Upstairs, downstairs or Oy, that's my shirt!

A friend and fellow forty-something-year-old recently asked if I'd ever set off upstairs then forgotten why I was actually going upstairs.
Eh, comment, pardon, o que!?
Obviously I retorted that this was not an experience with which I am familiar......

What I didn't bother mentioning was that I regularly forget why I've opened the fridge, I put pink socks in my sons' drawers and can't remember who I'm calling by the time I've finished dialling the number.  Yesterday, I called my aforementioned friend.  When she answered, I asked if she was at work.

"No", she replied, "you know very well my maternity leave doesn't finish until November.  Dianne, have you rung me by mistake again?" continued my completely different twenty-something-year-old friend and new mum, clearly with all her marbles still intact (for now, cue evil knowing laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha!!).

And hey, the 'going up the stairs' thing is easy.  You're either tired (go to bed), need the loo (go to the loo), got your arms full of clean clothes (put them away, preferably in the right drawers) or carrying the Hoover (vacuum the floor).  No early onset of Dementia can catch me out on the stairs, no siree.

Now, where was I?

Ah yes, silly phrase of the week.  Have you ever heard the expression 'a watched pot never boils?'
How outdated is that?!

Does anyone watch a pot these days?   Don't we just flick the switch on the kettle, change the baby, do the shopping, take the toddler to the library, clean the bathroom and then remember we turned the kettle on?

But unlike a watched pot, the modern-day kettle has turned itself off and is stone cold by the time we actually get chance for a cuppa at 11.45pm and we're heading up the stairs to bed!

Anyway, I've invented my own 'watched pot' metaphor.

"A watched flight information board in the Arrivals hall at Gatwick doesn't change from 'expected' to 'landed' if you stare at it without blinking until your eyes go dry."

But you can guarantee that as soon as 'landed' does eventually appear and, after a further twenty minutes (which feels like a fortnight) it changes to 'baggage in hall', there's not a dry eye in Costa (or was that just me?).

Yes, if you're a withdewrespect regular, you'll know it's just been my third favourite day of the year when my ten-year-old son returns from spending summer with his dad in Portugal.  My first and second favourite days are when he returns from visiting his dad in Portugal at Easter and Christmas.

So me, grandma and the boys enjoyed a couple of days in London town and had a fabulous night at Billy and Elliott (as my five-year-old called it).  Mind you, also outdated is the giant Spitting Image puppet of Thatcher being chased by the scythe-toting Grim Reaper.....got ya.  (And were pre-adolescent working class children really so foul-mouthed up north in the 80s, I certainly wasn't.)  But what a fantastic show, my boys were mesmerised for three hours solid, Almost Naked Animals can't do that (see previous blog).

It was on our way home from the Capital that it all went pear-shaped.  My mum was desperate for a cuppa at Kings Cross but I told her she wouldn't have time to drink it and I'd get her one on the train.

As the Grand Central train slowly pulled out of the station, the chipper voice of the senior onboard crew member (or conductor) welcomed us on board before he dealt the fatal blow.

"We regret to inform passengers that we will not be serving a hot drinks service on this evening's four-hour-long journey."

I glanced over at my mum.  She hadn't heard, so I nipped down to the buffet car and bought her a bottle of wine.

However, while purchasing the wine I made an interesting discovery.  The reason for the 'no hot drinks' policy was because some of the pull-down tables were missing on some of the seats.  'Health and safety' said the shame-faced steward as he stood guard in front of the hot drinks machine.

But hang on a mo, didn't I see steaming cups of coffee as I walked through First Class?

"Ah yes, madam, they all have tables in First Class."

"Well, we have a table in carriage D."

"Tough."

Cups may have been steaming in First Class but the only thing steaming in Standard were the passengers!

Last week, I found myself among a lot of people who know a lot about football and like to voice their opinions, mingled with language akin to that of a 12-year-old from a 1980's strike-ridden County Durham mining community.  Yes, the new footie season is upon us and I seem to be once again the proud owner of a season ticket for Sheffield Wednesday Football Club.

There are many, many diamonds in jewellers shops near and far, but no, my husband annually buys me a small blue and white card with an Owl on it.

So, there I am watching the Owls versus the Millwall Lions (if we liken their odds to those in the animal kingdom, it seems like an obvious conclusion to me).

As the game was about to begin at Hillsborough, the visiting team (Millwall) rather bizarrely came out of the tunnel and proceeded to play in the away kit of the home team (Wednesday) - are you keeping up?

The Millwall players had been forced to borrow Wednesday's spare shirts, shorts and socks as it turned out their kit man had forgotten to bring a fundamental part of their belongings......their entire kit.

One job, the man has one job!

(Maybe their kit is kept on the first floor at The Den, and he forgot why on earth he was going up the stairs!)

Hang on a minute, isn't that my shirt....you'd better not get it dirty mate!

The Adventures of Waggy

I'm sitting watching CITV with the little one and asking myself why. Why, oh why is Almost Naked Animals deemed to be entertainment?  Answers on a postcard please. Where do we go next to push the boundaries, Inside Out Animals.....?
And then there's the (very) regular ten-minute-long commercial breaks filled with adverts that provide plenty of nagging-fodder for the kids.  "But I really, really want one, pleeeeeeeeeeeease!!!!"

With due respect to those good people who have the perhaps unenviable task of coming up with new and exciting toy concepts for the likes of Fisher Price, John Adams and Ideal, or being sacked......what on earth is Doggie Doo, Gooey Louie and Silly Moo?!

Hey kids, it's just fine to pick your nose (or even someone elses), play with the findings and then put it back but be careful, poke around to much and your brain will explode.  And hey, next time you see a pile of animal faeces, just pick it up and play with it, to hell with the raft of illnesses and blindness it could cause not to mention the disgusting smelling and staining properties, you're mum will  be just thrilled if you bring it home.
If you're thinking of purchasing Doggie Doo (well, for a start, STOP READING MY BLOG!) you might want to check out the Amazon reviews first.  Many reviewers observe that the pooh gets stuck inside the Doggy and you will need a screwdriver to open the dog and remove the blockages on a regular basis.  Maybe the game should include a small bag of prunes or some Dulcolax.
There are no reviews yet for Silly Moo.  But it appears the basic premise is that you squeeze it's nipples (sorry, udders) until it 'delivers' either milk or excrement and her eyes pop out when she's fully milked.  Dear God, what next?  And don't get me started on the Blingles kits, for six to 12-year-olds to decorate their iPhone 5.

What happened to Space Hoppers, Pick-a-Stick, Kalashnikov-toting Action Man and who could forget Barbie and Ken.  Good, clean, wholesome fun.....(!?)
Which reminds me mum, I still haven't forgiven you for taking Tiny's head off because sand got in her blinking eyes rendering her not so much Tiny Tears as Tiny Stares.

Speaking of children's toys, we played an enjoyable hour-long game of 'Where's Waggy?' the night before last.  No, (it's not a typo) not the traditional picture-book hunt for the little cheeky chap in the red and white striped sweater.  'Where's Waggy?' involved an international late night man-hunt (well, cat-hunt) for a small stuffed toy who goes by the name of Waggy.  (My young son's capacity to create names for his vast collection of much-loved teddy-bears is outstanding).

It's 10 o'clock and the five-year-old is still wide awake because he can't find Waggy.  We turn the house upside down.  We turn the garage upside down, and check the front and back gardens of all houses in the cul-de-sac. No sign.  We turn the neighbour's house upside down; nothing. I ring his brother in Portugal for advice, 'where was the last time he saw Waggy?'  Good advice.

Now Waggy has a special place in our home, not to mention a growing collection of belongings.  Currently he lives in a shoebox, has a strawberry box bed with two sets of duvet and pillow cases made out of kitchen roll and designed with a felt-tip drawing to mirror Daniel's own duvet sets.  Waggy also owns his own rail card, piece of polyestyrene, elastic band collar with a real cat's bell which Daniel found under a bush in the park and one of those keyring coins you use in the supermarket trolley (also found by Daniel).  Waggy has his own front door key (an old suitcase lock key) and a sticker for being brave at the dentist.

Hey, great TV idea Britain's Biggest Hoarders; the Children Chronicles.  I'll sign him up now.

Anyway, to cut a long story short (!?), we found Waggy, in his shoe box!!  Why the Hell nobody had thought to look there in the first place is beyond me.  I had to make around six phone calls to reassure various fellow Waggy-hunters that he was safe and well and they could go to bed.

I don't think I can top this story today, except maybe for one quick parenting tip.  The sign advising that a soft play area is for under fives should be adhered to by all, especially people in their 40s.
It drives me bonkers to see grown men and women scrambling around encouraging their children to have fun. If they're not having fun without you in a soft play area, please just go home and stick CITV on!

I speak from experience.  Years ago, as a new mum, seeing other parents in the play area with their toddlers, I thought this must be the 'done thing' and headed in.  I came unstuck, or should I say stuck, almost immediately.   I tried to squeeze through one of those horizontal roller mangle thingy-me-bobs.  Basically, I got my head through and, with a lot of huffing and puffing, got my boobs through.  Then I became stuck, totally stuck.  I couldn't go backwards (must have been some untimely hormonal swelling going on), and I couldn't go forwards.  The foam rollers, with all their soft squishy-ness, would quite simply not compress sufficiently to allow my arse to pass through.

I did, of course, finally manage to escape, thankfully before anyone went to find a screwdriver!!  (cue winking smiley face!)

Sun, ping pong glory and a nasty rash

Age, FB and holidays are occupying my limited brain matter today.

Age; having recently passed a very insignificant birthday (21 again, literally!) it did however seem significant that all my cards featured pastel colours, flowers and butterflies.  Hmmmmm....
FB.  Still not a huge fan but tracked down an old school friend who now lives in Bali and still looks like she IS 21 and a friend who's a doctor with a perfectly formed family; bah humbug!!  Going to keep on searching until I find old friends with grey hair, five divorces and jobs at call centres in Croydon.
(only joking S and A; thrilled to be back in touch, and apologies to S (another beautiful and successful school friend) for the Croydon reference.....)

Anyway, and finally, holidays.  Shared my photos on FB when I got home which is a lovely side to FB.  On a cynical note (you know me) however, why do people share their every waking move, drink, swim etc etc while they are still away!?  Is it not just like putting a big sign on your front lawn saying, 'we're away, keys under the mat, PS3 warranty in shoe box under stairs in case you need it'.

Well, we HAD (we're home, Rottweiler is back from kennels and hasn't been fed for a week) a lovely holiday in lovely Portugal.  Sadly it ended with my heart being ripped in two at Faro airport when Teddy got on a different plane to visit his dad in the north.

It was a rather uneventful (in blogging terms) holiday, filled with sunshine, table tennis and delicious yet stroke-inducing Portuguese fodder (the term 'pinch of salt' translates into Portuguese as 'three tablespoons').
And speaking of translations, I spent the week brushing up my fluency skills in the national tongue while all the native Algarvians responded in their first language; English.  And I nearly slapped the Cockney holiday rep who, despite living there for years, STILL didn't pronounce Albufeira or Carvoeiro correctly!!!  You know where I'm coming from don't you, K.  When in Rome, learn how to £$%*ing pronounce Albufeira properly for Goodness sake!  And breath.....sorry.

We were treated to a 4* hotel (thanks mum, you know who you are), which, however, has its downside.  Having worked really hard to lose two stone (thanks WW), I like to think I at least don't embarrass the kids when I don my Bravissimo bikini (sponsorship deals available). However, why is it that at a posh hotel all the ladies are size 8 and under?  Yes, I'm over-generalising (before you shoot me down in flames) but.....  Still, my uber-slim mum was right at home, damn her.

The kids entertainment was limited to a small-ish pool, a rickety old pool and ping pong table with accompanying rickety old balls, bats and cues.
But you know what, you can stick your fancy kids clubs and aqua parks (that's french for water), my amazing boys had a ball (no pun intended).  They made friends with Lars, Mario, Luke, Max, Sam, Daniel, Max (a different one), Duarte and Tiago and the little international group of buddies with ages ranging from 5 to 15 played and played until the sun went down, and some days, nearly came up again!  (They even learnt the skill of catching the pool balls before they went into the pocket to save themselves another Euro and enjoyed the hour-long entertainment of the bar guy dismantling the table to retrieve wayward bouncy balls, about four times a day!)
Even Gary made a new friend; tennis ace Rudger from Holland.  Happy days.

I enjoyed yoga in the shade of a carob tree but was unfortunately popping Predisolone by day three when, despite leaping from shade to shade and slapping on the Piz Buin, I still came out in a nasty rash.
I even had a go at the Kareoke.  I stepped up to the mike for an untuneful rendition of Fico Assim Sem Voce, when Teddy said, 'oh no, don't sing that mum, it'll make me cry'.  Nice one Teddy.  I then proceeded to gurgle the entire song through a mouthful of swallowed salty tears.

I took three back copies of Psychologies on holiday with me, determined to spend some quality 'me' time reading (and learn about mindfulness, CBT techniques and 'the rules of success' at the same time). 

However, it was not to be.  I would lay (with strategically placed items of clothing covering the rash) under the parasol, and raise my magazine.

But then I'd hear the joyful cries of Daniel whooping his beautiful cheeky laugh having pushed unsuspecting Teddy in the pool, or I'd hear Teddy's amazingly fluent and perfectly pronounced Portuguese banter with the boys from Lisbon as they tried to teach him to dive, and the magazine would be gently laid aside.  Plenty of time to read when they leave home.

PS. Tip of the month: don't try to wash leather ballet shoes.....

PPS. For new readers to withdewrespect, I'm only joking!!! (most of the time)  I don't really have a Rottweiler (I'm of the opinion that children actually need their limbs intact for later life), we don't even have a goldfish.  I'll leave my thoughts on the British obsession with keeping animals (especially that strange breed of human who has multiple Rottweilers) for another blog; don't get me started on Pets At Home.....

PPPS (yes, I know you can't have 3 Ps, look, whose blog is this?!)
 This blog is dedicated to my wonderful son Teddy, table tennis champ 2013 (last week in July) Colina da Lapa, well done son, you did yourself proud.  Love you and miss you Teddy, without you, I'm quite simply an 'aviao sem asas'.