tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57092293004523101772024-03-05T00:21:37.686-08:00withdewrespectDianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-77100742275846156782021-05-16T03:28:00.002-07:002021-05-16T03:28:32.350-07:00Unprecedented times (rolling eyes emoji)A bit like when you go into a supermarket for a pint of milk and spend £37.92 but forget the milk, yesterday I went to have my nails done and came out of the salon with my eyebrows waxed and tinted.<div>First time I've ever done this, and perhaps the last. On arrival at home, Daniel looked aghast and said: "What have you done mum? It reminds me of that film, the one with those black and white dogs, you know what I mean mum?!"</div><div>A few moments of thought and the penny dropped. Yep, clearly my eyebrows were more Cruella De Vil than Julia Roberts!"</div><div>I spotted that once again 12 months have passed since I last updated my blog. And what a 12 months it's been! Largely dedicated to the major overuse of the two words 'unprecedented' and 'times'.</div><div>My life has moved on enormously from Community and Environmental Support Officer to Community Coordinator to Team Leader at a Community Testing Centre to Community Partnership Manager - seems I'm doomed to always have the word 'Community' in my job title!!</div><div>Speaking of my new job, my friend sent me a congratulatory message the other day which was ironically sabotaged by either predictive text, fat fingers or she didn't have her glasses on!</div><div>Instead of saying "new beginnings around the corner....." she said asked whether I was looking forward to a new era of "begging around the corner...." Clearly doesn't have much faith that this job's going to last!</div><div>Working at a Covid-19 community testing site has been a novel experience - I never imagined I'd be spending my days saying to complete strangers, "please rub it up and down five times each side and avoid it touching your tongue, teeth or cheeks", and then asking them to clean down the mirror with a wet wipe!</div><div>Things we do to earn a crust eh!? Oh well, beats getting the begging bowl out.....</div><div>A blog wouldn't be a blog without some reference to Teddy'isms and I was having a text tidy on my mobile phone the other day and was intrigued to see the main content of my text conversations with the boy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtD9eCXGl9rpdo8PrdtulZNBEroSydS4KEbRI9sOXXVTGPo23MUTwkEXayusqXGLkkeITJB-YPorbpUPoz1nlvDGvMZIeGoVstda_nFvA-c7A34OZFlkX0TEP77YbYxYxRYv-5dyGAaLtY/s2592/20210515_082516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1944" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtD9eCXGl9rpdo8PrdtulZNBEroSydS4KEbRI9sOXXVTGPo23MUTwkEXayusqXGLkkeITJB-YPorbpUPoz1nlvDGvMZIeGoVstda_nFvA-c7A34OZFlkX0TEP77YbYxYxRYv-5dyGAaLtY/s320/20210515_082516.jpg" /></a></div><br /> (many of which are carried out while we are under the same roof). </div><div>"Can I have some data please mum x?"</div><div>"Can I have some money for dinner please mum x?"</div><div>"What's for tea x?"</div><div>"I need the car today x"</div><div>"What time's tea x?"</div><div>"Love you mum, night night x"</div><div> 😍</div><div> </div><div><br /></div>Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-86853336005228414082020-06-07T07:06:00.001-07:002020-06-07T07:42:39.398-07:00Mid-life crisisSo I'm back, hopefully for a more regular approach to blogging than the current annual instalment, although it appears I didn't blog once in 2019, clearly a busy year !<br />
In fact, 2019 was a momentous year in so many ways for me and my family (I don't even care if the word 'myself' would be grammatically correct here, I'm dead 'ard me). In fact, I think the word should be obliterated from the Oxford English Dictionary on the grounds of its constant mis-use by anyone born in the 1980s and 1990s). They use it to try and sound clever, they get it wrong, they sound dumb. Period.<br />
Where was I? Oh yes, huge year. Well, apart from both children making giant leaps in their education journey, Teddy to college and Daniel to high school, I seem to have had a mid-life crisis while my amazing children took these momentous changes in their stride.<br />
So anyway, we'll talk about me first (what a surprise, I hear my husband cry. No really, he cries)!!!<br />
My choices to deal with said crisis appeared to me in two options; Gin & Tonic or HRT & Hypnotherapy.<br />
As I'm a huge fan of alliteration, and my liver, I decided to go with the latter.<br />
However, I've since gone on to mess with my liver thanks to fungal toenail medication and Gary bought me some gin for my 48th birthday so I went for a double-whammy of (mid-life) crisis management, chin, chin!!<br />
Slurp.<br />
So, I may have mentioned before, I'm a bit of a worker bee (hence huge absences in blogging due to the fact than in any given 24 hour period, I'm either working or sleeping). I'd like to say I have a 'portfolio career', when in fact the truth is more along the lines of a 'taking anything that I'm offered' career. I don't, however, often word it as such on job applications.<br />
I've flitted from journalism to PR to marketing with random jobs in golf clubs and a theatre box office thrown in for good measure.<br />
Then in 2019, from a life largely sat on my backside staring at a computer screen I took a leap of faith into the complete unknown and a life on the streets. No really, I mean it.<br />
My smart feminine blouse, culottes and quirky brogues went out of the window and were replaced by hob-nailed boots, teflon trousers and a hi-vis bomber jacket - sexy eh?!<br />
Think cross between street cleaner and PCSO without any powers, no whistle (huge disappointment to Daniel), not as many pockets and no dust cart.<br />
Yep, on full mid-life crisis mode, I decided a career change would be more practical than a divorce or a sports car. I kinda like my husband (sometimes) and I couldn't get the kids' cricket paraphernalia in an SLK.<br />
Nearly a year in and I'm still treading the beat and was even heralded a 'hero' by my employer this week, about an hour before my car broke down and my cape slipped silently away as I sat patiently in my not-so-Smart-car and awaited rescue by the RAC.<br />
It's also been a year where I have fully made use of my NI payments, thanks to the wonderful people of the NHS who have been busy straightening my son's wonky teeth and yanking my other son's shoulder back into place on numerous occasions.<br />
Then along came 2020 with joy, hope, train track braces installed, shoulder soundly riveted back into place, jobs bumbling along nicely, we get to March and wham, bam, thank you ma'am, in steps Covid-19 stage left and it all goes a bit, shall we say, tits up.....<br />
<br />Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-9440169305727016892018-12-31T09:57:00.004-08:002018-12-31T12:04:57.253-08:00FortniteDear neglected diary (yes, I know it's a blog, I just felt like being all Bridget Jones about it)<br />
I've just looked back and it's been months, nay, seasons, since I posted. Life has been bonkers busy recently and with every www waking moment, I've been writing for work not for pleasure, although they are one-and-the-same as I do love my job but writing for withdewrespect does not a mortgage pay.<br />
But now sinus infection has rendered me a few rare moments of inactivity, I have chance to catch up with the world of withdewrespect.<br />
I've just read back to 4th November 2017 (a particularly fun one if you'd care to scroll) and seen that Daniel was then on PS3 playing Minecraft. Fast-forward a year and he's now on PS4 and, like everyone between the ages of 10 and 16, on Fortnite, cue sigh and eye-rolling from every parent of an aforementioned 10 to 16-year-old.<br />
And, as of today, not just playing, but live streaming, bless his little cotton socks (although I'm not sure you can get a skin with cotton socks, that clearly wouldn't be cool, although having a burger for a head apparently is!). It's great actually, I'm laid up in bed but can log on to Twitch and see what Daniel is up to in the room next door, it's like having a baby monitor again!<br />
It's amazing what we can do on the www now (said the old lady blogger); I can turn the heating up or down without getting out of bed. In fact I can go to the other side of the world and turn my heating up or down, get me! In fact, I have never ever wanted to go to Australia (you know, my spider thing) but now I want to go just so I can turn my heating up or down while I'm there. Of course, my husband would have to stay at home to check that it is actually going up or down or what would be the point!?<br />
This remote / artificial / cyber intelligence thing is the future apparently. I want to be like the girl in Matrix who asks her brain implant chip thing to source instantaneous knowledge to fly a helicopter. Of course, I'd use it for something much more useful than flying a helicopter to escape certain death, like to summon up a nice recipe for lasagne, set a reminder to buy cat litter or order some printer ink on Amazon. Like Alexa, only actually in my head.<br />
In fact, there may soon be very little reason to leave bed, let alone leave the house. I sometimes wonder why we bother anyway. I took the boys to Munich last year and later asked them what they had learnt about the city and Bavarian culture. Daniel: "They eat sausages", Teddy: "....and ride bikes".<br />
Another recent trip had me chuckling at the banality of the road 'warnings' when you get north of Carlisle. Life in the northern most parts of our beautiful country is certainly not spent in the proverbial fast lane. In fact, I don't think anyone has ever used the outside lane on the A74(M), it still has its wrapper on.<br />
Road signs up there can hardly be bothered lighting up at all and when they do they literally yawn out messages like 'drive efficiently', 'fasten your safety belt', 'soft tyres waste fuel', 'blah, blah', 'yadder, yadder'. On the M62 round our way, the incessantly flashing signage is much more shouty; 'slow down, debris on the road', 'incident ahead', 'hours and hours of delay ahead', 'have you brought a flask, you could be here a while?'<br />
On the same trip, while touring round the Lake District, I was highly amused when we came across Loch Lochy.<br />
It's as if the Lakes Naming Committee had had a long day. Catering had gone home, the tea urn had been turned off and the caretaker was peering through the door and looking at his watch, so somebody piped up; "look guys, there's just one more lake to name, fuck it, let's just call it Loch Lochy so we can all go home! All in favour....."<br />
<br />
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<br />Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-30810113283751399142018-06-08T06:08:00.003-07:002018-06-27T08:12:47.877-07:00The C-C SyndromeIs Mother Nature having a laugh?<br />
<br />
I mean really, is she sat in her ivory tower somewhere in the clouds, having a cuppa and sniggering behind her hand, Horrid Henry-fashion (Dennis the Menace-fashion for more mature readers), saying to herself: "Let's see how they handle this one!"<br />
<br />
I refer to the approximate, yet highly likely, timing of a woman's menopause years to, frighteningly, coincide with her children being teenagers.<br />
<br />
C-C Syndrome appears to have arrived in my life of recent months and, guess what, I have one pre-teen and one full-blown one, thank you Ms N!!!!<br />
<br />
I'm in denial of course, so refuse to use the M word by name and am affectionately referring to it as Cardi on-Cardi off Syndrome, or C-C for short. (In winter, my acronym will still work as I'm darn sure it will become Coat on-Coat off)<br />
<br />
Anyways, before the C-C central heating fires up once again and I strip off and lay naked on the lino (or before my boss comes in), back to those boys and their unwittingly funny banter.<br />
<br />
Just a normal day having tea with the pair and Teddy, the older one, is telling Daniel, the younger one, about the fingerprint scanning system which they use in his high school canteen to take payment for dinner. <br />
A quick aside; I genuinely wonder if Teddy thinks he stores money under his skin. I'm not sure he realises it links to an account where I regularly, oh so regularly, deposit wads of money to fund his relentless diet of crap followed by more crap. I thought Jamie Oliver had some sort of say over what they eat in schools these days, nothing resembling healthy seems to be on the menu at my son's school.<br />
<br />
Well, back to the tea table at home, and Daniel, who is heading to high school next year, asks his brother how the fingerprint scanner works: "How do you pay for your dinner at school Teddy?"<br />
<br />
Teddy: "They use a thumb-scanning machine."<br />
<br />
Daniel nearly chokes on his sausage sandwich (yes, looks like Jamie isn't in charge of the menu in our house either), and, clearly horrified, blurts out: "What!?!? A bum-scanning machine???????"<br />
<br />
He then asks me politely if he can please go to a different high school to Teddy, to allow him to preserve his dignity at dinnertime.<br />
<br />
And speaking of dinner. In Yorkshire, we famously call a spade a spade but in London it seems they're intent on calling it anything but.<br />
<br />
On a recent trip, I discovered that in London, menu items such as salmon or chicken are generically referred to as 'protein'. I selected a salad in the British Library café, only for the long-suffering counter assistant to spot a northerner a mile off and pretentiously sigh, 'do you want protein with that?', barely disguising her eye roll when I politely asked what the fuck she was on about!<br />
<br />
I then proceeded to order a side plate of complex-carbohydrates, a dollop of polyunsaturated fat, a smidge of starch, a slurp of dairy, a soupcon of caffeine and some refined sugars for good measure. I asked her to go easy on the pesto which, never mind belonging to its own food group, in my opinion needs a Government health warning, along with <em>Apium graveolens</em> (or celery as it's known up north).<br />
<br />
After my yummy protein, I asked the chap on the Library's information desk whether I should walk or take the tube to the National Gallery. He assured me it was far too far to walk, proclaiming: "And I'm a keen walker, look, I have a FitBit and everything."<br />
<br />
I took his advice and set off to the underground station only to find it surrounded by the flashing blue lights of police cars and ambulances. I asked a man in a news kiosk what was going on and got more information than I had bargained for: "Somebody has jumped in front of a train," he said, and then added: "I once worked in a hotel and found a man hung in a wardrobe."<br />
<br />
I walked to the National Gallery, it took me less than an hour. We're made of stern stuff us northern lasses.Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-80675616625291385602017-12-27T07:37:00.001-08:002017-12-27T12:11:41.514-08:00One thing led to acca'notherJust been to see <i>Pitch Perfect 3</i> with my little lad Daniel. #lovedit<br>
Especially delighted to see one of my #ifIweregay faves in it, Ruby Rose (<i>OITNB</i>) who is top of the 'if'-list closely followed by Julia Roberts (circa. <i>Pretty Woman</i> not <i>Notting Hill</i> (Hugh Grant, really?)) and Claire (oh, and Gloria, <i>claro</i>) from <i>Modern Family</i>. Is that list too long?<br>
Anyway, a few weeks before his 10th birthday, Daniel asked for a goalkeeper shirt as a present.<br>
A month later, I bought myself new car.<br>
Trust me, there's a link, and a story, oh boy, there's always a story.<br>
Daniel asked for a Bayern Munich goalie shirt so I messaged friends who I knew were holidaying in Spain, the land of the cheap replica footie kits.<br>
A grand later, the four of us were on a plane to Munich.<br>
So, no-one being able to find a shirt in a Spanish market, led to looking on the internet for one, browsing the Bayern online store, looking at Daniel's wide-eyed wonder at the images of the stadium, opening a new Google Chrome window and searching for flights..... Not that I'm a push-over or anything, just a sucker for my boys' big brown eyes and their fluttering long eyelashes.<br>
Yadder, yadder, Munich; amazing city, wonderful people, public transport that runs on time, clean, tidy, friendly folk asking if we were lost, even before we knew we were lost, a slightly furrowed brow enough to engage a passer-by sufficiently to check if we needed any help, I could go on but I won't (for a change). Our hotel was near the Mercedes HQ and, popping in 'just for a look' at the fancy cars, I fell in love, with the smallest car in the joint, Smart eh?!<br>
Now anybody who cares to listen to me (and some that don't have a choice) has now heard that I've got a new car. Not any old new car, a Smart new car.<br>
Being very proud of my little shiny motor, I was explaining to a colleague that this vehicle may be very small and not really very fancy, but that it comes from the Mercedes family and has a Daimler engine.<br>
To which my colleague (clearly not listening properly) responded: "You what, a Dame Edna engine?"<br>
Pah, theatre folk!!!<br>
My new Dame Edna-engine'd vehicle may actually represent be the early signs of MLC creeping in. *Mid-life crisis<br>
I'm in denial about most aspects of ML. Even though this Christmas Gary bought me a lower back support cushion and I got him a voucher for an eye test - please remember WDR (withdewrespect) is all true!<div>Then there's my own failing eyesight.<br>
The other day Daniel held up a Love Heart sweet for me to read. I kept asking him to hold the sweet further and further away to allow my eyes to focus on the tiny words, until finally he quipped: "Shall I go to Africa mum?"<br>
It's like Daniel's a little pocket-sized comedian, his wit effortless and half the time, in complete blissful ignorance with just a little bit of complete bonkersness thrown in for good measure.<br>
His 15-year-old brother wandered past him the other day and Daniel wafted his hand in front of his nose and remarked: "Phew Teddy, you've gone a bit overboard with the astroturf, er, I mean deodorant!"<br>
Say what!?!?<br>
I'll round off with a couple of classics not from Daniel for a change but from a little black book of 'customers comments' that we have at my day job in a local theatre box office.<br>
Customer: "I'm interested in coming to see Lesley Garrett; will she be singing and telling antedotes?"<br>
<br>
Customer: "Good morning, I've got some buckets ticked for a show, wait, that's not right......"<br>
<br>
Customer: "Can I book two tickets for Tarzan please?"<br>
Box Office Assistant: "Do you mean The Jungle Book?"<br>
Customer: "Same thing."<br>
<br>
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<br></div>Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-25561334153062398542017-11-04T08:37:00.002-07:002017-11-04T09:53:46.713-07:00People who live in glass houses<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I've discovered that alongside PCP, I am also a complete control freak (who knew!?), no acronym required.<br />
In a cafe the other day I was multi-tasking; perusing the cake cabinet at the same time as telling my 9-year-old to take his coat off: "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel....take your coat off, it's warm in here, take your coat off, Daniel, Daniel!"<br />
As I turned back to Daniel he gave me one of his withering looks and in a calm and dry tone said: "Well I was doing, before you started with the Daniel'ing".<br />
<br />
Speaking of Daniel.... He's a boy with all the usual 'boy' attributes; he plays Minecraft on his PS3, kicks a ball around a muddy field every Sunday morning, collects Match Attax cards and likes guns and knives. He also, as has been analysed in many an edition of withdewrespect, has a, erm, softer side which was never more apparent than a conversation the other day.<br />
<br />
We were looking at Swiss Army Knives and discussing the values of all their many attachments, knives in all shapes and sizes for various purposes, scissors, a bottle opener etc etc.<br />
<br />
Daniel pipes up: "Mum, shall I tell you what would be really good as another attachment?"<br />
Me: "What you thinking Daniel?"<br />
Daniel: "A comb".<br />
<br />
This kid was just born funny, it's not something you can learn, or clearly as you can see from this blog, inherit. He just opens his mouth and is funny.<br />
<br />
Here's another one.....<br />
Due to his 'softer' side, he is prone to shedding a tear or two at will (and usually for completely no good reason). The other day he was crying at the same time as eating a rice cake and, being the cold and cruel mother that I am, was laughing at him.<br />
In between sobs he looked daggers at me and hissed: "Don't laugh, you've must made me miss my mouth and choke!!!"<br />
<br />
And another......<br />
During a recent trip to North Yorkshire, we were taking a stroll along a riverside and Daniel and his dad were stopping every now and then to throw stones into the water.<br />
I was very bored, chilly and wanted to keep walking and politely expressed my eagerness to keep going and questioned why we needed to stop every beeping 100 yards to chuck things in!!<br />
<br />
Daniel replied: "Mum, we're boys, it's what we do!"<br />
Payback time.<br />
Me: "Well can we please get a bloody move on, the village is still three miles away and there's a tea shop and I want a cup of tea; I'm a girl, it's what we do!"<br />
<br />
I'm trying to bring him up to respect the fairer (in all senses of the word) sex but it would appear that I've failed miserably.<br />
Driving through Cornwall on (yet another) recent holiday, the sat-nav with a lovely female voice was leading us, with dulcet tones, down stupidly narrow streets and up ridiculously steep hills.<br />
Daniel decides to throw in his two penn'orth: "Dad, why don't you change your sat-nav settings to a man's voice, then it will choose smarter routes?"<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-45460931485717513632017-08-15T07:52:00.001-07:002017-11-04T09:01:52.914-07:00I have PCP, but I don't think it's catchingSo, I'm finally ready to come out of the closet.<br />
(Which you will soon see is a remarkably apt use of analogy)<br />
<br />
I admit it, (drum roll).....I have PCP.<br />
<br />
There, I've said it.<br />
The world now knows my deepest, darkest secret (well, those people in the world who read my blog, which is, say around 10, on a good day).<br />
<br />
I don't know when my PCP first manifested itself, probably years ago, but it's currently out-of-control. <br />
<br />
For example. <br />
Yesterday, two coats and a pair of shoes were purchased, taken home and put away in my wardrobe. <br />
<br />
Today, all were removed from wardrobe, labels re-attached, re-bagged and all were returned to source.<br />
<br />
PCP (self-named acronym for self-named Purchase Commitment Phobia) symptoms include a weird guilt-laden panic-like state, felt head to toe. <br />
It begins when it dawns on you that too much money has been spent on something that you don't really, really need - and can, however, be debilitating when you do actually need something! <br />
<div>
<br />
Symptoms are immediately alleviated once the return has been processed and light-headed relief slowly replaces the breathless, arm-tingling tension that had begun to build while the purchase was 'in the closet'.<br />
It's not life-threatening.<br />
<br />
The youth of today (pft), are creating their very own version of the English language, and no doubt other languages around the world, as they snap, tweet and text their way through life (don't even get me started on their new usage of the word 'sick').<br />
I suspect within just a few years the Oxford English Dictionary will be adding the word 'lobe' - as a separate entry and entirely unrelated to anything to do with ears. <br />
Lobe (2) Meaning: <br />
<ol class="b_dList b_indent">
<li><div class="dc_nml">
<div class="dc_pm">
<div class="dc_mn">
a strong feeling of affection</div>
<div>
<span class="b_demoteText" data-applinkhookid="demoteText"><span style="color: #767676;"></span></span> </div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="dc_nml">
<div class="dc_pm">
<div class="dc_mn">
a great interest and pleasure in something</div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="dc_nml">
<div class="dc_pm">
<div class="dc_mn">
a person or thing that one lobes</div>
<div>
<span class="b_demoteText" data-applinkhookid="demoteText"><span style="color: #767676;"></span></span> </div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
<li><div class="dc_nml">
<div class="dc_pm">
<div class="dc_mn">
(in tennis, squash, and some other sports) a score of zero; nil</div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div>
<div class="dc_pd">
<div class="dc_gr">
Verb<strong>: lobes</strong> (third person present) · <strong>lobed</strong> (past tense) · <strong>lobed</strong> (past participle) · <strong>lobing</strong> (present participle)</div>
<ol class="b_dList b_indent"><span class="dc_bld ">
<li><div class="dc_nml">
<div class="dc_pm">
<div class="dc_mn">
feel deep affection or lobe for (someone): </div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
</span></ol>
<span class="dc_bld ">
</span>On a regular basis (mainly on days when he's forgotten his PE kit, needs a lift to his friend's or wants a tenner), my teenage son tells me in a text: "I lobe you c"</div>
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Oh, and that's another thing, the letter X will be eradicated, simply because it's just too darn near the C on a Qwerty keyboard and seemingly impossible to hit on a touch-screen when you're not actually looking at said touch-screen - and therefore not essential.<br />
I routinely text him back and tell him, I'm at work and can't traipse up to school with his blooming PE kit; he can stop being a lazy git and walk to his friend's house and he can sod off and ask his father for some money! But I always add: "I lobe you too"<br />
<br />
I'll round off for today with another gem from my job in a theatre Box Office. <br />
Me: "Would you like to buy a programme for £2?"<br />
Customer: "Maybe, how much are they?"<br />
<br />
Mind you, if I was the customer, I'd be more likely to ask: "If I decide I don't need it, can I have my money back please?"<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-16552813504411852222017-05-22T08:38:00.002-07:002017-11-04T09:53:00.069-07:00A wee football tripTaking the boys to their football games is such a constant joy, nay the highlight of my week. There's nothing I would rather be doing on a Sunday morning than getting up at some God-forsaken hour and driving up hill and down dale around West Yorkshire following sat-nav to some field, somewhere where it's muddy, raining and blowing a hooley (please note heavy sarcasm and the subliminal angst in my cathartic heavy usage of the keyboard as I type this).<br />
<br />
This week it was away, somewhere in a field in Halifax, with son 2 Daniel (numbered by arrival into the world not preference to reiterate from a previous blog on the subject of offspring numbering).<br />
<br />
On arrival at our destination in Halifax, Daniel and his dad recognised the pitch and started recalling memories of their previous visit, the weather, where the pitch was, where they parked, the score, who scored etc (sad, very sad the male aptitude to memorise football trivia, yes, you heard right male, other more PC blogs are available, just not at withdewrespect).<br />
<br />
I also recognised the location and cheerfully chipped in: "Oh I remember Daniel, they didn't have any toilets and I needed a wee so I had to drive miles to the nearest civilised supermarket with a loo and I missed most of the game."<br />
<br />
They both looked at me and Daniel replied: "I'm sure you weren't with us mum, it was just me and dad."<br />
<br />
Dad confirmed this was indeed the case.<br />
<br />
I wracked my brain, fully recalling in minute detail the toilet trauma.<br />
<br />
It was quite some time later than it finally dawned on me; it was actually child 1, Teddy, I had brought to this pitch, not Daniel at all!!!!<br />
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Clearly a minor detail in my random memory bank.<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-49480347057371370172017-04-29T02:28:00.005-07:002017-04-29T16:06:22.102-07:00Our SongI'm going to a wedding today so recalled a recent romantic tale of my own, be warned it might get messy.<br>
<br>
Plus, I've been told off by one of my avid readers for not blogging enough. Three words; job(s), family, life......walking bus, kids' taxi service, cooking, cleaning, sleeping, pilates, ballet, tap, personal hygiene.....you knew it was never going to be only three words didn't you?<br>
<br>
But actually Mr Avid Reader has a point so I've decided to adopt a <i>little and often</i> (also the name of a great singing duo from Huddersfield, Google them) approach rather than waiting until I have multitude of blogging gems to impart. The other plus side to this is that I'm getting incredibly forgetful these days so when there's a blog-worthy incident I have to jot it down quickly before I forget, and then I forget where I've put the bit of paper, closely followed by forgetting that I ever wrote it down in the first place.<br>
<br>
Withdewrespect prides itself on being a <i>warts 'n' all, spill the beans, tell it how it is</i> kinda blog.<br>
<br>
However, some things must remain private and I'm afraid the origins of <i>our song</i> (me and Mr Withdewrespect) will remain thus, and never be aired on primetime national radio alongside the dulcet tones of Simon Bates (is that still on? I'm old now and listen to Radio 4 so folk think I'm clever).<br>
<br>
Anyway, the story behind 'our song' will not be aired here except to say that such was its romantic, sweet and innocent poignancy in the history in our relationship that we had it played on a CD player in the registry office as we signed on the dotted line, some 15 years, two marriages and four children after we'd first met (not, I hasten to clarify, all with each other).<br>
<br>
Imagine my, erm, shall we say, surprise, when I was in the kitchen the other day (cooking and listening to BBCR4) when I heard 'our song' floating out of the lounge where Daniel was watching TV.<br>
<br>
It's a little known song, from an even littler known artist and is very rarely heard these days so I was intrigued and dashed into the lounge.<br>
<br>
Right there, right then, every shred of romance was instantly ripped out 'our song' and we can safely say my heart will not be a'fluttering every time I hear the song in the future. Instead, I will see red, literally!<br>
<br>
There on the screen, as Harry Nilsson belted out his rousing chorus, were a dozen Dachshunds bounding across a field adoring hot dog baps on their backs and leaping into the arms of awaiting men wearing full-body lifesize bottles of the full plethora of sauces in the Heinz range.<br>
<br>
On the upside, everytime Daniel squeezes a huge dollop of tommy sauce on his plate I can forever be reminded of my very own Mr W. <br>
<br>
Romance, still very much alive and squirting in the Withdewrespect household!<br>
<br>
That's all for now folks, ketchup with you later (sorry, couldn't resist).<br>
<br>
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<br>Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-40574505140108038832017-04-18T08:06:00.002-07:002017-11-04T09:59:20.919-07:00Status pendingAny discerning <strong><em>withdewrespect</em></strong> reader understands my love-hate (mainly the latter) relationship with Facebook but I was astounded this week to check my profile and spot that, according to the social media giant, my kinship / genetic association with my firstborn has a large question mark hanging over it.<br />
<br />
It links my profile with that of Teddy Ferreira, detailing, Relationship: SON (pending).<br />
<br />
Clearly my history of antics as a football mum are causing him to publically deny our blood bond.<br />
<br />
I just don't understand it. For example, only last week I was perfectly dignified on the side-line.<br />
<br />
I had bought myself a cup of tea from Costa on the way to his game. While the teams were warming up, I sat in my car and picked up the cup from the drink holder. Oddly, tea was streaming out of the bottom of the cup and soaked my legs, coat and seat before I opened the door and put the cup down on the floor outside the car. <br />
<br />
I cleared myself up the best I could, reached down to pick up the cup, got out and set off walking only to take two steps before squealing in pain as a sharp object pierced through my wellington boots, ski socks and inevitably, my skin.<br />
<br />
I hopped around with the leaking cup of tea in one hand, trying to remove the sharp object from my flesh and pull off my boot and sock with my other hand; I'm such a cool football mum.<br />
<br />
The mysterious spikey object was from a stash of drawing pins that I keep in the car for displaying signage on my clients' noticeboards.<br />
And, to add insult to clearly very un-di<br />
<div>
gnified injury, it was the very same drawing pin that pierced the cup and then (after I put the tea on the floor) fell out of the cup and I pierced my foot as I stepped on it!<br />
<br />
Once again in my quest to become super-cool-mum, I've gone and put my foot in it.<br />
<br />
Looks like my bid to attain motherhood status will remain 'pending' for a while longer.<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-42987354944797236152017-04-18T08:00:00.004-07:002017-11-04T10:02:23.803-07:00A pedestrian lifeMy part-time <em>'for the love of it'</em> job in Box Office at my local theatre is a daily source of gems for <em><strong>withdewrespect</strong></em>, unfortunately most of them practically unprintable they are so ridiculous.<br />
Here's a common one.<br />
<br />
Customer: "I've got a query about my print-at-home ticket."<br />
Me: "OK, how can I help?"<br />
Customer: "Do I need to print it at home?"<br />
<br />
Tip of a very big iceberg of customers with queries on a sliding scale from dumb to dumber.<br />
<br />
Home is no respite from the bizarreness.<br />
<br />
Daniel (the 9-year-old, hollering from his bedroom): "Mum, guess what? I don't have an egg to spawn a horse but I can ride on an out-of-control pig."<br />
Me: "That's nice son."<br />
<br />
By choice, I'm a pedestrian more often than a passenger or driver.<br />
<br />
And I find that we're a dying breed, a rarity on the streets and very much second fiddle to the chunks of metal with whom we share the highways and byways.<br />
<br />
Cars reluctantly and impatiently slam on their brakes at pedestrian crossings, their drivers glaring as you cross the road in front of them. The risk of getting caught on camera and penalty points on their licence being the only reason they hold back from ploughing you down for having impeded their journey. The fact that you've been stood there for ten minutes in the pouring rain, repeatedly and ineffectively pressing the button is of no matter. Traffic light settings are always biased towards keeping the traffic moving and the pedestrian waiting.<br />
<br />
And don't get me started about pavement parking where drivers think the 'kerb' is just a small step to a great place to park, or at times, even drive.<br />
<br />
Even the word pedestrian has a derogatory co-usage, the adjective meaning 'lacking inspiration or excitement, dull with synonyms including plodding, tedious, monotonous, tiresome, lifeless, unimaginative, uncreative and dry'.<br />
<br />
Seems harsh, I just like walking.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking of taking up Nordic Walking, both as a way to keep fit and to ensure my children have just one more reason to be thoroughly embarrassed by their mum. See next blog for further examples.<br />
<br />
I like the sound of any activity which requires equipment and prompts a trip to <em>Go Outdoors</em>. This is commonly and swiftly followed by a week spent on Ebay selling all the impractical items I have purchased (for further reference read my previous blogs of a <em>Carry on Camping</em> nature, or should I correctly re-order, a right 'camping carry on'!)<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-53801660808383108082017-01-02T11:57:00.000-08:002017-01-06T03:04:21.494-08:00Fudge for breakfastSo, who was it said, "<i>man cannot live by chocolate orange, heroes, wensleydale with apricots and mince pies alone</i>'?<br />
Well, they couldn't have been more wrong.<br />
This has been my staple diet for more than a week now and I'm still alive and kicking.<br />
I may be the size of a small island in the Indian Ocean, with more spots than a Dalmatian, more wired than Michael McIntyre on speed, and hysterically prone to spouting comic references to poor-diet-induced side effects, but I am still breathing nonetheless.<br />
Actually, was it "bread"? <br />
Whatever!<br />
Quite frankly, it's my blog so I'll just make it up, I'm too tired, bloated and malnourished to care so you'd better not argue with me or I'll sit on you. Or I would, if I could actually get off the sofa.<br />
It's January 2nd, my 'healthy eating' resolution went out of the window on January 1st when I started the day with, erm, rum and raisin fudge.<br />
<br />
For a while last year, I suffered from vertigo and splinters in my behind while I sat atop of the fence, soaking up the barrage of dubious facts and figures from both sides in the run-up to the EU referendum.<br />
I weighed up the pros and cons and quite frankly, I can see good and bad in everyone, oh wait, is that just a line from a dodgy 80s song?<br />
I know it's taken me some time to get on my soap box about this but, to be honest, it took a while to climb down from the fence and then I started on the wenseydale.....<br />
In summary, there was an election, closely followed by mass hysteria on Facebook and an unprecedented outpouring of hatred, name-calling and rudeness, branding out-ers as simple-minded, racist, coffin-dodging psychopaths.<br />
I understand the stakes (or at least, as much as anyone can without a crystal ball or a time-machine) but I genuinely think the backlash was uncalled for and shouting, 'let's vote again' was akin to a bossy boots kid in the playground doing 'rock, paper, scissors' again and again until they're not out.<br />
You know what, we're six months on, the world is still turning.<br />
I may not have much of an opinion about the European Union but I do have an opinion about people sulking just because not everyone agrees with them.<br />
We all see things differently at the end of the day, surely that's the beauty of being an individual, with unique thoughts and respectful of other people's opinions with regard to religion, politics, the EU, Victoria Beckham's OBE, Marmite. <br />
For example, there were some fireworks on the television on New Year's Eve and my friend said they looked like curly fries, I thought they looked like sperm; we didn't fall out.<br />
<br />
Teddy, now a teenager, is usually to be found in his bedroom doing what teenager boys do best (don't ask me). Just before Christmas, I walked in unannounced and he quickly hid something behind his back and went bright red. Alarm bells rang and I suspected the worst, especially when I glimpsed the glue stick.<br />
The next day he came down with a present he'd wrapped for me, he couldn't find the sellotape so he'd tried to use Pritt Stick bless him.<br />
Today's motto; always look for the best in people without presuming the worst, whatever they vote and whatever they are doing with the glue.<br />
<br />
My blog wouldn't be the same without a Daniel-ism and he never disappoints, especially on the football pitch. Playing in goal the other day, his manager shouted and gestured for him to use his hands and pick up the approaching ball up. <br />
Not hearing properly, he misinterpreted the coach's gesticulations and, complete with actions, shouted, 'what do you mean, jazz hands?!'<br />
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<br />Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-36154315128279681972016-09-24T05:45:00.001-07:002016-09-24T06:30:39.224-07:00D for DenialOK, so this <em>Pride </em>thing, where do I sign my son up? Is there an application form I can pick up from the Post Office? I don't want to miss the deadline, he's nearly 9, should he be on the waiting list yet?<br />
<br />
Daniel has been round at our neighbours and the 13-year-old daughter has put make-up on him, much to his delight.<br />
That's not unusual about that, I hear you cry. He's a boy, having fun with his friend, messing about.<br />
<br />
Quite right. My point is that when he came back, it took me and his brother half an hour to even notice he was wearing make-up!!<br />
<br />
I suddenly understand what people who have male and female offspring are banging on about when they brag, 'oh, I'm so pleased, I have one of each'.<br />
<br />
Daniel has a tendency for 'breaking wind' when he's having a giggling fit and I always worry that he may, erm, <em>follow through,</em> shall we say'. The other day I told him to calm down: "Be careful Daniel or you might come out." (oh well, I thought, save you doing it when you're 24)<br />
<br />
Speaking of form-filling, I took Daniel and his friend to their athletics training the other day and had to fill in a medical form for both of them.<br />
I asked his friend: "Have you ever had any illnesses?"<br />
Friend shook his head but Daniel piped up: "Yes you have, you had shingle bells once."<br />
<br />
Greeting the aforementioned adorable little boy when he came home from a day at his friend's house yesterday, I said: "Hi Daniel, I missed you today."<br />
To which he retorted: "But dad's been here with you."<br />
"Well, yes I know, but he was busy working in the other room."<br />
Daniel: "But, you've got the TV."<br />
"I know Daniel but I didn't want to watch anything."<br />
"Well, you've got the washing machine and ironing and washing up."<br />
<br />
Silly me.<br />
<br />
I've decided that in our house, OCD has two acronymic variations.<br />
<br />
For me, it stands for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, so out of the closet and comfortable with my D for Disorder that I'm sat on top of the closet, clad in my Marigolds and proudly waving my duster (but will have to get the Dyson out to clean up from after all the duster waving).<br />
<br />
My dear husband, however, is still inside the closet, hanging his hangers the same way round and, in his case, the D of OCD is for Denial.<br />
<br />
The other day I momentarily abandoned some crumbs on the worktop. In the split second while I turned to take some cutlery to the sink, he pounced like a hungry crumb-eating tiger. I jumped in front of him and mentioned the D word (Disorder) and he completely Denied it.<br />
<br />
I challenged him to leave the crumbs to which he scoffed that it wasn't a problem. So I left the room, admittedly twitching slightly myself, but like I say, I'm healthily embracing my 'hygiene issues' (once I've wiped them down of course).<br />
<br />
My back was scarcely turned and the crumbs were gone. Sigh.<br />
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The <em>'baby on board'</em> sticker industry has gone bonkers. Now it's personalised <em>'Samuel and Maisy on Board'</em>, <em>'Alfie's Little Sister on Board'. B</em>efore it's even born the baby's presence in the vehicle gets a proud sticker mention as the other say I spied <em>'Mum-to-be on Board'. </em>Cue more sighing.<br />
<em></em><br />
Hey, what about taking it back a step further; <em>'Get Out of the Way, Horny Male on his Way to have Sex with his Bird and perhaps get her Knocked up on Board'</em>. (sorry about that, but the 'twinkle in his eye' pun is just a bit too tame and dated in a post-Jeremy Kyle era)<br />
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I need one for my car. <em>'Slightly Depressed, Slightly Overweight, Very Overworked and Very Underpaid Middle-aged Mum-of-two and Wife to one OCD-inflicted Husband on Board'</em>.<br />
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And then I want another sticker under it saying 'GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY (as Kathy Bates said in one of my favourite films <em>Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café</em>), <em>I'm older and have more insurance</em>.'<br />
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<br />Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-70389658384600072732016-06-10T07:07:00.002-07:002016-06-24T13:04:35.973-07:00From the mouths of babes and teenagersThe other day, my younger son's school was celebrating the Queen's 90th birthday with a red, white and blue-themed non-uniform day.<br />
On my walking bus-run to school, I overheard one of the littlies behind me say to her walking partner: "The Queen is coming to our school today."<br />
Her friend scornfully replied, : "Pfft, don't be so silly, no she isn't, she's in London and very busy!!!"<br />
Girl 1: "Busy doing what?"<br />
Girl 2, (deadpan): "Ruling the world."<br />
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Something has dawned on me.<br />
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Blogging suits me more than other forms of social media for the following reason: It suits people who like to rant on a bit, air their woes, rail against the world (and, quite frankly, some of the annoying people who live in it), protest about personal injustice, injury (or a bit of a cold), without having people listen / read, nod /click 'like' and then proceed tell you their bloody story!<br />
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I understand that the 'exchange of stories' concept makes up the essential elements of 'conversation'; one person says something and then another responds. However, why is it that when you share that you've got a headache, someone else has a 'migraine', when you've been to Brid, they've been to Bali, when your kid has scored a goal, they know somebody, who knows somebody who knows somebody who works for Richard Branson? Yes, even totally unrelated one-upmanship!<br />
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Then there's the opposite direction, where you one-downmanship someone in the vein of the Monty Python's Four Yorkshiremen (Google it if you've under 40).<br />
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Non-blog forms of social media are OK for having a random moan (or show off) but there's that sneaky 'comment' button which means people just can't resist having their two-penneth.<br />
Thus, the best thing about blogging is being able to show off, whinge, moan and be opinionated at will, and nobody gets to reply!!! (OK, thank you so much <i>voice in head</i> for pointing out that nobody actually reads my blog and therefore I whingeth in vain but, hey, you're talking to someone who believes passionately in the cathartic powers of putting fingers to keyboard so shut up <i>voice in head</i>!!)<br />
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So, to write an (allegedly) humorous blog, one needs inspiration of a humorous nature and with the passing of my father in January, funnily enough, life hasn't been a barrel of laughs recently.<br />
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It's been quite the opposite actually and I seem to be swirling around in a pit of general down-ness and therefore blog inspiration has been lacking.<br />
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Low mental health tends to send me in the direction of the doctors where I have a penchant for self-diagnosis and tend to walk in, sit down, gabble out my symptoms, suggest a cause and cure and write my own prescription before they can even ask me to take a seat.<br />
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So for want of humour, I'll self-style a 80s Crack-a-Joke Book opener 'the other day I went to the doctor......'<br />
And I said, 'doctor, I think I've got a malignant tumour (whisper) <i>down below'</i> (I'm British, avoiding genital terminology at all costs is what we do best).<br />
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Turns out it was an ingrowing hair. Ba dum tss!<br />
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A tingling left arm, pins and needles in my hand and shortness of breath turned out not to be, as predicted following in my father's footsteps of a mid-life stroke and is in fact, an anxiety attack. Who would have thought? Well, clearly a qualified medical professional, rather than a Box Office Assistant. I'll stick to the day job.<br />
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Speaking of learning a new life-skill, such as DIY medicine, Teddy (The Teenager) was asking me about driving lessons the other day.<br />
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"Mum, when you're having driving lessons, do you need to have an instructor with you?"<br />
"Yes darling, why?" (ask a silly question)<br />
"So if you want to go to the shops you have to call the instructor and ask him to go with you?"<br />
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Teenagers have selective hearing at the best of time but here was a peach.<br />
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Me: "Teddy!!!" shouting through the ever-closed bedroom door, "there's some post with your name on it."<br />
Teddy: "Eh, toast with my name on it?"<br />
- Yes Teddy, I turned into Tony Hart (or for a younger audience, the Art Ninja) and skilfully carved your name into the jam.<br />
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I find soap and water is a good remedy for such hearing issues.<br />
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<br />Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-49664653462565291962016-03-17T09:30:00.000-07:002016-04-03T12:56:28.082-07:00Please vote for the Hoppa!!!!So, I'm rather giddy today that the daily grind of walking a bunch of little snotty-nosed (literally not metaphorically) kiddies to school in rain and snow sporting a bright yellow vest is not in vain!<br>
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No, the Hoppa (that's what our walk to school project is called) has been selected as a finalist in a prestigious awards scheme http://mymirfieldawards.co.uk/.....well, it's not quite Pride of Britain (hankies at the ready) but it's big in, erm, Mirfield.<br>
PLEASE GO TO THE WEBSITE AND VOTE FOR US!!!!!<br>
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That's all for today. I'm too busy blasting social media with appeals for votes to impart any words of wisdom or otherwise which may have emitted from the mouths of my offspring.<br>
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Well, apart from handing Teddy a Father's Day card the other day (don't panic, it's Father's Day in Portugal (where aforementioned Father lives) not in the UK), and asking him to write in it, to which he replied: "OK mum, who's it for?"<br>
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And so the other one doesn't feel left out of mummy's blogging life....<br>
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We'd been sat watching Pitch Perfect 2 and were having a Glee moment singing Dancing Queen and True Colours at the top of our voices (as you do when your eight-year-old is as camp as Christmas), when Daniel declared: "Mummy, we can be like the Bella's - I'll be Beca and you can be Fat Amy!"<br>
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<br>Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-699119757398536762016-02-13T02:07:00.001-08:002016-02-13T02:10:49.909-08:00Dad 1929 - 2016Thank you all for coming, my dad would have been really chuffed to know you were here.<br />
Tom Beckton was born in Wakefield on the 16th of December 1929 and was brother to Jane, Betty and Jocelyn. He was confirmed at Wakefield Cathedral, attended Queen Elizabeth Grammar School in Wakefield and was a member of the Boy’s Brigade.<br />
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Despite the proximity of his early life to Leeds, my dad was, man and boy, a Man U supporter through and through and also spent many a happy day watching rugby league side Wakefield Trinity. Unusually for a sports-loving man, if you asked my dad if he preferred rugby or football he would say he liked them both equally.<br />
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In fact, sport played a huge role in his whole life both as a supporter and a sportsman himself and although he played many sports including rugby and football, cricket was his game, and his prowess as a slow spin bowler was much feared by his opponents at their home ground of Sandal and away.<br />
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He worked in the health department at County Hall in Wakefield, as a computer programmer, which was where he met my mum Roslyn. They married in 1964 and had their first home built for them on Hollerton Lane in West Ardsley where they lived for nearly 20 years. My brother David arrived the year after they married and I came along in 1971. My mum and dad helped run a youth group at the Methodist Church we attended and were proud to be involved in MAYC events in London.<br />
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Ten years later, my dad suffered a massive stroke and despite his best intentions, and making a full physical recover, he was sadly never to return to work. My Auntie Marian remembered that such was his intelligence and importance, he was replaced by three men in his role at County Hall.<br />
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He showed dignity, strength of character and determination to work hard to re-educate the part of his brain which forms words and sentences. As a family we would fill in the gaps, and struggle to decode what he was trying to say. His memory was hit and miss, with one breath he would tell you Rastrick is near Halifax, a memory from 30 years ago, but then couldn’t remember what he’d had for dinner ten minutes ago. <br />
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Nevertheless, my dad continued to enjoy our regular family holidays spent in Bridlington with a large group of friends, helping build my granddad’s amazing sandcastles, sheltering from the rain in the chalet, playing cricket on the beach with Eileen and Jeff, crabbing and fishing off the harbour.<br />
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We eventually moved to Bridlington in 1984 and after my parents parted, my dad made his home in Headlands Close and kept himself busy enjoying walking, especially taking my mum’s dogs Sheba and Cindy for walks, and holidays abroad where his favourite destination was Malta.<br />
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Like on the cricket pitch, he was something of a pool whizz (not to mention snooker and billiards and dominoes) and played for the Brunswick where he enjoyed a full social life and had many friends. One of my proudest memories of my dad is walking through Brid with him and hearing, ‘hi Tom’, ‘you alright Tom’, ‘how do you do Tom’......<br />
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Gary enjoyed taking him on at pool and turned a blind eye (no pun intended dad!) to him potting random balls and claiming glory. His other passions in life included singing and drawing, and he was naturally gifted and talented in both areas. My children are very proud of the cartoon drawings they have framed on their walls which he drew for them - as good as any professional cartoonist. He loved classical music and especially Katherine Jenkins so on our way out we will hear her sing Home, which has beautiful lyrics, please take time to listen to them.<br />
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My dad is granddad to seven grandchildren, three step-grandchildren and a recent addition to the family, a great granddaughter.<br />
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His little pad on Headlands Close was his life and he was very proud of it. It was a regular treasure trove of his fascination with picking things up and I’m sure Gary will never forget his coffee jar collection! He loved nothing more than collecting conkers and giving them to local school children, despite our protests. But that was the best thing about my dad - inhibitions, being politically correct and having to say and do what was ‘right’ were simply not part of his life! What a nice way to live.<br />
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However, despite this carefree attitude, he was a stickler for smart appearance and would always comment if I had on a new dress or had my hair cut (I’ve got both for you today dad). And his own appearance was of paramount importance; his shirt, tie and shoes always immaculate whatever the occasion, his flat cap in place and, of course, his comb and handkerchief always at the ready.<br />
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As his health deteriorated over the past ten years (though he would frequently bounce back, as my brother said, ‘shall we pump his bike tyres up again?’), there were two places which were a Godsend in keeping him safe, cared for and well, out of mischief! He loved his days spent with friends at Applegarth Court, playing dominoes, listening to music and enjoying a good meal and we are grateful for the care and companionship given by the carers at Caremark. And two years ago, he moved to his new sea-front home at the Regent where the care and friendship he received was second to none right up to and even beyond his passing.<br />
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My dad struck up new friendships at the Regent and one day I made a surprise visit to find he was down at the Marine Bar with a fellow lady resident. The carers had previously mentioned that he had made friends with a lady called Dorothy so naturally I presumed he was out with her. When they arrived back, I said ‘hi’ to my dad and introduced myself to his companion Dorothy, only to be quickly corrected by one of the carers: “Oh, that’s not Dorothy, that’s Margaret, Dorothy’s over there”, she said pointing at the lady who was sat glaring jealously at Margaret! <br />
You never lost it, did you dad?!<br />
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His quirkiness made him who he was; both Teddy and Daniel accepted that to granddad they would both answer to the name ‘David’ and his obsession with his TV remote control caused many a stir at the Regent. He was easy-going and when asked a question, as Gary likes to remember, he would most likely have replied ‘oh yes’. <br />
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I remember one funny story when my dad rang my mum.....to ask what her telephone number was! For 15 minutes she tried to patiently explain that he already had her number as he had just called her on it but it was to no avail so she changed the subject and asked what the weather was like, even though she lived less than a mile away!<br />
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We all know that my dad was quite often stuck for words but I like to think that he’d want us to look back on his life and remember the one word that he would always use when all others failed him, ‘smashing’.<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-51303515530155793952016-01-12T06:52:00.002-08:002016-01-14T13:46:29.576-08:00A life / blog as dull as dishwaterThere's obviously been a dry spell in my life of constant hilarity, quirky occurrences, jovial banter and all round mayhem as I haven't felt the urge to put fingers to qwerty keyboard for some time.<br>
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That's the thing about being a blog writer, months fly by when my life is as dull as dishwater or alternatively, I'm just too busy doing that thing they call 'work' to enable me to pay for the dishwater, the dishes, the food that occupies the dishes before the need to wash them becomes pertinent, the clothing and roof over the heads of those who eat the food on the dishes, and the gas that cooks the food....I could go on.<br>
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Just how fellow bloggers fill weekly, or even daily, blogs with read-worthy material is beyond me, and often, I suspect, beyond the grasp of the reader too. I prefer to tip my dishwater down the drain rather than pour it on to the page. Oh, don't you just love it when an analogy runs and runs....and runs....!?<br>
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The internet (oh no, here she goes again) has diluted the written word and personally, I prefer my waffle from Wendy's Waffles on Brid harbour with jam and cream on top. (Mind you, even those are now pre-packed and not like they used to be when I wer' a lass, not that I'm blaming the www for the decline of the freshly made waffle, for that I blame Lidl.)<br>
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I know, I know, I'm having a naughty nibble at the hand that feeds me (well, feeds my urge to share my ramblings, not my pocket) but really there is so much drivel on the internet it's mind-boggling and mind-numbing in equal measure.<br>
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Cats stuck up trees and petty crime used to suffice when there was a slow news week and column inches to fill in my former life as a reporter but now all journalists have to do is copy out someone's Twitter feed, cut and paste a Facebook selfie and they've got themselves a story. The days of journalists needing to be able to drive, look up a number in the phone book, do shorthand and swig a wee dram at the same time are long gone. (I just dated myself beyond my years for comedy effect, clearly having become a journalist in the early 90s, us journos weren't still joined to the hip flask....we were all too busy popping Es to bother with hard liquor)<br>
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And speaking of driving, I walked past a garage last week which displayed a long list of its services including the full integration of a plethora of internet-emitting technology into our vehicles, so not only can we read drivel all day long at home or work, we can read drivel as we drive (hey, they could use that on their banner).<br>
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Sod changing gear, steering, indicating, watching the speedometer, observing the road ahead / traffic signals / other road users / little old ladies, hedgehogs and small kiddies etc etc, we now need both hands and both eyes to scroll through Sky Sports News, find the number for the pizza place, phone a friend and text another.<br>
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So it's been Christmas, a season that regular withdewrespect readers will know passes me by without much to shout about, let alone write about.<br>
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A high point this year was playing The Logo Board Game and asking my husband, "Which Biblical strongman lends his name to a brand of luggage?"<br>
To which he immediately answered: "Popeye!" and swiftly moved his counter along a space, sure of his success.<br>
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And speaking of the Bible (or comedy cartoon fiction, (pot<i>a</i>to, potato)), I heard something rather bonkers the other day in relation to CV writing. <br>
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In the way that we now have the right to not disclose age for fear of discrimination, we could soon even delete our name to avoid prejudice as the employer could deduce from it our cultural or religious origins. <br>
Dear God!!! (slash Allah / Jehovah / Top Cat (one for the hubby).<br>
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And there's not much point making any reference to how smart you are naturally or how hard you worked to pass your qualifications as employers won't have a bloody clue what you mean anyway as the goal-posts once again shift from an alphabetised grading to a numerical system. Even the kids don't know whether they should be aiming for a 1 or a 9 and it's unlikely the teachers do.<br>
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So I've future-proofed my CV.<br>
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<b>A person</b></div>
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<b>Some qualifications with various grades</b></div>
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<b>Some previous experience</b></div>
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<b>Contact details (by request)</b><br>
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<b>Gis a job</b></div>
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Well, turns out I did have some dishwater to get out of my system, I feel much better now, thank you for reading.</div>
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Oh wait a minute, withdewrespect wouldn't be the same without a moment in the life of my eight-year-old son Daniel. He was recently telling me a story about one of his friends and I didn't know which one he meant so I asked, "what colour hair does he have?"<br>
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"The same colour as yours mummy, without the grey bits."</div>
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And another peach of an observation about which path of life Daniel is strolling along.</div>
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Scene: Me, standing in front of an ipad-engrossed Daniel (he was not driving at the time, I hasten to add, or thankfully, crossing the road), wearing one silver shoe and orangey-coloured shoe.</div>
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"Daniel, which colour looks best with this outfit?"</div>
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Daniel glanced up from his screen for a mere millisecond: "Peach".</div>
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I'll leave being PC to CV writers and beating around the kitchen sink to proper bloggers.<br>
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<br>Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-39345167870602620052015-10-22T08:14:00.001-07:002017-11-04T10:07:13.601-07:00Just where is Mount Everest?One of my many current jobs, in a theatre box office, supplies me with a wealth of classic withdewrespect-esque moments.<br />
Earlier today a lady booked her ticket to a show and asked: "Will we be seated in rows?"<br />
As opposed to....? Sitting on top of each other, sitting in a line, sitting at jaunty angles....?<br />
I'll be adding that to our 'daft' comments book which is aptly entitled "What part of sold out do you not understand?!<br />
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So back to my usual stream of withdewrespect nuggets from my children; always true, never unknowingly embellished.<br />
Now remember, the seven-year-old is usually, how shall I put it, the less dingbat-ish of my two adorable children but last week he slipped.<br />
Watching the men's 1,500m in some athletics championship or other, he piped up (expression: deadpan): "Mum, are they allowed to overtake each other?"<br />
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You are reading a blog called withdewrespect therefore I make no apology, nay want to hear any moaning and groaning, about my tongue-in-cheek un-pc, unsubstantiated, stereotyping, light-hearted banter which may or may not tweak the nose of any 'isms, 'ias that we are quick to quote these days.<br />
I've already decided that my 7-year-old son is gay.<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
<br />
Picture me in the shower. Well OK, picture that you're stood outside my bathroom door when you hear a hollering.<br />
Me: "Daaaaaaaniel!"<br />
Daniel: "Yes mum?"<br />
"Can you please bring me the towel that's hung over the bannister?" (we're dead posh in our house)<br />
"Which one?"<br />
"The green one, please." (posh, and polite)<br />
Daniel: "Erm, do you mean this mint one?"<br />
<br />
<br />
The world has gone mad. I took my children to a new leisure centre the other day and at the top of a slide a lifeguard was sporting a full body harness which securely shackled them to a steel bar. <br />
Clearly it didn't matter if any of the bustling queue of giddy, bare-footed small children slipped down the slide. Oh, wait a cotton pickin' minute, that is what they were queueing up to do.<br />
That night on TV, I watched Earth's Natural Wonders and saw children as young as seven going to extraordinary death-defying heights and lengths to hunt for food to keep them and their families alive. No ropes in sight. And un-harnessed rescue doctors on Mount Everest used just a ladder to cross a 10m wide, 50m deep crevasse up a mountain as high as planes fly.<br />
<br />
<br />
Interestingly, in recently recounting these comparative stories to a fellow Hons Degree graduate friend, we both admitted we didn't know where Mount Everest is. In the Himalayas apparently but I don't know where they are either.<br />
<br />
<br />
Is it any wonder I'm thick with the array of quite frankly, shit programmes on the television these days; Botched Bodies, Nightmare Neighbours, Benefits Street, How to get a Council House, Britain at the Bookies, need I go on?<br />
And the wealth of food programmes never ceases to amaze with every single aspect of nutrition, cooking, baking and eating covered from every angle and every country.<br />
However, I have found a gap in the market and am currently writing a pitch for the BBC, Breakfast Beauties (working title). It features the art of opening a box of cornflakes and putting a slice of toast in the toaster, I've written the script for a six-week pilot run.<br />
<br />
<br />
I was watching the programme about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and internally scoffing, how ridiculous to wipe the hob a specific number of times?! It was so daft I had to rewind and watch twice and to hear better put the volume up to number 20 (it has to be an even number or a number divisible by 10). (Pot, kettle, black)<br />
<br />
<br />
Thankfully, my youngest son enjoys nature and history programmes. The other day he watched something about the Stone Age and was inspired to make a dagger. He went out into our cul-de-sac and found himself a branch and a flint (well that fancy stuff people have instead of soil these days) but struggled to find a strong root. So I gave him some sellotape and told him they might have been developing early Sellotape prototypes in the Stone Age.<br />
<br />
<br />
He also made a fighter jet made out of Karcher steam cleaner box (OK, I hold my hands up to the OCD), coffee shop stirrers as guns and was keen to factor in air bags made out of sponge. Deadly, but also quite safe in the event of a small bump over Syria.<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-917315696567388912015-09-18T03:15:00.001-07:002015-09-18T03:52:32.156-07:00Keeping the children toastyI puff and blow on a daily basis about traipsing the kids uphill and downdale to their various sporting commitments.<br />
<br />
However, if I didn't have this special family time sat in the rush hour traffic, I wouldn't have the chance to chuckle at their banter and this blog probably wouldn't exist (so what, I hear you cry - good point, and please don't cry).<br />
<br />
Many a time as I inch along gridlocked roads, travelling from swimming classes to athletics training, inconveniently place at opposite ends of West Yorkshire, I jot down a reminder of their conversations.<br />
A note from last night reads, cat, cow, field (Daniel).<br />
<br />
"Mum"<br />
"Yes Daniel."<br />
"I wish I was a cat so that I could go anywhere. I would jump over a fence into a field and have a game of cards with a cow.....(pause for thought)....and if I was really talented I could learn to ride a bike."<br />
<br />
Then he swings from the ridiculous to the sublime as he tells me a tale about a boy he knows called Jack *. Being a mum who (as you may have noticed) calls a spade a spade and doesn't really do 'mummy speak', I communicate with my children as contemporaries.<br />
<br />
Me (44): "Ah Jack, is he the one with the loud mother?"<br />
Daniel (7): "Well yes mum, she is, but she does have to cope with Jack and two other youngsters."<br />
<br />
I do sometimes worry about Daniel's penchant for joining in 'adult' conversations. We were sat at Wakefield train station the other day, admiring his brother's new trainers when Daniel suddenly said: "Is it just me or is Teddy looking hot today?"<br />
<br />
And then he swiftly returns to being seven and super cute (and perhaps slightly deaf). In a local cafe, I ordered the Seafood Trio Salad. When it arrived, Daniel peered intently at my platter of prawn, smoked haddock and salmon and after a few minutes of inspection, I had to ask: "Daniel what are you looking at?"<br />
"Well," replied Daniel, "I'm trying to work out what's see-through."<br />
<br />
And speaking of food, to deter Teddy from throwing chewing gum out of the car window, I painted the picture of some poor unsuspecting little spearmint-partial mouse coming along for a nibble and dying a horrible clamped-jaw death, to which he replied with a perfectly serious tone: "Oh, can't you feed chewing gum to animals?"<br />
<br />
Gypsies recently set up camp on a local park. As we drove past the other day (football training to more football training), I put on my PC hat (yes, I do have one, thank you for asking) and chatted to the kids about the lives of travellers, the difficulties they encounter through their nomadic lifestyle and also the rights and wrongs of the local residents' reactions. We had a very mature and sensitive conversation about the pros and cons for each group until Daniel suddenly piped up in his broad Yorkshire accent: "Y' should just taser 'em!"<br />
<br />
I gave him a good talking to about this attitude but, in his defence, this is Daniel's answer to most situations from world peace to his brother singing too loudly.<br />
<br />
His arsenal of Nerf products grows and now extends to crossbows, snipers, machine guns and rifles, he has a frighteningly accurate aim and his bedroom wall is adorned with a countdown calendar of the 1,825 days until he can join the Cadets!<br />
<br />
I'll end with a classic that's actually not from the mouths of my own babes / angels / gun-toting warmongers.<br />
<br />
En route to a recent camping trip with my friend and her children, we arrived at her house in leafy Cheshire.<br />
<br />
As they were leaving their moggy overnight, my friend ensured the cat had everything she needed; clean litter tray, ample supply of fodder, open window, pack of cards etc.<br />
<br />
However, her concerned (and perhaps slightly over-dramatic) daughter asked: "Mum, what if she eats all the food at once and runs out before the morning and dies of starvation?"<br />
Before my friend could speak and reassure her daughter that the cat would be absolutely fine, her son jumped in: "If she does die, can we get a dog?"<br />
<br />
I am referred to as the member of my family 'with no sense of humour' and admit I don't often find much LOL mileage in double entendre or glaringly ambiguous print, however, I did have a brief (inward) chuckle at this sign in a Slaithwaite bakery the other day.<br />
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* She's loud and quite big as well so I've changed the name to protect all parties, mainly me</div>
<br />Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-41700403548440088212015-08-22T04:23:00.001-07:002015-08-22T04:30:10.587-07:00The elusive passportSo, where was I.....?<br />
<br />
The lack of recent
blogging is due to the fact that I've been on my travels, largely to
North Wales, Bridlington, back to North Wales and Gatwick Airport.<br />
<br />
The airport jaunt, as seasoned
withdewrespect readers will know, is a thrice annual affair. Well,
actually I head down six times, three sad trips three happy trips, which
alternate. (If you've no idea what I'm on about, please refer to
previous blog editions and all will become clear.)<br />
<br />
My recent outward trip to the South Terminal was, undoubtedly and predictably sad, but also slightly more traumatic than usual.<br />
<br />
Here is my original schedule (I like schedules)<br />
<br />
Schedule <br />
06:30:00 Leave house, walk to local train station with one child <br />
06:37:00
Catch trains / buses to Gatwick (via Wakefield Westgate, Kings Cross
and Victoria - dodging the tube strike which ironically turned out to be
the least of our worries)<br />
11:30:00 Put child on flight to Portugal<br />
11:45:00 Catch trains / buses home (via Victoria, Kings Cross & Wakefield Westgate, blah, blah, blah)<br />
17:30:00 Arrive home, put kettle on<br />
<br />
Simples. <br />
<br />
Here is what actually happened<br />
<br />
Schedule (revised, re-revised and then torn into little pieces)<br />
06:29:00 Put on shoes, open door<br />
06:29:01 Give negative response to husband's question as to whether I've got child's passport <br />
06:29:02 Commence house-ransacking when aforementioned passport not in its usual place<br />
06:34:00
Leave house in a blind panic, dragging dazed, bed-head child and
suitcase, sprint to local train station (minus passport)<br />
06:37:00
Catch train to Wakefield Westgate - sit in a complete daze with head in
hands wondering what the fuck to do - swear under breath a lot<br />
06:50:00
Arrive Wakefield Westgate, text husband, text ex-husband, text son's
football manager, text friend who works at Manchester Airport - all
seeming very logical at the time, still swearing<br />
07:10:00 With
a range of helpful / unhelpful responses to my texts, we board the
London-bound train and I spend the next two hours ringing airlines,
airports, embassies, passport offices, consulates and the Samaritans
just for good measure, child sleeps<br />
09:20:00 Arrive Kings Cross,
mentally exhausted and once again, excuse my French, still wondering
what the fuck to do. Courses of action open to me; ex-husband posts
son's Portuguese ID card (valid for Europe-wide travel) - however, we
don't have a secure address in London and it might not arrive on time;
keep wracking brain about where British passport is hiding; go to
Portuguese Consulate and beg for temporary travel documentation.<br />
09:30:00 We decide to do the latter and, with tube strike laughing at our predicament, we jump on a bus<br />
09:59:00 Bus moves at snail's pace due to strike-induced gridlock on London streets, pedestrians walk past us<br />
09:59:01
Get off bus and set off walking to Portuguese Consulate, battling our
way along packed pavements, yes, I'm now adding drama to a story that
really needs no adverbial additions<br />
Approx 11am - the schedule
has gone so far out of the window, it's unreachable, and I've now lost
all track of time, the flight has been missed and a new flight booked
for tomorrow evening, the race is on....<br />
The rest of the
day was spent mainly at the Portuguese Consulate, a little pocket of Portuguese
blandness, baffling bureaucracy, bolshiness and, for the masses in
the waiting room, boredom.<br />
At around 4pm, we are just minutes from
collecting the documentation when I have a flash of inspiration and
text my husband telling him to check under the photocopier lid in the
kitchen.<br />
<br />
My phone rings: "You're a bloody numpty." (passport located: check) <br />
<br />
It
is a special day in my life, my husband and ex-husband are in total
agreement - united in the accurate realisation that I am indeed a numpty, having left passport on photocopier around a month previously.<br />
<br />
Happily
armed with a five-day licence to leave the country (somewhat ironically
when the news is full of the truly tragic chaos at Calais as people clamour to enter
the country) we bade a cheery farewell to the Consulate, at which point
Teddy reverted to form and asked: "Will we need to go back to the
Consulty place?", and we head to an over-priced hotel room near Kings Cross
and proceed to haemorrhage money in various restaurants and an
extortionate tour of Wembley.<br />
<br />
The truth is we both thoroughly enjoy some rare mum and son time and I, for one, am bloody delighted that I'm a right numpty!<br />
<br />
The
flight is duly caught at 9.30pm the following day and my lovely husband
drives five hours to bring the contentious passport and makes it with
(literally) seconds to spare due to static traffic on the M25.<br />
<br />
Teddy
arrives safely in Portugal and we arrive safely home in the early hours
of the morning and I put the kettle on, just 32.5 hours behind
schedule. (I need to stress that an extra 30 minutes was added to the return
leg of our journey by my husband who managed to take a wrong turn on the M1 (wtf!!) and head on
the M6 to Birmingham!! Clearly numptiness is infectious.<br />
<br />
I have to say, my boy was an
absolute superstar throughout the whole scenario (as were
aforementioned ex and current husbands) and we all learned a valuable
lesson in, well, remembering to remove items from under the photocopier
lid.<br />
<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-43095301066704972892015-07-19T09:52:00.002-07:002015-07-19T10:10:30.002-07:00The case for the defenceThe theatre where I work has some tenuous historic association with Stanley Baldwin and Rudyard Kipling and I was quite shocked when a visiting high school teacher had heard of neither.<br>
<br>
Still huffing and puffing about it when I got home from work, I told my husband the story and asked if he'd heard of them, to which he replied: "Isn't that Mike Baldwin's brother and that chap who makes the cakes?" I give up!<br>
<br>
It's not often that my other half provides blog fodder, it's usually the prerogative of my delightful sons, mainly Teddy. I sometimes think that one day he'll sue me for libel and my entire blog will be read out in court and I'll get sent down for defamation and child cruelty.<br>
<br>
So I'm going to write my defence in readiness for the hearing.<br>
<br>
Although he's a complete dingbat at times (sorry, your Honour, but he is), my life, quite frankly, would range from dull to incomplete without him. <br>
<br>
Teddy born with transposed arteries and had lifesaving open heart surgery when he was seven days old and again when he was one-year-old to mend a hole in his arterial wall. <br>
<br>
At the age of four, his parents parted and I moved him away from his birth country, his father and half of his family. He said goodbye to friends, nursery school, bedroom and dad and coped with the emigration, change of lifestyle and language with a maturity that belied his young age.<br>
<br>
From then onwards, three times a year he flew alone with merely a chaperone service at either airport, from the UK to Portugal and at either end was completely immersed into two vastly different families and cultures.<br>
<br>
He adapted to his new life and accepted his step-father, step-brother and step-sister with applaudable ease, acceptance, dignity and grace. <br>
<br>
A new brother came along just weeks after he started school and he proceeded to worship, adore and protect this child with every bone in his body.<br>
<br>
Society bizarrely labels my boys 'half-brothers' which to me suggests incompleteness. I seem to distinctly remember them both coming out of me, pretty much intact as two entire wholes, and therefore people use the word 'half' at their peril around me and my children.<br>
<br>
Despite his early life on the operating table, Teddy now speaks two languages fluently, runs like the wind, plays football and rugby, is the life and soul of the party and has moved from the cotton wool of primary school to chaotic corridors of a high school the size of a small town with confidence and composure.<br>
<br>
My Facebook wall is covered with posts from mums understandably proud of their children's achievements but for me it's always nicest when accolades come from others.<br>
<br>
Last Sunday, we had just finished a meal at a Bridlington restaurant when the couple at the next table came over as they left and the gentleman said: "We just want to congratulate you on your children, they are an absolute delight and a credit to you."<br>
<br>
Luckily, my husband and mum were capable of speech and thanked the couple and agree with them. I just blubbed, that's what proud mum's do.<br>
<br>
Anyway, no edition of withdewrespect would be complete without a Teddy-ism, and I will conclude my case that I would simply give my life for him.....but he is a right dingbat! <br>
<br>
Teddy: "There's a lad at my school that we call Gary, or Big G or sometimes even Gary the Snail."<br>
Me: "Really love, that's nice. What's his real name?"<br>
Teddy: "Blake".<br>
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<br>Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-52147808981405189022015-06-01T04:45:00.003-07:002015-06-01T04:45:58.302-07:00Are we 'sharing' or really sharing?My personal jury is still proverbially out on whether Facebook is guilty on all counts of being dangerous, divisive, fake and wasting billions of hours in the workplace. (I am not, by the way, anywhere near my place of work as I write). Or, whether it is a friendly and fun way to stay in touch with friends and family old and new, share news and photographs and bring together communities.<br />
Hmmmmmmm<br />
............................<br />
...........................(talk among yourselves)<br />
...........................<br />
Sorry, had to break off there, the boss walked in.<br />
<br />
So, what was I saying?<br />
<br />
Let's look at exactly what we 'share' on Facebook. We share pictorial evidence of family trips to parks and museums, walks in the fresh country air and paddling on sandy beaches. Smiley happy siblings ambling alongside rippling streams or skipping over lapping waves.<br />
<br />
It gives the impression of family life where life is a constant walk in the park.<br />
<br />
Who are we kidding!?<br />
<br />
You don't share pictures of mum pulling her hair our, having a nervous breakdown in the kitchen while the kids lay into each other and dad sits ignoring them watching <em>A Place in the Sun (Home or Away)</em>. Or is that just my house?<br />
<br />
Speaking of sandy beaches and educational TV, Teddy was watching <em>The Island with Bear Grylls</em> the other day (again, I didn't feel the urge to photograph and share). <br />
<br />
However, it was a special moment when one of the men decided they'd had enough and wanted to leave the island so they had to use the 'emergency radio'.<br />
<br />
Teddy turned to me and asked: "This is a rubbish programme mum, they're supposed to be living in the wild on a desert island and they even have an emergency radiator."<br />
<br />
The other week, I felt honoured and proud when a dear friend asked me to judge an Easter bonnet competition at a children's party she was organising.<br />
<br />
Hindsight.....I won't be doing that gig again!!<br />
<br />
Ten expectant angelic faces glued their beady eyes on me as I inspected every creation laid out on my friend's kitchen table.<br />
I noted detail and complimented each one on the different way the fluffy blobs and colourful feathers had been artistically glued on.<br />
<br />
Then I had to choose the winner.....cue drum roll and held breath (don't try this at home kids).....<br />
<br />
As I reached out my hand to point to the winning entry, the floodgates opened. <br />
Nine wailing five / six-year-olds is quite a din let me tell you, police helicopters were soon hovering above and a bright search light was panning up and down my friend's street.<br />
Funnily enough, the happy smiling winner clutching her prize is the very image that would make it onto Facebook, not the nine red-faced blubbers hurling themselves at their mothers as they threw me daggers and made a mental note to cross me off the next party invite list.<br />
<br />
Forget on-camera 'hey, I take my kids to the park every day' sharing, my idea of sharing with friends is actually physically sharing time with them; round at their house, judging Easter bonnets, eating cabbage soup and chatting about conservatory roofs, being beaten by my 12-year-old neighbour at draughts or helping them de-clutter their spare room. Those are the good times that you just share and enjoy, and don't need to share on social media.<br />
<br />
And don't get me started on emojis. Again, it's an opportunity to share your image of yourself as a fun, hip, cool person, when perhaps in reality, you're not!! The other day I posted a snippet on Facebook followed by a cocktail glass, a Cuban cigar and a Panama hat. In reality, I'm a 'don't drink, don't smoke' repressed and depressed wuss and I don't even know where Panama is!! <br />
<br />
And another thing....sharing medical ailments....what's that all about?! <br />
Speaking of which, I went to the doctor's this week..... (I'm aware this blog sometimes verges on an entry in a 1980s Crack-a-Joke book)..... Why is it that when you arrive in the doctor's surgery, a mole that just an hour earlier was the size of a small Carribean island owned by Sir Richard Branson is suddenly barely perceptible to the naked eye. <br />
Sorry, just felt the need to share.<br />
<br />
I'll leave you with a classic Ted'ism.<br />
<br />
Driving along the M62 on the way home from visiting Grandma in Bridlington.<br />
<br />
Teddy: "Mum......"<br />
Me: "Yes Teddy?"<br />
Teddy: "I wish I was a bird, then I wouldn't have to pay to go on holiday."<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-85285113364380528222015-03-23T09:37:00.002-07:002015-03-23T11:38:38.599-07:00As time goes byHow is it that when you're changing nappies, it seems you'll be changing nappies for eternity and just a few short years later you can't remember when you last changed a nappy, or the last time you put them in their car seat or tied their shoe laces?<br>
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There are times in parenthood when you feel like a salmon swimming upstream, or like you're walking the wrong way through IKEA (don't try this at home folks) and that each stage will last forever, and then suddenly, it's all over.<br>
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The boy who insisted on saying 'dada' and refusing to say 'mama' is suddenly returning a packet of Haribos with, 'thanks anyway, I'm not overly fond of them', and telling me he's star of the day for 'resilience'.....turned out it was 'perseverance' (potato, potato).<br>
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He's seven FFS!<br>
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He even got lippy with the hairdresser the other week as she gave him the little boy speech about sitting nice and still while she used the shaver round the back of his neck.<br>
<br>
"Right Daniel, where shall we shave today, shall we shave off your moustache?"<br>
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Daniel: "No, let's shave yours!"<br>
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And she wasn't the only one being subjected to the cutting edge of Daniel's new-found sharpness.<br>
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I was getting out my Spring wardrobe and came across some shorts.<br>
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Daniel: "They won't fit you any more mummy?"<br>
Me: "What do you mean?"<br>
Daniel: "Well, now that you're bigger."<br>
Sharp intake of breath.<br>
Dramatic pause (thinking time for Daniel).<br>
Daniel: "I mean taller mummy, they won't fit you now that you're taller."<br>
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They grow up way too quickly.<br>
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Mind you, the 12-year-old still has his moments.<br>
Teddy: "Muuuuuum."<br>
Me: "Yes, love?"<br>
Teddy: "I wouldn't like to be a phone."<br>
Me: ???? (words fail me)<br>
Teddy: "Well, I would hate to get dropped and scratched and I couldn't have a shower or I'd break."<br>
<br>
I'm 43 and wouldn't go back a single day. It's funny that people often wish they could go back X number of years and do it all again. I wouldn't.<br>
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I'll be 44 this summer, which sits well with my numerical OCD, although I don't recall if 33 had the same effect, maybe OCD wasn't so popular then (cue winking smiley) or at least there weren't as many documentaries about it on Channel 4.<br>
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As humans we're never happy really though are we? At work, I have to ask customers if they are UK Taxpayers and would therefore like to Gift Aid their donation. <br>
Whether they say 'yes' or 'no', they always start with 'unfortunately....'. <br>
<br>
Maybe dementia helps. My dad and a fellow resident in his care home had a fantastic 20 minute debate about whether, when they went to (apparently!?) the same grammar school 70+ years ago, the boys turned left and the girls turned right once through the entrance gate, or visa versa.<br>
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My dad makes little or no sense at the best of times and recently spent a frustrated ten minutes trying to drink a can of beer with a dessert spoon and couldn't understand why it wouldn't go through the ring pull hole in the top. Then, as clear as a bell he pronounced: "You don't come and visit me often enough." <br>
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Then the following week, on one of my clearly infrequent visits, another of my dad's aged friends showed me an entry in a battered old address book.<br>
Stabbing at a barely legible name with his finger he recalled: "That man went away to fight in the war, came back and discovered some bloke had been banging his wife so he murdered him and got away with it. Look, I've got his address."<br>
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I'm aware of rambling today so going to end with another random observation about 'the world that we live in' (cue deep sigh).<br>
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What a shame a petrol station has to use a piece of string to tie a hand soap bottle to the disabled hand rail in their toilet for fear of it being nicked, and display a huge laminated sign telling people not to flush nappies down the loo.<br>
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Funnily enough, although I don't recall changing nappies, I'm fairly certain I never had the urge to do that.<br>
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<br>Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-77919971141290909422015-01-26T08:20:00.000-08:002017-11-04T10:13:28.361-07:00I never thought it would happen with me and the girl from ClaphamWe don't come into this world Dyson-like with a two page instruction manual packed neatly (I weep as landfill, well, fills) in a sealed layer of organic polymers of high molecular mass (i.e. a plastic bag).<br />
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But, panic not, we're now in the 21st century so the source of all knowledge is just a mouse-click away.<br />
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My printer isn't working.<br />
It can't be seen on my wi-fi network, or so my laptop tells me.<br />
I followed countless Canon troubleshooting options in vain and returned the manual to its plastic home.<br />
I shouted at it.<br />
I sat my laptop, printer and BT hub less than a foot apart, personally introduced them and took them out for a drink.<br />
Nothing, nada, zilch.<br />
So, I took the bold and intrepid (is that the same thing?) step of heading to online support.<br />
I followed the link 'my printer is not working' and spent several hours of my life that I can never reclaim, going through all the options.<br />
Finally, I arrive at the very last possible clickable icon, which asks me (without a hint of sarcasm), if I would like to 'print this page'.<br />
<br />
My printer is now, sadly, heading to landfill. That is, when it finally lands back on planet earth from the stratosphere that I kicked it into.<br />
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But forget IT hardware illness, online homo sapiens symptom checkers are the best.<br />
In just a few clicks of the mouse, you can become the proud sufferer of IBS, migraine and sciatica whereas a mere few minutes earlier you had a bit of wind, a mild headache and a twinge in your back.<br />
<br />
On checking some niggling family symptoms recently, I discovered my husband was in his third trimester, my seven-year-old has two broken legs and the 12-year-old is peri-menopausal.<br />
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Ah, the internet, how it has enlightened and educated us, enriched our daily lives and brought a myriad of sights and sounds that were once imagined to be beyond our reach.<br />
Only yesterday, Daniel was transfixed by a cute dog playing with Christmas wrapping paper while Teddy was absorbed in shaky out-of-focus footage of a small child warbling <i>Danny Boy</i>.<br />
<br />
Mind you, it's useful for looking up song lyrics, such as <i>Up the Junction </i>(Squeeze). I used to sing this to Teddy as a lullaby (I'm so rock 'n' roll) when he was a babe in arms. Now in high school, I wonder if I should explain to his teacher where his random tense-switching in prose and his dodgy rhyme in poetry originated. How <i>did</i> Chris Difford get away with rhyming 'kitchen' with 'missing' and 'ready' with 'telly'? (Oh yes I do, he's a genius, all hail Squeeze, watch this space for the fabulous <i>Mamma Mia</i>-esque stage musical I will one day pen based on their eclectic songlist).<br />
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And lastly, the internet is also (not so) handy for.....heading to Tripadvisor to find out that the hotel I've booked in Rome is.....'a shithole' according to thehappytraveller, 'the finest hotel in the world' according to poodlepompoms and 'comme si, comme ca' according to pierrepetit. (sigh)<br />
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Where <i>would</i> we be without the information we squeeze out of those three little Ws?<br />
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Well, if you ask me, it really is my assumption that we'd all be, quite frankly, up the junction.<br />
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<br />Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5709229300452310177.post-20687836685825370372014-12-06T11:48:00.002-08:002017-11-04T10:10:43.791-07:00Lion for school dinner? WTF.......<div dir="ltr">
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Look, it's Christmas, the retail world has gone berserk, the British consumer has gone bonkers and I'm in no mood for jovial banter. I'm having to drag my fingers along the keyboard as we speak.<br />
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However, I've decided that my annual festive whinge about, well, festivities of a festive nature, must come to an end. You can just go back and read my Christmas-time blog cerca 2012 and 2013, my feelings haven't changed and I've nothing further to add on the subject. (If you believe that, you'll believe anything!)<br />
<br />
So instead, here's what's been on the menu in the daily grind of the lives of my family, and other animals.<br />
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Me: "What did you have for dinner at school today Teddy?"<br />
<br />
Teddy: "Pork lion and chips."<br />
<br />
Note to self, ask teacher is Teddy is displaying any other signs of childhood dyslexia and, if not, report the school catering service to the WWF.<br />
<br />
I'm dyslexic but did quite well in my O' Levels (well, when a B was a good grade, those were the days eh!?) and launched myself into the Sixth Form studying Economics, French and English Literature.<br />
<br />
After a full year of wasting my teachers' time, my French had not progressed past ordering a cheese and ham toastie and I still didn't have a clue what Economics actually was.<br />
<br />
The only good thing about Economics was the size of the text books.<br />
<br />
One day while babysitting my friend's younger brothers, a mahoooosive spider decided to wander by the table where I doing my homework (and, well, largely still sat wondering what Economics was all about).<br />
<br />
Being arachnophobic as well as dyslexic, I found that one of my Economics text books finally had a purpose in life (or should I say, in death).<br />
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Speaking of babysitters, our own babysitter proved to be just as resourceful the other day when he locked himself in our downstairs toilet.</div>
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While my two sons wet themselves laughing at him from the other side of the door, emptied the sweet tin and watched half an hour of porn, the babysitter finally used his initiative and employed my best eyebrow tweezers to undo the screws on the door handle mechanism and remove it, in its entirety.</div>
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And speaking of FaceBook.... OK, so I wasn't actually speaking about FaceBook but I have completely no suitable segue so I'm just winging it.</div>
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I recently saw a post regarding the sale of a hoodie aimed at bra-burning divorcees proclaiming heroine status and bearing the printed on words, "Happily divorced, never make the same mistake!"</div>
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I have ordered one, but decided to personalise it. On the reverse mine reads: </div>
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"Oops, I did it again."</div>
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And speaking of tasteless slogans (ah, see, the segue works this time), I've just bought myself a Toyota Aygo despite last month's Go Fun Yourself! blog rant AND went even further by buying my son an item of Hollister clothing DESPITE the poster above the rail bearing the letters WTF? <br />
<br />
Dear advertising executives, please think outside the box and ditch the bad language. There must be people out there with fresh ideas in their heads rather than just blindly following the Simon Cowell-style theory that controversy creates headlines and headlines create sales / audience growth and therefore <u>any</u> publicity is good publicity. Or am I being too optimistic?<br />
<br />
I'm worried that my social rant has stepped into the realm of my professional opinion and therefore I will continue this 'debate' on my PR business blog over at <a href="http://www.deadlines-pr.co.uk/">www.deadlines-pr.co.uk</a>.<br />
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So to round off withdewrespect-style, WTF, let's just use a picture of a fit chap with a surfboard.<br />
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Dianne E Watkinson (AKA Withdewrespect)http://www.blogger.com/profile/03871160512151096570noreply@blogger.com