Lion for school dinner? WTF.......

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.

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!)

So instead, here's what's been on the menu in the daily grind of the lives of my family, and other animals.

Me: "What did you have for dinner at school today Teddy?"

Teddy: "Pork lion and chips."

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.

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.

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.

The only good thing about Economics was the size of the text books.

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).

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).

Speaking of babysitters, our own babysitter proved to be just as resourceful the other day when he locked himself in our downstairs toilet.

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.

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.

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!"

I have ordered one, but decided to personalise it.  On the reverse mine reads: 

"Oops, I did it again."

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?

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 any publicity is good publicity. Or am I being too optimistic?

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 www.deadlines-pr.co.uk.

So to round off withdewrespect-style, WTF, let's just use a picture of a fit chap with a surfboard.

The birthday monologues

It's been that time of year when, like car showrooms on weekends, we've been festooned with balloons, remortgaged the house, lived off beans on toast for a month and sold the sofa on ebay.

Yes, it's birthday time!!  The time of year when I watch my two boys rip open their presents with joy and I weep as my ISA bleeds.

Daniel, about to become seven, opted for laser warfare followed by Macdonalds with four friends, his self-made invitation reading, READY TO FIGHT PEOPLE?

Mum and dad traipsed the five boys around in two cars from home to LazerZone to Macdonalds and back home again.

On the last leg of the journey, I asked the giddy chattering boys who would like to come in my car.

Billy put his hand up, the others went silent and looked at the ground.

"Great Billy, jump in the car sweetheart."

"But....why can't I go in Gary's car?" whimpered Billy.

"Well, you put your hand up when I asked who wanted to come in my car," I replied.

"Oh, I didn't hear the question properly."

Once some of the boys had been bribed with confectionary into getting in my car (clearly not the fun option) I enjoyed their banter.

"Woah, look at that Mazda Oliver," said Dylan.

"That's not Asda, that's Sainsbury's," said Oliver.

As we passed the Huddersfield Town stadium, Billy piped up: "I go there to watch the footie."

"That's nice Billy, do you go with your mum and dad?, I asked.

"No, just my dad, my mum doesn't like football, she just likes boring trampolining," scoffed Billy.

Blimey, seems all us mums are very dull aren't we?!

Teddy has also had a birthday and received a card with £12 in it from a dear friend and neighbour.

"I wonder why Monica gave me £12 and not £10," pondered Teddy, "it's a strange amount."

I let him stew over it for a few days, before asking: "Teddy, how old were you last week?"

"Twelve mum, why.......ah, that's why Monica gave me £12 for my birthday!"

Friends, and now close family members (you know who you are mother), now use a stock phrase, 'it's a good job he's gorgeous!'

Friends no longer give me gifts, they offer presents in kind in the form of blog fodder with the opening, 'hey, I've got a good one for your blog Dianne....'

Here's one such classic gift.

At an aerobics class my friend attended, the instructor hollered: "Come on ladies, shake what your mama gave you!!"

My friend dutifully grapevined and muttered under her breath, "what, you mean low self esteem, fat ankles and arachnophobia?"

And speaking of car showrooms....

What bunch of marketing diploma'd twerps sat round a glass table in a glass-walled office in their Top Shop suits dreamt up the summer's Toyota Aygo slogan?

And I wonder how many brightly coloured helium-filled balloons were required to counteract that welcoming (?!) 'down with the kids' play on words....

Is this the future of advertising?

Nice.

(Funnily enough, when I Googled the words, go fun yourself, the next predicted word was, 'complaints'.)

True story (well, I wouldn't make that up would I?!)

My journey to work yesterday, dull though this narrative may at first appear as potential blog-fodder, was actually, well, quite a journey.

Walking up the steps to my sleepy unmanned village station I passed a gentleman I see every morning.  I won't say we exactly exchange pleasantries, but as fellow commuters we do exchange the British 'nod'.


Half way up the steps (OK, this is a long story!), the platform speaker stirred into action with the mechanical disjointed announcement that the, next, train, at, platform, three (oddly numbered as there are actually only two platforms) is, the, 9.02, to Huddersfield; my train.

Three steps higher (bear with me....), and I could see the train pulling into the station.  I shouted back down the steps, 'it's here' to prompt the aforementioned gentleman to get a wriggle on.

I leaped on to the train, waved my customary wave to my hubby as I passed our house (it's getting very Enid Blyton today isn't it?) and settled down to send a few texts and e.mails.

Ten minutes later I looked up and had that awful heart-sinking realisation that the landscape out of the train window was not the landscape of my usual route to Huddersfield.

Indeed, two minutes later the conductor confirmed my error by announcing our imminent arrival in....Brighouse, not Huddersfield.

The blood drained out of my face and as we pulled into Brighouse I was crossing every finger and toe that the gentleman had not heeded my erroneous holler and followed me on to the train like a lamb to the slaughter (well, OK, Brighouse).

As I waited for the train doors to open on a drizzly Brighouse morning, a familiar nodding head popped up from a seat further down the carriage, looked around in shock and confusion. I shrugged my shoulders and hung my nodding head in shame.

I could not have been more embarrassed and apologetic and in the space of a few minutes we moved from sharing a train to sharing life stories as we jogged around the streets of Brighouse trying to find a taxi, calling bosses and cancelling meetings on our mobiles and eventually sharing the final leg of our eventful journey by road.

Having bared my story of idiocy with the world (world, four blog readers, potato, potato), I will now segue seamlessly to other journey stories from the mouths of, yes, you guessed it, my very own babes / angels.


Daniel, 15 minutes from the end of a 14-hour-journey to Cornwall involving four feature-length Disney films, two MacDonalds, one Little Chef, four wee stops, a dozen games of Eye Spy, six car colour counting competitions and seven rounds of 'I went to the supermarket and I bought...': "Mum, I'm bored, are we there yet?"

Bless.

Teddy, on the journey of an ebay sale from my 'things to ebay' box, half way around the world to the ebay purchaser in Australia: "Mum, will they send a whole plane just with your jacket in it?"

God help us!

A Voyage into the Unknown or A Night Under Nylon or Carry on Camping

I never use the 'c' word, it's just not nice is it?

I do use the 'f' word, 'w' word and the 's' words though, a lot!!!

(please see key at end of blog before reading on)

My mid-life crisis finally manifested this week as a sudden urge to prove my family and friends wrong and show them that I am indeed capable of....camping!  Bearing in mind, my idea of slumming it had previously been a new style executive lodge at Center Parcs! 

Get me!!  .....to coin a phrase, it's 'cheaper than a (-nother) divorce, a Mini Cooper soft top and colonic irrigation'.

In fact, on hearing the news my mum immediately rang my brother and gave him three guesses what item his sister was least likely to buy:

Guess 1:  A 4x4 (please refer to previous blogs for references to my loathing of all vehicular monstrosities)
Guess 2:  A motorbike (see above)
Guess: 3: A tent.

"Boys, get in the car, we're going to Go Outdoors!" (please note the capitalisation, Go Outdoors is the name of a shop, not just me letting the kids out of the attic; please don't call Esther, I'm on a final warning)

So, my knowledge of camping is limited to the fact that one needs a tent.

I bought a huge tent in the sale and splashed out on a portable toilet (stop it, you're making your own jokes up now!).

I arrived home quite pleased with myself and booked a camp site for that very evening.  Sorted.

It was then that my camping-savvy friend pointed out I would need more than a tent and a toilet.

Quite a lot of f***ing stuff.

Anyways, said savvy friend has all the gear so I loaded up the car until I  could just see out of a square foot through the windscreen and I've got the kids strapped to the roof (put the bloody phone down, I'm only joking!).

Friends scoffed that a 5* camp just up the road with a heated pool, shop, pub, spa and golf course was not necessarily slumming it or being at one with nature.

So here's my camping experience in a series of number 1s (I told you before, STOP with the toilet humour).

No 1 weird experience: Walking away from a check-in desk without a key.

No 1 catchprase of the weekend: "It's a right blooming rigmarole." (even the 6-year-old was saying this after the first few hours)

No 1 (and no 2) new experience: Being so hot in the UK that I thought I would melt, being so cold at night I thought I would freeze.  Note to self, tents are not good at heat regulation.

No 1 best experience: Playing rounders with a bunch of complete strangers as the sun goes down.


No 1 surreal sighting: A lady in a bikini with her baby the small circular paddling pool. (...and realising you had seen her before....on the telly in a bikini in a small circular birthing pool popping out her baby on One Born Every Minute.)

No 1 lesson learnt (despite having the phrase 'never a lender nor a borrower be' drilled into me from birth): Don't borrow a friend's fancy fridge then fried it to 'beyond' an inch of its life in the baking heat.


Pre-camping No 1 desert island soundtrack of life: Kids playing, the sweet titanium tonk of driver head hitting golf ball and birds tweeting on a summer's morn.

Post-camping No 1 'line-them-up-and-shoot-them' soundtrack of life (when I'm trying to sleep): Kids playing, the sweet titanium tonk of driver head hitting golf ball and birds tweeting on a summer's morn.

No 1 son camping blooper (uttered en route to camp site):  "Mum, when they are driving, how do blind people read the road signs?"


I'm enjoying the list thing but going to stop now and leave you with a classic non-camping-related blooper borrowed from a friend (I'm sure copyright / libel writs will one day haunt me, if only from my own son).

Child of friend: "Mum, you know that insulin stuff that that they have in lofts, is that the same thing which keeps Diabetes people warm?"

KEY
c = camping
f = five star hotel
w = weekend in Paris
s = spa

Why are there so many bikes on the roads.....?

From the ballet to comedy-drama, blimey withdewrespect has gone all theatrical daahrlings.

Bear with me, normal whinging and observations on the absurdities of life (and my family) will resume shortly but for now here's a review from LOST BOY RACER, a partnership production with West Yorkshire's beautiful, amazing number one arts venue...drum roll.....the Lawrence Batley Theatre (oh, and also my employer!).

Apparently there are some biker chaps heading to Yorkshire next week.....have you heard anything about it?!

LOST BOY RACER
Lost Boy Racer is a theatrical foray into the world of cycling-obsession and ties in nicely with upcoming phenomenon of the Tour de France getting underway on Yorkshire soil.
Suiting its billing as a comedy-drama, the production has moments of frivolity, poignancy and downright darkness with a hooded BMX-er dancing with a bike to a sombre soundtrack.
Sean Racer has 'unfinished business' with a childhood spent on two wheels and the tale of a schoolboy race which ended in a broken friendship threads through the performance.
We meet Sean as a lonely fish-and-chips -scoffing tax inspector whose encounter with dodgy-dealing hairdresser Linda-Marie inspires him to get back in the saddle and compete in Le Tour.....in his garden shed.
There are notable performances from Thomas Aldersley as Sean and Robin Simpson as Claude, his bike tinkering / ex-pro mechanic friend whose every line is a clever metaphor to reflect his belief that cycling lives in the heart, soul and even sentences, of those who love the sport.
The cast move around a giant sculpture cannily crafted from bike bits, the creation of Tim Tolkien (yes, a distant relative of J.R.R himself).
The performance, although punctured with the odd opening night teething problem, was an excellent showcase of new writing emerging from Yorkshire and specifically the pen of Julie Bokowiec.
With fast-flowing direction from Liz Postlethwaite (yes, another distant relative of the one-and-only late Pete) there's never a dull moment during the hour and half ride through the themes of love lost and found, the hardships of self-employment, thwarted dreams and the extremes of human emotion from despair to elation.
It's gritty and real apart from perhaps the slightly unbelievable hair salon sideline in motor oil which gets even less believably mistaken for shampoo.  The oil is illegally procured from next door, syphoned off a chip shop fryer which eventually goes up in flames, freeing the owner from her shackles to jump on a bicycle made for two and head into the sunset, sorry Scunthorpe, with Claude.
One highlight,  ticking the publicised 'off-the-wall' box, is the supporting cast of community volunteers, donned in a heady mix of colourful costume ensembles from onesies to tutus, as the road-side crowds cheering Sean on reaches the end of the road.
Accompanying the pounding music of Mark Bokowiec (yes, the husband), the cast throw some excellent shapes, literally, and create some visually stunning freeze frames.
A partnership production with the Lawrence Batley Theatre, Lost Boy Racer is heading from Huddersfield to The Lowry in Manchester and then on to Harrogate and Wakefield in early July.
If you missed the show in Huddersfield, you can still call into the Lawrence Batley Theatre for some cycling-themed art and check out their tactile exhibition of crocheted and knitted bikes in the theatre's foyer, yes really, life size cycles make of wool!

A 'living' swan

Don't you just love being British?  I do.

I'm not making a political comment here by the way, I'm just saying.

The etiquette of the Brit is, in my opinion, second-to-non on the planet.  (Says she with very little experience of anywhere much further afield than Brid).  However, as The Beautiful South sang so beautifully, I shall carry on regardless.....

I  know in my last blog, I was banging on about lack of etiquette when it comes to the Per Una lady taking a leak in M&S but today I'm putting a positive spin on the peculiarities of habitual behaviours in our green and pleasant land.

And, before I'm accused of making a religious comment, I refer to our green and pleasant land in the literal sense and countryside British etiquette in respect of the rules of the road.

NO, it's not another lecture about bad driving.  The road may be the same, but I'm referring to different users, those who choose to travel along them at speed, but on foot.

I'm a jogger, not exactly gaining any of the aforementioned speed as I pootle along the country lanes near my home, however I am technically jogging.

While out on the green lanes and roads, I exchange the customary nod and 'good morning' or 'good evening' (as the hour dictates) with anyone who crosses my path; fellow joggers, dog-walkers, ramblers, everyone except those pesky cyclists who just whizz past with an air of superiority and not so much of a glance in my direction.

However, the nearer I get to the built up areas the etiquette takes a stark change of direction.  What was a pleasant formality a few metres away would now appear just plain weird.  I mosey past people, sweating and panting, but my eyes are fixed firmly on the pavement and, in turn, the other people also do everything in their power (i.e. look at their watch or mobile phone intently) to avoid looking in my direction.

Why does the presence of homes and shops change this etiquette?  It's not that there are more people in the built up streets.  For example, if I met just four people on the country roads and also only four people in the town centre, the aforementioned pleasantries would only be exchanged with the four folk on the country lanes.

It's like being on the tube.  I've noticed as a mother travelling with children, it's OK to smile at other mothers travelling with children of a similar age; not weird at all.  However, outside the parameters of these exact specifications, no one EVER smiles at anyone else on the London Underground.

There are times when I ponder the unspoken laws of the road, the tube and indeed the time-honoured rules of what one is and is not expected to do at certain times in life and I just think, 'oh fuck it!'

For example, I took up ballet when I was 40 and now spend a couple of deliriously happy hours a week dancing with a bunch of ladies, and gents, of a certain age and we have a whale of a time (no pun intended).

In fact, I penned a little something, mainly for myself, but as I'm clearly in a 'fuck it' mood (must be the cheap white wine), I thought I'd share.

Why ballet?

Ballet at 40, who'd have thought?
A tutu she dashed out and bought.
She huffed and puffed as she pulled it on,
Picture a flaccid, bingo-winged swan.

Her piroettes got just half way round
And echappe jumps would shake the ground.
Grand plies; too much for the pelvic floor,
And saw her running for the door.

Back in class, she'd fondu with the rest
But chaines turns were a bit of a test.
Like cheap white wine, they'd spin her round
Until she'd land in a heap on the ground.

But for her, there is only one barre,
And within the year, she's come so far.
With strength and grace, her head held high,
She replies 'why not', when they ask her 'why'?

Ballet at 40, who'd have thought? 

The tutu? Best thing I've ever bought! 

Please note this is NOT me....it's some dancing bird called Darcy, never heard of her myself.

Too busy writing to do lists to write

Dear Blog,
I apologise profusely that your big brother, the writing career, has been getting all the attention lately.  As the younger and less lucrative sibling, the writing hobby, I'm sorry you've been neglected.

So with five minutes to spare, I thought I'd give you a little bit of my time for being so patient.

Thank you.

Speaking of me running around like a blue @*&$% fly setting up my own writing business, can somebody out there please find my husband a job!?

Our back garden has started to look like a village railway station eagerly awaiting the judges of Britain in Bloom.  Our local B&Q has sold out of hanging baskets and bedding plants and he keeps buying new lawn mowers to improve the stripe in the grass (all six sq ft of it).  He's really going to town on the whole 'garden leave' thing.  Well, no actually, he's not going to 'town', he never actually makes it past the garden centre.

Anyway, my new business DEadlines (PR, Journalism, Copy & Creative) is coming along nicely.  So far, I've been to Staples (Gary came with me because B&Q is next door) and bought 'supplies', raided my neighbour's garage for an old desk, set up shop in the corner of a friend's office and started designing a fancy website.  I'll get around to actually doing some work some day soon!

I'm also very busy networking (or as some might call it, 'drinking coffee') but not neglecting mum duties and even baked buns for my boys' football presentation day last week.  I was devastated, however, when out of the hundreds of goodies, lovingly baked and donated to the homemade cake stall, mine were the ones left at the end that they couldn't give away!

My little cherub, the one who's 11, came out with another corker as we baked never-to-be-eaten buns together.

"Mum, can I help with the misker?"

"Eh?"

"The misker, that machine thing you use for baking."

"Do you mean the whisk, or the mixer?"

"Yes, that's the one!"

I've also been busy ridding myself of a nasty chesty, upper respiratory, sinusy, allergy thing (the doctors hedged their bets) that has plagued me for months.

One day I developed a severe pain in my ribs so I dumped the kids with a neighbour and rushed off to A&E fearing the worst, such as appendicitis or an ectopic pregnancy (with hand of God intervention).  Some people (a very rude group of 'some people' consisting largely of my husband) alleges I'm a hypochondriac. Nonsense, I say.

I did however get the feeling, after waiting many, many, many hours and watching every other patient in the waiting room (and several shifts of staff) come and go, that perhaps the nurse in triage had also joined the group of 'some people'.  However, instead of being categorised with the triage code H for hypochondriac, I think I was a J (which stands for 'Just ignore her and she might go away').

I was eventually diagnosed with intercostal muscle strain from coughing and sent home with a flea in my ear for wasting NHS resources. (I even had to return the flea the next day)
(I once had an emergency appointment at the dentist only to discover that the source of my agonising pain was some food stuck between my teeth.)

Anyway, speaking of humiliation.  I would like to formally and unreservedly shame Per Una-wearing 60-something-year-old ladies who shop at M&S, well, just the ones with a bad aim (you know who you are)!!

Crime scene: Ladies toilets, first floor, Marks and Spencers, Trinity Centre, Leeds.

You've queued for ten minutes, propped the door open with your foot and it's now your turn.  Mrs Per Una comes out of a cubicle, you smile and politely side-step her, close the door and hang up your bag.  Then you spot it. Wee, ALL OVER THE SEAT.  You can't walk out and use another loo as there's a queue of hopping ladies outside and there's only so much Tena Lady can handle.

MY aiming prowess is second to none.  However, in this scenario, I'm duty-bound to wipe someone else's wee away, just so the lady who dashes into the cubicle after me doesn't glare and tut.

I have a friend who has a sign above her guest loo.

"If you sprinkle while you tinkle,
Please be sweet and wipe the seat."

Maybe I should print this out on my shiny new printer, on finest Staples paper, laminate it on my new laminator and fly post them in every cubicle in every M&S in the country.  Then, I'll get some work done.