moment, and the brief for this weeks submission was to pick a god and have him/her/it helping out in a specific contemporary situation, which got me thinking about Pam, from Hair by Pam, and I just wanted to share what I came up with...

(gə-nāsh')  also Ga·ne·sha (-nā'shə)

n. Hinduism

The god of wisdom and the remover of obstacles, depicted as a short fat boy with four arms and elephant's head. He likes to eat sweets. His mode of transport is a giant rat.

Oh, look at me, I’m all fingers and thumbs today. Can you pick that up for me, Shelley? My back’s playing up again…Thanks, love. Do you want a cup of tea, Mrs Jones…A Cup Of Tea? Yes?...Shelley, get Mrs Jones a cup of tea, will you.

Who died, Mrs Jones? Your sister-in-law? I’m very sorry…oh, your son-in-law. How terrible. That must be very hard…do you want larger rollers at the front, like last time?

Here’s your tea…Tea…careful it’s hot. Careful! Run and get a cloth will you Shelley, love.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Oh, hello Mrs Lavery, you’re early today. You caught the eleven fifty? Well you can always use the toilet here, you know. Yes, they do a lovely cheddar cob. Shelley, help Mrs Lavery to the toilet, will you.

Now, Mrs Jones, lets get you under the dryer, shall we?...Under The Dryer…watch out for your…Shelley, love, get a dustpan, will you, and clean up this broken mug.

There, are you comfortable Mrs Jones? Would you like something to read while you’re under?...Something To Read?...Shelley, bring Mrs Jones a magazine, will you. Thanks, love.

Oh, Mrs Lavery, is that better? Yes, it is in a bit of an awkward place, I keep asking Ken to fix it. There you are, sit down and I’ll get Shelley to bring you a cup of tea. What are we doing this time? Did you like Ash Whisper or would you rather go back to Silver Mist? Yes, it is, yes, very flattering on your skin tone when you’re…

STOP SCRATCHING YOUR BALLS!

Sorry, Mrs Lavery. Shelley, love, get out there and tell him. I won’t have people hanging about outside and doing things like that. And tell his friends to stop gawping. We’re a salon, not a zoo. Now Mrs Lavery, where were we? Thanks, Shelley. Will you get Mrs Lavery a cup of tea, thanks love. So you were saying, Silver Mist…

PISS OFF!

Sorry Mrs Lavery. Shelley, will you tell those ethnics to sling their hooks. I do apologise, Mrs Lavery. Where was I? Yes, banana boat, you’re quite right. And it’s our taxes that pay for them, I know. Here’s your tea. Careful, it’ll be…Shelley, love, run and get the cloth, will you.

So you’re settled on Silver Mist, then? Let’s just comb it through before we start. How has your week been? Biopsy? Oh, yes, Ken had to have one of those when…anal probe? Yes, I should think you would. Hypo what? Oh, glycemic. What’s that when it’s at home? Biscuits? Yes, you can’t take any chances. Shelly, love, go and see if we’ve got any biscuits for Mrs Lavery.

I’LL CALL THE POLICE, YOU LITTLE SHITS!

Sorry, where was I? Yes, Mrs Lavery, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry, but they live in our country now, and they have to abide by our laws. Yes, I know, and in the middle of the High Street, too! What’s that? Goat curry?

Did you hear that, Shelley, Mrs Lavery says goat curry! Shelley, what is it, love? No? Oh, well, take fifty pence from the till and pop over the road for some. And if you see those ethnics, tell them I know where they live. What’s that Mrs Lavery? No, I don’t.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Oh, hello Mrs Quaite, how are you? Just take a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment. Shelley will get you a cup of tea when she gets back. How’s the new flat? They charge you to what? …Did you hear that, Mrs Lavery? Mrs Quaite says they’re charging her twenty pounds to change a light bulb in the new flat. I know, they say not to climb up on a chair in case you fall, and then  - I tell you what, Mrs Quaite, next time give me a call and I’ll get Ken to change it for you, for a fiver! What’s that? No, we never have the radio on, the council won’t let us have a music licence. It must be Shelley’s phone. Sorry, do you mind Mrs Lavery, I’ll just take it for her…Hello? No, it’s not Shelley, she’s just popped out for custard creams. Oh, I see, I’ll tell her when she gets back. It’s the school, Mrs Quaite, Gracie-May has fallen off the monkey bars. They’re taking her to hospital. Monkey bars? It’s like a climbing frame.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Oh, Shelley, love, I’m glad you’re back. You’ve just had a call from the school. Gracie-May has fallen off the monkey bars and they’re taking her to hospital. Give me the custard creams and you get your coat. Monkey bars, Mrs Lavery…it’s like a climbing frame. Yes, Shelley, love, but we’ll manage, you get yourself off and go and be with your little girl. Really? Close by? Qualified? No, I don’t mind having a man in the salon. Well, I could use an extra pair of hands now Mrs Quaite’s here too. All right then. Ganesh. Thanks Shelley, love, and give Gracie-May a kiss from her Aunty Pam.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Right then Mrs Lavery, if you’d like to come over to the sink.

Mrs Quaite, I’ll have to do your tea in a moment.

How are you, Mrs Jones, is it too hot under there…Too Hot? No, good. I’ll check on you again in a little while, then.

Oh the phone!

Hold on a second, Mrs Lavery, just leave the water running.

Yes, Mrs Quaite, I’ll get you a magazine when I’ve taken this call. Yes I do smell burning.

Are you sure you’re alright under there, Mrs Jones…Mrs Jones!

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Oh, Ganesh, love, get the phone will you? Mrs Jones, I think you’re done…You’re Done! Yes, let’s get you up, shall we?

Ganesh, when you’ve written down that appointment, will you get Mrs Quaite a magazine and a cup of tea, thanks love.

Hang on, Mrs Lavery, I’m just coming. You’re right, there is something wrong with the shower head. I keep telling Ken to fix it, but you know what he’s like.

Ganesh, love, when you’ve done the tea, can you just use your trunk to sluice down Mrs Lavery’s hair and then shampoo in half a bottle of Silver Mist. Thanks, love.

Happy with your magazine, Mrs Quaite?

Ganesh, when you’ve done Mrs Lavery, can you bring Mrs Quaite another magazine. No, Jordan was last week’s. She wants the one with Kerry Katona going into the Priory. Thanks, love. Oh, and bring the custard creams…Mrs Jones, if you just sit down here by the mirror.

Ganesh, if you could just towel off Mrs Lavery and make a start with her rollers. The pink ones at the back, bric-a-brac – not too tight, mind, she’s got a sensitive scalp.

Mrs Jones, let’s get these rollers out, shall we? What’s that? Shelley looks different today? No, love, it’s Shelley’s friend Ganesh…Ganesh…he’s just helping out because Shelley’s Gracie-May fell off the monkey bars and they’re taking her to hospital…Monkey Bars…its like a climbing frame.

Ganesh, love, I can see a traffic warden coming. You’d better pop out and move your rat before you get a ticket. No, you can just park at the back next to the wheelie bin.

That colour has come up lovely, Mrs Jones, let’s brush it through. Do you want hairspray today? …Hairspray? Yes, that looks really nice.

Ganesh, can you take Mrs Jones’ money and help her on with her coat. No, Ganesh, the sweets are for the customers. Get your trunk out of there! Oh, he is a cheeky one, isn’t he, Mrs Jones? I Said He’s A Cheeky One. Goodbye Mrs Jones. See you next week.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

So, Mrs Lavery, lets have a look at those rollers. Oh, Ganesh has done a nice job. Where did you say you got your qualification, Ganesh? Dharma? No, not heard of it, is it near Mansfield?

FUCK OFF, YOU BLOODY ETHNIC BASTARDS!

Ganesh, love, do me a favour and set your rat on them. I know, but if you call the police they do nothing about it, and I’ve had it up to here with them today. Thanks.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Right then, Mrs Lavery, lets get you under the dryer, shall we?

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

What’s that Mrs Quaite? Yes, the screaming is a bit loud, isn’t it? I’d turn up the music, but as I said, the council won’t let us have a music licence.

Ganesh, love, can you get your rat to disembowel the ethnics a bit further up the street. Yes, it is a bit loud, especially with us not having any music on. It’s putting Mrs Quaite off her magazine.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

So, Mrs Quaite, would you like to come and sit down next to the mirror. We were talking about you going russet for the festive season…

"Stop scratching your balls!"

This morning Son woke me up at six thirty to helpfully let me know that Dog had left diarhoea all over the kitchen floor. Not the best start to the day. Then Twin 1 refused to get dressed and I shouted at her. Hmmm. We resolved it, and I apologised, etc. but then today she came home with a note from school explaining that she's getting a good behaviour award in assembly this week. So maybe she's only huffy at home? Or maybe I really am an evil witch.
After the kids went to school I went to Hair by Pam. The eponymous Pam wasn't there, but I'm hearing tantalising details about her. Apparently she has been known to run out into the street and tell random passers by to "Stop scratching your balls!" and to tell youths glancing in through the salon window to F-off. Given that the average age of the Hair by Pam customer is eighty-odd (I am not kidding, you should have seen the look I got when I asked if they had any serum), there is something unsettling about Pam getting salon rage with hapless Beeston youths. One day I shall have to make an appointment on a day other than Tuesday and meet the legend in person. Or maybe not. It might be a bit scary.
Yawned my way through uni this afternoon. I told my tutor that the main reason was that I was up very early cleaning dog poo off the kitchen floor. I'm not sure writer's lives are supposed to be like this. Shouldn't I be having angst-ridden-drug-addled nightmares in an attic somewhere? Surely real writers don't clean up dog poo and have their hair cut at Hair by Pam?
Right, it's twenty to eleven now. How did that happen? I have to go to bed, just in case there's another early morning spot of scrubbing to attend to.
Goodnight x

Luckily Dog didn't die

Watching military wives sing at the Albert Hall for 'The Choir' was probably not the best choice today. Blub? I should say so!
Hubby went off to Afghanistan last night. Everyone pretended to be fine with it, but Son was awake three times in the night, Twin 2 had a bad dream, and Twin 1 has been in a foul mood all day. So I think that secretly maybe we're not okay.
Luckily Dog didn't die on the vet's slab today. I got a call when he was under, and the vet said in a sombre voice that he needed to talk to me. I immediately assumed that he had some hideous tumour and was not going to wake up, but it turns out the vet was just checking I was happy for him to have his teeth cleaned. It turns out he just has rotten teeth and a bad back, just like any old man. Good job we have pet insurance, as otherwise Christmas would definitely be cancelled (I'm not going to tell you how much the dog's x-ray cost, but lets just say it was more than the price of a robotic hoover).
Just been speaking to lovely M, which is why this blog isn't longer (blame her!).
Will try to write more soon xxx

tired...

I know, I ought to be asleep and tomorrow I will pay for becoming increasingly nocturnal. But now at least the xmas shopping is done. Yes, even the stockings and the present from the dog (he is helpfully giving them all socks - such a sensible hound). I guess if he dies before xmas these will have to become a present from the rats instead. The rats are imminent*. Son is counting down the days. Hubby has promised to take him to buy them on Friday, whilst twins are in choir doing soaring ballads (Let the river run by Carly Simon, specifically).
Oooh, actually I am really tired now, and I guess I ought to go to bed before midnight (it was 1am yesterday as I was busy sorting out a present for the in-laws)...
Well, night then xxx
* Hubby is being replaced with rats when he goes on tour - I've mentioned that already, no?

An absent husband, a dead dog and a reputation for scaring speech therapists and angering poets...

Eleven Eleven, always makes me blub. Was feeling outrageously emotional this morning and then went and got all teary in front of Twin 2's speech therapist at school this morning. I'd only just met her - she probably thinks I'm a nutter, now. We had lots of long discussions about Twin 2's speech and other things, but perhaps she was just humoring me, in the way you do with people you suspect are a bit mentally unhinged...
It all started last night when Son was on the local BBC news. The school had arranged a remembrance service here on the army barracks, and the reporter had a chat to some of the army kids. Son explained that his dad was off to Afghan in a couple of weeks and this 'shoved a worried feeling down into his tummy'. I had to go an snivel in the kitchen with a big piece of kitchen roll after that. Then, even though I'd promised myself I'd do some writing that evening, instead I spent far too much time wandering vacantly round the house and going to bed too late. So then this morning I was all tired and over emotional, and after the speech therapist incident I went into uni for a discussion with some poets and managed to upset them by suggesting that the way to increase interest in their poems would be to get actors to read them at public performances. Woah! That really didn't go down well. I had to apologise and explain that I wasn't a poet or an actor and I really didn't know what I was talking about (at least I didn't cry).
Hubby has just interrupted my train of thought by suggesting that we get Dog stuffed when he dies. He thinks perhaps a cushion cover would be nice. Which is especially cheery, when I have Dog booked in for an exploratory x-ray the same day Hubby deploys. An absent husband, a dead dog and a reputation for scaring speech therapists and angering poets...this isn't quite what I had in mind on my return from Nepal.
Oh, yes, and now I have writer's block. Which I have never had before. I'm learning so blooming much about great writing that I'm beginning to realise how un-great mine is. And I have another six thousand words to write for next week.
Now I'm off to have my third glass of ginger wine, and you can't stop me.
Take care xxx

I am still here, honest

I've got time to write a quick blog, hurrah. I don't think it means that my time management is getting any better, just that I packed the kids off to bed early. Son is just back from a school trip to somewhere muddy in the peak district (and that's about all I know about it, other than that they sold slinkys in the shop) and needed an early night, because at the activity centre they all went to bed at half past nine (shock: I wasn't planning on bed times that late until he's at least sixteen).
I've been madly catching up on all the work I should have done during half term, but didn't because we were all busy having fun. So I've handed in my essay and my workshop piece and my portfolio piece and now I just have to write another six thousand words by next week, which should be easy, right? Just so long as nobody gets ill...
We had our early Christmas this weekend. The kids all got bikes and pajamas (Santa is nothing if not practical), so we were out in the rain, riding around the block this weekend. Of course peddling and steering and braking and balancing is all a bit too much for Twin 2 to cope with, so we had to attach her bike onto a grown-up's one, so all she has to do is hang on for dear life and try not to go flying off on the corners.
I made a lovely roast dinner (free range chicken, not turkey, since you ask). In the great traditions of xmas dinners it was an hour late, by which time everyone had eaten far too many sweets and was not the slightest bit interested in sprouts or roast parsnips. Good to see that nothing has changed since I was a child.
We had a christmas cake. The kids managed a small slice each, but I declined (mixed fruit, yuk), so Hubby had to eat the rest of the cake himself. Oh well, he'll need the extra insulation as those desert nights can get pretty cold at this time of year.
Even though I didn't eat any xmas pud or xmas cake, I still feel like I've put on a christmassy amount of weight - in fact, I'm too scared to even set foot on the scales as it will just depress me, and I'm sad enough about the prospect of losing my husband for six months, so I don't need any more bad news, thanks.
Anyway, I went to circuits today (which of course nearly killed me). I know that in order to lose flab one needs to eat less/do more, but I'm not one hundred per cent keen on the 'eat less' side of that equation, so I will just have to do more. Apparently typing burns up calories, so maybe my six thousand words for next week won't be totally wasted...and I have promised myself that I will go to circuits twice a week for the next six months - by the time Hubby gets back I'll be fit as a butcher's dog (whatever that means).
Anyway, I'm going to go now and have a look at what Santa bought me - a new Kindle, thanks Santa!
xxx