D for Denial

OK, so this Pride 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?

Daniel has been round at our neighbours and the 13-year-old daughter has put make-up on him, much to his delight.
That's not unusual about that, I hear you cry.  He's a boy, having fun with his friend, messing about.

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!!

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'.

Daniel has a tendency for 'breaking wind' when he's having a giggling fit and I always worry that he may, erm, follow through, 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)

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.
I asked his friend: "Have you ever had any illnesses?"
Friend shook his head but Daniel piped up: "Yes you have, you had shingle bells once."

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."
To which he retorted: "But dad's been here with you."
"Well, yes I know, but he was busy working in the other room."
Daniel: "But, you've got the TV."
"I know Daniel but I didn't want to watch anything."
"Well, you've got the washing machine and ironing and washing up."

Silly me.

I've decided that in our house, OCD has two acronymic variations.

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).

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.

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.

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).

My back was scarcely turned and the crumbs were gone. Sigh.

The 'baby on board' sticker industry has gone bonkers. Now it's personalised 'Samuel and Maisy on Board', 'Alfie's Little Sister on Board'.  Before it's even born the baby's presence in the vehicle gets a proud sticker mention as the other say I spied 'Mum-to-be on Board'.  Cue more sighing.

Hey, what about taking it back a step further; 'Get Out of the Way, Horny Male on his Way to have Sex with his Bird and perhaps get her Knocked up on Board'.  (sorry about that, but the 'twinkle in his eye' pun is just a bit too tame and dated in a post-Jeremy Kyle era)

I need one for my car. 'Slightly Depressed, Slightly Overweight, Very Overworked and Very Underpaid Middle-aged Mum-of-two and Wife to one OCD-inflicted Husband on Board'.

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 Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café), I'm older and have more insurance.'

From the mouths of babes and teenagers

The other day, my younger son's school was celebrating the Queen's 90th birthday with a red, white and blue-themed non-uniform day.
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."
Her friend scornfully replied, : "Pfft, don't be so silly, no she isn't, she's in London and very busy!!!"
Girl 1: "Busy doing what?"
Girl 2, (deadpan): "Ruling the world."

Something has dawned on me.

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!

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!

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).

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.
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 voice in head 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 voice in head!!)

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.

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.

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.

So for want of humour, I'll self-style a 80s Crack-a-Joke Book opener 'the other day I went to the doctor......'
And I said, 'doctor, I think I've got a malignant tumour (whisper) down below' (I'm British, avoiding genital terminology at all costs is what we do best).

Turns out it was an ingrowing hair.  Ba dum tss!

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.

Speaking of learning a new life-skill, such as DIY medicine, Teddy (The Teenager) was asking me about driving lessons the other day.

"Mum, when you're having driving lessons, do you need to have an instructor with you?"
"Yes darling, why?" (ask a silly question)
"So if you want to go to the shops you have to call the instructor and ask him to go with you?"

Teenagers have selective hearing at the best of time but here was a peach.

Me: "Teddy!!!" shouting through the ever-closed bedroom door, "there's some post with your name on it."
Teddy: "Eh, toast with my name on it?"
- Yes Teddy, I turned into Tony Hart (or for a younger audience, the Art Ninja) and skilfully carved your name into the jam.

I find soap and water is a good remedy for such hearing issues.

Please 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!

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.
PLEASE GO TO THE WEBSITE AND VOTE FOR US!!!!!

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.

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?"

And so the other one doesn't feel left out of mummy's blogging life....

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!"

Dad 1929 - 2016

Thank you all for coming, my dad would have been really chuffed to know you were here.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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’......

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.

My dad is granddad to seven grandchildren, three step-grandchildren and a recent addition to the family, a great granddaughter.

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.

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.

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.

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!
You never lost it, did you dad?!

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’.

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!

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’.

A life / blog as dull as dishwater

There'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.

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.

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....!?

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.)

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.

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)

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).

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.

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.

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?"
To which he immediately answered: "Popeye!" and swiftly moved his counter along a space, sure of his success.

And speaking of the Bible (or comedy cartoon fiction, (potato, potato)), I heard something rather bonkers the other day in relation to CV writing.

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.
Dear God!!! (slash Allah / Jehovah / Top Cat (one for the hubby).

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.

So I've future-proofed my CV.

A person

Some qualifications with various grades

Some previous experience

Contact details (by request)

Gis a job

Well, turns out I did have some dishwater to get out of my system, I feel much better now, thank you for reading.

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?"

"The same colour as yours mummy, without the grey bits."

And another peach of an observation about which path of life Daniel is strolling along.

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.

"Daniel, which colour looks best with this outfit?"

Daniel glanced up from his screen for a mere millisecond: "Peach".

I'll leave being PC to CV writers and beating around the kitchen sink to proper bloggers.