Wah-hey!

Wah-hey! I have just finished the scary essay and submitted it to Turnitin (electronic anti-plagiarism site - although I hardly think I'm at risk of plagiarising anyone,  as I can't imagine that anyone else in the world will have written anything like the pseudo academic twaddle that I have managed to cobble together). I honestly have no idea how it will do. I tried really hard to answer the (really complicated) question, so I just have to hope that's good enough. Luckily everyone else was also having problems with it and one of my peers (blimey, it is a bit wierd calling a twenty-four year old bloke my peer) worked out that the scary essay only amounts to one twenty fourth of the total marks for the masters course. I wonder if being up half of last night with a combination of a huge ironing pile and a small girl having a dream about being eaten by pirates counts as extenuating circumstances if it's not?
As a result of my finishing the essay, the washing has not been done, nor the downstairs bathroom (although Bertha has kindly hoovered the living room floor, bless her). The cleaning rota is frowning at me in a matronly way, and I'm fantasizing about picking up a big fat advance for the novel I'm writing and spending it on employing a cleaning lady (and also getting a Brazilian blow dry - well I think it's justifiable, after all, I'll have to look good for all my book-signing tours and interviews on This Morning, etc.)
I now have almost a whole novel (Hallucinating Foucoult by Patricia Dunker - I've started it and it's pretty good so far) to read in time for tomorrow's workshop. Luckily the workshop is starting late tomorrow, not until 2pm, so I might just do it if I make a start tonight.
Must go. Take care xx

'I am a genetic clone'

Hi, how are things? I've just been sewing labels saying 'I am a genetic clone' onto the front of the girls' dresses. It's science dress up day tomorrow, and I didn't realise until this week that it was a whole school thing. I knew that son had to dress up as he brought a letter home about it. He decided to be a solar flare, so I bought an orange hoodie and some gold streamers etc. for that, but then when I realised dress up day applied to the Twins as well, I just lost heart with the whole thing. I think school dress up days are probably brilliant if you only have one child, and you have lots of time and creative energy. But, frankly, when you have three it's a bit of a pain in the bum. I contemplated having them go as matter and anti-matter, but that would entail mutual annihilation - and then they wouldn't get to have tea at Erin's house, which would cause a bit of a brouhaha, not to mention the end of the known universe...unless Son decided to go as Higgs Boson, in which case everything would be astro-physically okay, I guess. However, as Son is intent on being a solar flare (and what's more, we have an orange hoodie with streamers attached that will otherwise go to waste), the calming effect of Higgs Boson will be absent, and I don't want to risk the destruction of reality as we know it so...that's why they are going as the little biological miracles they are, bless 'em.
I'm starting to ramble  a bit, aren't I? I should really go to bed.
Night then xxx

Thanks Lion Foods for remembering Mother's Day!

The package was chocolates, hurrah. But the hoody was too small (in retrospect perhaps I was a little ambitious ordering one in a size eight...). But the most mysterious thing of all was that although the card that came with the chocolates said "To the woman I love, Happy Mother's Day, Hubby denied all knowledge of them.
I was briefly excited by the thought of a secret admirer, but the excitement was swiftly followed by feeling well creeped-out. After all, what kind of a man shows his ardour by sending you something on Mother's Day? Only some oedipal wierdo. So the flush of giddiness was replaced by thoughts of being stalked by some strange, probably bearded, chap. Eventually Hubby remembered that he'd entered a competition to win free chocolates for mother's day, but forgotten about it. So it turns out they were from him and not beardy wierdy oedi after all.
Not sure how I feel about the whole thing now. I mean, obviously I'm relieved not to be the victim of a beardy wierdy oedi stalker. And I'm also grateful for the Mother's Day gift. But am I actually grateful to Hubby (who had forgotten all about Mother's Day, and I know I should forgive him, what with him being stuck out in Afghanistan and all that, but I'm not sure I do because my Son, lovely as he is, delivered breakfast in bed by waking me up for it at 7.30 on Sunday morning, and all I seemed to do for the rest of the day was wash up, oh, and the hoody was too small, thus reminding me once and for all that I am not and never will be a size eight, etc.) or grateful to Lion Foods for picking his competition entry? Lion Foods, I guess. Thanks Lion Foods for remembering Mother's Day!

Hi, no, before you ask, I still haven't finished that blooming essay.

Hi, no, before you ask, I still haven't finished that blooming essay. Last night I wrote one sentence and played about cutting and pasting paragraphs but it's all still pants. However, it's not all bad news in the Waif house. Tomorrow is mothers' day and I know it's not going to pass unnoticed. How do I know this? Because I have made plans...at the moment the breadmaker is making dough so I can bake some cinnamon rolls - all the kids will have to do is pop a couple in the microwave and bring them upstairs and voila, breakfast in bead in the morning (without the risk of burnt toast setting off the fire alarm). Also, the day after Hubby went back to Afghanistan I had one of those ebay moments - you know when you're feeling really low and you think that if you just click on the 'buy now' button you'll feel a whole lot better? Well I ended up buying a hoody, which I don't really need, and when it arrived I began to feel that all-too-familiar post-retail-therapy guilt, when I suddenly remembered that it was nearly mothers' day. Hurrah, kids very happy to give me a nice present, and as the hoody is now a gift, waiting upstairs in a silver gift bag for presentation alongside cinnamon rolls, so I no longer need to feel guilty about it. Furthermore, a package arrived in the post this morning with a note saying 'do not open until March 18th' on it, which is very exciting (I'm thinking maybe chocolates...must try to resist shaking the package and guessing).
Right, I might just have a little look at the scary essay again now, whilst a DVD is on and kids are gazing in silent wonderment at the cinematic genius that is Alvin and the Chipmunks (the squeakwell).
Bye x

I'm still avoiding the scary essay.

Hi, how are you? The kids are having a 'picnic supper' in front of the telly, for the second night running. Does this make me the laziest mum in NATO? Probably. Do I feel guilty? Not really. I did, however cook myself a Linda McCartney recipe, which was basically lentils and rice and some tins of tomatoes - but I think the kids are happier with salami, tomatoes and chocolate biscuits in front of Tracy Beaker.
Last night Twin 1 leapt into my bed at silly o'clock with an unspecified nightmare (unspecified because I lacked the capacity to ask her at that time in the morning). This is the third night running, and I can't cope with waking up from a mosh pit of limbs again tomorrow, so tonight she is sharing a bed with her sister (there's no school tomorrow because they have an INSET day  - referred to by the Twins as an 'insect day', they're a bit muddled because their science topic is mini beasts at the moment, so I think they're under the impression that all the teachers are going to go to school dressed as ladybirds or something tomorrow).
I'm going to try to pull a late one tonight and get through a bit of the scary essay. I keep procrastinating. Suddenly looking at summer dresses or funny videos of talking dogs online seems way more important than writing two thousand words on realism in the novel. I realised today, in class, that the other students are equally rabbit-in-the-headlights about this essay, which was a relief, so I asked our tutor for some clarification. In a Yoda-ish way, he looked mysterious and said something along the lines of "Refer to the set novels, you must." Which seemed helpful at the time, but now, back in front of the laptop with a mere eighteen hundred words still to write, seems less helpful.
I should go and do housework-y stuff now. If I write more later, it's because I'm still avoiding the scary essay.
Ta ra x

You can buy bum-shrinking cream in Singapore?

My friend G, who lives in Singapore, turned forty today. Happy birthday G! Apparently her ten-year-old son is buying her some bum-shrinking cream as a present. You can buy bum-shrinking cream in Singapore? To me, this is a totally valid justification for Hubby leaving the army and getting a job overseas (in Singapore). Anyway, the reason I mention that G is now forty is because it reminds me of my own fortieth birthday and possibly the worst compliment anyone has ever given me. It was a very youthful-looking colonel's wife, who was a vegan and did lots of yoga (I bet she never fell asleep before her affirmation - in fact I bet her affirmation was 'I have the skin of a twenty-year-old'). When I mentioned that I was about to turn forty, she looked surprised and said: "No! Really?" in a way that made me think that even though I'm rubbish at yoga and like the odd steak that I've still got it. I began to smile a tiny bit, in anticipation of a big fat compliment. "I would never have known..." she continued, and my smile began to broaden. "You hardly look any older than... thirty eight."
"Thanks," I said, trying not to lose the smile. But I was crying inside.
I mean, there's damning with faint praise and then again, there's just crushing someone's spirit.
Oh well, I'll probably never see her again - the joys of being posted, there are at least some advantages to army life.
I'd better go - I have only managed to write the introduction to the scary essay, and I'm not feeling too confident about that, either (however, I have already finished Morvern Callar, which I only started last night and it is totally brilliant, so read it if you have the chance), so I'd better give it a bit more thought before bedtime.
Night then x

my heart's desire is the sound of my own snoring

My yoga teacher has introduced us to yoga nidra. It's a kind of relaxation/visualisation thing (apparently a bit like neuro linguistic programming). You have to lie down and relax and breathe a certain amount of breaths and imagine things and then think about your hearts desire. The idea is something along the lines that if you get your subconscious in tune with your conscious then you're more likely to be able to achieve what you want. Something like that, anyway. It's worth a go, I thought and decided that my 'affirmation' should be: "I am a published author". Brilliant. All I had to do was to lie down for 45 minutes every day and do yoga nidra practice and hey presto, publishers would be banging on my door... I keep trying it, but I keep falling asleep before I get to the critical affirmation bit. Which means that I spend a precious three quarters of an hour asleep, when I could be writing, and my subconscious still doesn't know that I want to be published. My subconscious is probably lagging, and still thinks that I want to be a sweet shop lady (I wasn't a very ambitious child). Or possibly my subconscious thinks that my heart's desire is the sound of my own snoring.
So, I'm back into the swing of the course again, somewhat panicky as my tutor told me that having just had a husband back home on R&R is not a valid justification for getting an extension on my next academic essay deadline. Bummer. I'll tell you what the essay question is, and you can decide for yourself how long it would take you to write:
Ian Watt argues that the novel operates under the assumption that it is '...a full and authentic report of human experience and is therefore under an obligation to satisfy its reader with such details of the story as the individuality of the actors concerned, the particulars of the times and places of their actions, details which are presented through a more largely referential use of language than is common in other literary forms.' To what degree is this a accurate statement? Support your response through detailed reference to two novels.
Yeah, I know, I'm hardly going to be able to dash that one off between school runs tomorrow, am I? (Especially not if I'm busy doing yoga nidra and sleeping through my heart's desire.) But if you have any ideas on 'formal realism' in contemporary literature, then do please please let me know. Right now if possible, and certainly before tomorrow morning.
Anyway, better go. Finished The Shipping News, now have to hurry along and read Morvern Callar and  pray for inspiration to strike whilst I'm asleep (really asleep, not yoga nidra asleep) so I can write the big old scary essay tomorrow...

Mummy is a big fat lazer

Yesterday Twin 2 ate a rat poo. I'm rubbish at getting up on weekend mornings (a fact which led Twin 1 to  call me a 'big fat lazer' this morning), so the children have got in the habit of helping themselves to cereal and eating it in front of kids' telly, knowing that I won't lurch into consciousness until at least eight o'clock. Yesterday Twin 2 came up at 8.01 to tell me the news that she'd just eaten rats poo by mistake because Son had the rats out on the sofa and she'd dropped a coco pop but when she picked it up, it wasn't a coco pop, it was something else... so that was when I decided that it was probably time to get up and cook some bacon sarnies for everyone. I can just imagine Twin 2 telling her teacher that she eats rat poo for breakfast, whilst Twin 1 chips in with the comment that they have to eat rat poo because Mummy is a big fat lazer who won't get out of bed.
Apart from that the weekend has been mercifully uneventful. The most exciting thing I have done is to try to source things for Son to dress up in when it's science dress up day at school. He's decided to go as a solar flare...
Just realised that I should be spending my spare time reading the rest of The Shipping News (which is really good - if you haven't read I can thoroughly recommend) or I won't get it finished in time for my workshop.
Hope you had a good weekend xxx

BECAUSE MISS JACKSON SAID SO

Hi, how are you? Major Bumsaw has disappeared back to Ganners for another three months. I'm very sad to see him go, but it's about time I got back to blooming work. I've got The Shipping News to read (no, not the real shipping news, I'm not going to be spouting 'German Byte, fair to moderate' for the next week), and an essay and an exercise to do and other people's work to crit etc. etc. It's all piled up a bit because we've been off doing R&R stuff (Weymouth, family, National Trust visits...), so now I need to get on with turning myself into a proper novelist, because, as Bumsaw keeps reminding me, I don't have a pension and he's not going to keep me in the lifestyle-to-which-I-have-become-accustomed forever. Anyway, I haven't been quite as productive as I should have been today because I had to stop work for a little snooze this afternoon (not because I waved goodbye to my husband at 11pm yesterday with one hand and simultaneously reached for the single malt with the other, not at all, simply because Twin 1 leapt into my bed at silly o'clock this morning and insisted on lying on top of me because she had a tummy ache - quite hard to sleep with a full bladder and a six-year-old on your tummy).
I have to go and unpack some shopping now. We had to have an emergency shop because Miss Jackson, the deceptively nice looking deputy head, has started getting fussy about the colour of children's socks and hair accessories in school. Apparently pink socks and pink hair bobbles are NOT ALLOWED because they're not school colours and because MISS JACKSON SAID SO IN ASSEMBLY. Cursing Miss Jackson and inwardly calling her a colour fascist, I scoured Tescos for black or white hair bobbles and black or white socks - no spangles, colour (or fun) allowed BECAUSE MISS JACKSON SAID SO. I keep thinking about that song, d'you remember it, 'I'm sorry Miss Jackson - woo - happened for real, never meant to make your daughter cry, I've apologised a thousand times' (you do remember it, don't you?). I think I'm going to have to make up a version for when our Miss Jackson hauls me up on some perceived uniform infringement, so I can apologise in song...'I'm sorry Miss Jackson - woo - my girls wear pink, please don't make my little daughter's cry or I'll poke you in your evil eye' ...or something like that. I think I just hate the concept of school uniform in principle; I can't think that wearing the same as the person sitting next to you will really make you learn any better...maybe I've just got a downer on uniforms in general, because after all, I know that the minute my husband puts on his uniform, R&R is effectively over, and I'm back to single parenthood for another few months. Might mention that to Miss Jackson, next time she throws a wobbly about a purple hairband...
Right, better go. Take care xxx

Leap of love

It's the fourth anniversary of when I proposed to Hubby. Yep, I was one of those impatient leap year women who just can't hang about for ever waiting to be asked. It was 1996 and he was part way through a Bosnia tour. At that time, civilian flights had just started operating again, so I booked a flight to Split, and he got a seventy-two hour leave pass and there we were (officially wives and girlfriends weren't supposed to go out to visit their partners, so we had to have a 'chance' meeting at the airport...). From Split we got a boat up the coast to Dubrovnik. There was another couple (who also had a coincidental airport encounter) with us, but we four were the only tourists in Dubrovnik. The hotels and cafes were opening up (luckily, or we would have been hungry), but the only sightseers roaming the streets were us and a very thin cat. I had had photos done in a booth before I came out with me holding up a different message in each shot: 'will', 'you', 'marry', 'me?'. He looked at them and said 'Alright.' and the deal was sealed...now it's sixteen years and three kids later and as I have no intention whatsoever of hopping on a flight to Kabul, it's a good job he's back here to celebrate the proposal anniversary with me.
So how did we spend the day? Roses and chocolates? A day at the spa? No, we took the dog for a walk, visited a National Trust property and had a cream tea - clotted cream and strawberry jam never tasted so good!
Cheerio xx