Why I did the Ice Bucket Challenge

Why I did the Ice Bucket Challenge

The Ice Bucket Challenge started in stupidity. I admit it; I rolled my eyes and shook my head at the ridiculously-silly celebrity band wagon, but I also reasoned that if they were donating, then good for them. Who knew it would roll on and become so big? We watched a few, laughed at a few, tutted at a few… and actually started to switch off from them as they became more frequent in my social media timelines. Then this week I was challenged. I could have ignored it, I could have just donated quietly. But I didn’t. I did it - rather embarrassingly, I screamed like a banshee as I did so. And I was happy and proud to do it. But this post has been bursting to come out of my brain on the back of it. Because I’ve seen increasing amounts of sneering and...

The shame of being in debt.

The shame of being in debt.

This is a sponsored post I wrote for LittleStuff, which the brand has now asked to be removed. But I read it, and I liked it – so I decided to put it here rather then remove it or leave it lost forever in the depths of the LS archive… A very long time ago now, the husband and I were in a spot of financial bother. Neither of us earned very much, debts were managed rather than paid off… and then one of us lost our job… and so things began to spiral. Having debt and money worries is a sickeningly heavy weight that darkens every waking thought. It’s an eternal thumbscrew, a metal lid on your brain that sits too tight and squeezes every thought. There’s much talk currently about ‘in the current financial climate’.. well...

The manchild.

The manchild.

My biggest ‘boy’ turned 15 in January. He is a hair’s breadth off my own 6′ height now. His ridiculous feet are already a match for his Dad’s hefty size 11′s. His legs are as hairy as a Hobbit’s, according to his amused younger brother. His voice, though having missed the much-anticipated hilarious stage of cracking, pitching and diving, is descending lower by the month – and is still tricky to regulate in its volume. If the light is in the right direction, there is a definite blonde moustache on his top lip. His jaw is squarer, his shoulders are wider, his chest is broader, his hips are leaner. He is morphing into a man before my very eyes. And yet. Last night, he was hurting. Hurting badly, way down deep inside....

Don’t Stop The Clocks…

Don’t Stop The Clocks…

Don’t stop the clocks. Let the phone ring, Let the dogs play with their bones, Let the pianos play. He was none of my compass points, never my song… My stars were never his, nor my moonlight nor my sun. Everything is good.   Yesterday, my father died. That sounds so big. Huge. He has gone.   And yet… there’s nothing. I feel no loss, I feel no rage. I feel a slight wistfulness for what could have been. But he has gone.   In his passing I find no relief, no joy, no gleaming new silver to my world. It just… is. He has gone.   There have been calls from relatives who abandoned us long ago. There will possibly be more calls, letters, messages; Sadly all rather meaningless, now there’s no choice to make, no...

Laugh out LOUD.

Laugh out LOUD.

This is Jolly at about 6mths old. His giggle was pure liquid joy – and the entire family spent an inordinate amount of time entertaining him, purely so we could hear it just-once-more. As he has grown, his laugh has grown with him – tickle him now at the grand old age of 11, and you can still hear that throaty, abandoned  infectious giggle guaranteed to make a whole room smile. However, he does seem to have an issue with volume – he really does only have two levels; LOUD or off. And recently whilst Minecrafting with his brothers using Skype I heard Boy tell Jolly off “Ssshhh! Your laugh is too LOUD!” And it made me a bit sad. For when I was around 10, I was on holiday with my family. My sister, the super-cool 17yr old, was with us,...

Dear 2014. Thanks for the Alarm Call. I’m awake already.

Dear 2014. Thanks for the Alarm Call. I’m awake already.

*rubs dust off blog with squeaky noises* Okay. I’ve not got long – but rather than deciding it’s not long enough to craft a proper post, and wandering off agin, I’m going to throw something out right now. Oh yes I am. Because it’s a New Year. And a New Me. Well, actually, it’s still the same me. Older & wider, but still me. But things they are a-changing. Following years of disgruntled chunterings, we finally did the unthinkable, and pulled the children out of school last year. Gawd. That’s a massive post in itself, obviously, and one I’ve been thinking about and not writing for months. But… so far, so good. Certainly so far, so happy. But it’s not just the children – everything else,...

Dear NHS. I am the Mother of all Idiots. But so are you.

Dear NHS. I am the Mother of all Idiots. But so are you.

Three weeks ago, we figured there was just enough time to whizz the mower over the grass before the lasagne was ready. C hefted it from the shed, and managed to start it up despite the tennis elbow. I saw him wince, and knowing deep in my soul that mowing would take 4x as long if I were in charge of the starter cord (most things I’m good at if I set my mind to them. The starter cord on the mower? I am incompetent), we worked a foolproof plan to save his arm. When the grass box was full, he’d stand still and hold the handle to keep the motor running, whilst I ducked in, pulled the grass box off the back and emptied it. Simples. Only, as we operated this procedure, chatting over the mower engine roaring, a large clump of glass rolled out of the box and...