Sk8ter Grrl

Or not as the case is (highly likely) to be.

Oh dear oh dear.

Can you imagine me on roller skates? No? Well neither can I. The only words that spring to mind are ones like 'pain', 'disaster', 'horror' and 'everyone else having a bloody good laugh at my expense'. I am just about the most un-coordinated person that ever lived and a friend of mine has just announced that her Hen Do will be held at a Roller Disco. So that's lots of drunken women dancing - with skates on. In public....

Now before I go on I think it's fair to point out that my track record with Hen-dos is less than comforting.

On my own Hen Do I was mistaken for a transvestite. I am over 6ft in heels and I was wearing a very camp pink wig, but all the same the comment 'I knew you must have been born a woman because your tits don't look that plastic' wasn't really what a young bride wanted to hear. That and the taxi driver asking if I'd enjoyed my Stag night.....

Then there was the Hen Do where the chief bridesmaid tried to have the bride arrested for possession of cocaine BUT the less said about that the better as they are still waiting to go to court.....

So it is with some trepidation that I approach the idea of the Roller Disco. Because apart from anything else I absolutely 100% CAN NOT roller skate. However hard I try. And I'm scared of it. Really very scared!

Now if you are female and aged between about 25 and 40 the words 'Roller Disco' will have you either:

a) thinking 'oh my god how absolutely brilliant! What a FANTASTIC idea! I can't wait to get my skates back on! Oh do you remember the good old days... the way we used to make up our own routines! Sipping Cherry Coke round the back of the sports halls... Kissing Lee for the first time....Ohhhhhhh I'm squealing with joy! Now where's my leg warmers and Cindi Lauper cassette tape?

OR

b) What? Are you serious? Roller skating? To music? With ME involved? (heart beat increases, cold sweat starts to pour from forehead) ARE YOU HAVING A LAUGH!? Have you SEEN what happens when I attach unstable footwear to my feet? No? Well it ain't pretty. I basically end up clutching the side rail whilst doing an impression of the young Bambi (only fatter and less cute - and without the white spots on my arse) and wailing a lot whilst counting the minutes until I can return to normal footwear. I thought this torment died out around 1992 when everyone discovered Ecstasy and didn't need to tie wheels to their feet in order to reach a higher plain of consciousness?

If you answered a) to the above question then chances are you liked New Kids on the Block/Bros/Take That et al and read Smash Hits and Just Seventeen, were very good at netball and all round very tanned and vigorous and chirpy.

If you answered b) to the above then chances are you carved CND symbols into your pencil case, used Tipex to proclaim your love for Kurt Cobain, wore DMs and stripy tights, were shit at netball (in fact draw that out to include all school sports), were pale yet (you hoped) 'darkly mysterious' and (possibly) never really felt like you fitted in with the rest of your school. You CERTAINLY didn't fit in down at the roller disco.

What am I going to do? Spend the night on the toilet or face down on the dancefloor? (Hmm, mind you - wouldn't be the first time).

Dark psychological musings aside, the really important question is....

WHERE THE HELL IS THE BAR?

If it transpires that the bar is on the other side of the roller-rink then I am going to have to transverse it in order to get my mitts on any kind of alcoholic beverage.

I can see me now - scrabbling across the vinyl floor covering on my hands and knees, tutu covered backside jiggling from side to side (yes, tutus are compulsory) gasping 'cider...cider...I need cider'....

If I can get to the bar, I will be OK. I can just stay there for the evening and they can use my skates to drag me back to the taxi afterwards. A drunk on wheels has got to be easier than a drunk without them? (Can you see I'm desperately trying to look on the bright- side here?).

It's at the end of May.

I'm sure this isn't the last you will be hearing about it.

Brace yourself girls - I'm shopping for Spandex.....

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Lost in Translation - Part Deux

A discussion about a recipe for moist chocolate fudge cake has reminded me that it's not just my son who gets the words wrong - it's also spell check....

As you are probably aware (what with being able to use a computer and all that), spell check is a very helpful tool - but a rather blunt one.

A friend of mine learned this the hard way when she handed in her University Dissertation on child psychology. She had focused on the theories of Piaget (Piaget is a Swiss philosopher and natural scientist, well known for his work studying children, his theory of cognitive development and for his epistemological view called "genetic epistemology" - that is courtesy of Wikipedia - I hadn't got a freakin' clue).

Before handing it in she spell checked it and then (fatal error here) didn't give it a final proof read.

Spell check had turned every single 'Piaget' into a 'piglet'. And funnily enough, in a dissertation about Piaget there were a lot of Piagets......and it did change the nature of the work somewhat.

So her dissertation now contained statements like 'Piglet was not only a philosopher, his work with children is renowned across the globe.....' and 'whilst I agree with Piglet's findings in regard to cognitive development, I can not concur with all of his assumptions....'.

Fortunately her tutor took pity and handed it back to her recommending she 'take a second look' before signing it over (I think the fact that the title was on the front cover, in CAPS, saying something like 'A COMPARISON OF PIGLET'S METHODOLOGIES' might have given him an early warning.....

Oh how I laughed, but then I thought 'actually - I've been there myself with the misuse of Word Tools and in my case it was less a case of piglets and more a case of 'moist panties' (ohhh a statement like that could get all kinds of the wrong type of attention to this blog....).

It happened like this:

When I was at College doing my A levels we used to do our work on computers in the library.

This was always a veritable riot. The librarians were easy game and we took great delight in sending them to the edges of their sanity. Actually - that's not totally true. A couple of them were really cool and we respected them and they treated us like (almost) adults. But then there were a couple who took the TOTAL disciplinarian front - and it back fired. One used to go mad if anybody ate anything in the library - which everybody did because there was no where else to eat your snacks when it rained and teenagers can't go more than about 5 minutes without putting something in their mouth.

One day she caught me holding a whole kiwi fruit in my hand.

'WHAT is in your hand!?' she demanded'.

'Nothing!' I lied (blatanatly).

'SHOW me! AND I AM TELLING YOUR RIGHT NOW IF IT'S FOOD THEN YOU ARE IN BIG TROUBLE' she shouted (I had no idea that holding a kiwi fruit was so controversial, but there you are).

By this time all my friends were rolling around clutching their sides with mirth at my 'plight' so I took advantage of her distraction and shoved the whole kiwi into my mouth.

I held my empty hands up to her and smiled (albeit with a large hamster style cheek).

'WHERE IS IT?' she demanded.

'Mmmm' I shrugged.

'OPEN YOUR MOUTH! OPEN IT NOW!'

Well by this time half the library were in hysterics and I wasn't far behind. As I simultaneously tried to swallow an entire kiwi fruit and breath and laugh - I choked. Quite spectacularly. And then threw up.... all over the library carpet.

There wasn't a lot she could do about that - the ethos at our college was one of us being responsible adults (ho hum) so you didn't get detention or lines or anything. I think if you did something really really bad, like take drugs in class, they would ask you to rethink your subject options, but really it was a bit of a free-for-all. I went to Step Aerobics instead of English Literature every Wednesday afternoon for a year and nobody seemed to think it was worth commenting on.

That librarian left shortly after that. Apparently the pupils had driven her to it.

Ironically enough she got a job at the local agricultural college - where the main activities (other than learning to drive a tractor and muck out sheds) appeared to be setting fire to things 'for a laugh', hotwiring quad bikes and shagging. I'm sure she had a oodles of fun...... Or maybe she did because nobody there actually used the library (or even knew where it was?). Perhaps she's still there, enjoying the peace and making sure that all the signs for the 'Learning Resource Centre' are well hidden?

Anyway - I digress - back to my moist panties.

So I was in the library and I'd just finished an essay for my Geography A level on the subject of the Moist TROPICS. I, somewhat foolishly, left it up on the screen and went outside for 'some fresh air' (read into that what you will). While I was gone, another student (Tannoy - if you are reading this it was Stuart) used the 'find and replace' function to 'find' every single example of 'Moist Tropics' in my essay and 'replace' it with 'Moist Panties'.

And I handed it in.

Oh how they laughed, and laughed, and laughed....

Quite bizarrely, after that my Geography teacher told me I was greatly gifted in the subject and must take it further.

And on that note, I'm off to spell check this - carefully.

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Lost in Translation

My eldest son is at the age where he picks up song lyrics and sings them back to you - normally in his own unique way - which at times is preferable to him getting the words right.

I can still remember my brother picking up the lyrics to the Bodyform sanitary towel advert perfectly which was less than ideal. He broke into 'Bodyform, Bodyform for YOOOOUUUU' in the middle of a family lunch involving my grandparents. There is a time and place for discussions on sanitary protection, and this wasn't one of them.

On the other hand, I was, until a reasonable age, convinced that words to Madonna's 'Like a Virgin' were 'poppadom peach, I'm eating my baby now' - and my mother never corrected me.

Earlier this week I was flicking through radio stations when Britney Spear's 'Womanizer' came on. I think it reasonable to assume that Britney Spears is not my normal acoustic accompaniment but my son was more than impressed.

'Ohhh mummy - I LOVE this song' he proclaimed.

'Oh. Do you?' I say, thinking 'please god no, don't let him start walking round the streets singing 'womanizer, womanizer, you're a womanizer' for the next two weeks. Surely I've reached my "public humiliation quota" for this month already?

'Yes, I'm going to sing it'.

And ever since he's been wandering around the house singing 'Womble-izer Womble-izer, hmmm, I'm a Womble-izer' while his younger brother gyrates beside him like a toddler version of Bez from the Happy Mondays.

I'm note sure what a Womble-izer is. It sounds potentially sinister. Like some kind of a ray gun that you can shoot at people and it turns them instantly into a Womble.

I wish I could get my hands on one.

Chucking your fag packet in my front garden? KABOOM - there we are I've turned you into Uncle Bulgaria. Try getting a fag out of the packet with THOSE fingers.

Dropping your kebab wrapper outside my gate? KABOOM - see how you get on in the pub now you're a 6ft high hairy critter with compulsive tidying habits, an interesting taste in scarfs and go by the name of 'Orinoco'.

Ohh I could have a lot of fun with that.

Womble-izer, Womble-izer, hhmmm, I'm a Womble-izer.......

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For Your Eyes Only

I have some advice for you, based upon:

a) bitter experience

and

b) my acute powers of observation (albeit several hours too late).

THIS is a bottle of Clinique's excellent make-up remover 'Take the Day Off' which is for (quote) 'lips, lashes and lids':



THIS on the other hand is a bottle of Lactulose. A syrupy medicinal substance based around fruit sugars which is suitable for treating constipation in small children:




Unless you enjoy having your eyes glued shut and spending far too much time removing ingrained bits of cotton wool from your eyelashes, I wholeheartedly DO NOT recommend you confuse the two.

My eyes! My eyes!

As for 'Take the Day Off!'s' properties as a laxative, I couldn't possibly comment.

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The Killing Floor

Once again, Tesco has provided me with ample opportunity to be shamed and provided rich fodder for my blog. To be honest I'd rather just get my shopping done in a smooth and orderly manner, but I guess that ended when I had children?

You know there was a time when you could pop in for a pint of milk, loaf of bread and a bottle of laxatives (not for me, honestly) without:

a) Having to run up and down the car park in a howling gale in the vain hope of finding a double trolley that can seat 2 children. 3,000 trolleys and none of them suitable for purpose later you have to accost a trolley attendant who only speaks Polish and try to mime 'double seats' to him which, unfortunatley, makes you look as if you are actually shaping imaginary buttocks with your hands....

Whether he knew what I was really after or was just scared I was going to fondle his arse, I will never know, but he got me a trolley.

b) Having to leave the biscuit aisle at high speed with the cries of infants echoing in my ears and complaints that it's been 'a very long time indeed since we saw a Jaffa Cake and that makes me SO sad'.

c) Having to leave the pharmaceutical aisle at even higher speed after son No. 1 begins pointing out every item which he recognises from our home.

There is only so much 'oh look mummy! You've got that cream! HAVEN'T YOU! That cream there - THE LADY CREAM. What's it for? MUMMEEEE TALK TO ME.....WHAT IS THAT LADY CREAM FOR....' one can take without half the town knowing everything about my inner faults.

d) Having to answer 1001 questions about the fish on the fish counter - including 'why aren't they moving?', 'are they dead FOREVER?', 'who killed them?', 'do they feel sad about it?' and 'what would happen if you ate one and it wasn't dead? Would it come out when you did a poo?'.

and finally, just to finish it all off with a cherry on top:

e) Leaving the shop, only to notice that your eldest child is clutching a book which he has stolen.

Now kids sometimes pick up things and leave shops with them - it happens. But normally it is a small toy or a little bar of chocolate. That you can explain to the store detective.

What it is NOT normal/excusable is for them to steal an adult novel . An adult novel called 'The Killing Floor' in which, according to the blurb on the back, "the body count mounts. And the killing turns into an epidemic".

Not exactly 'Spot visits his Grandparents' then?

Raising my eyes to the heavens and feeling grateful I hadn't felt the cold hand of the store detective on my shoulder (yet) I took the book from his thieving little paws, only for him to burst into hysterical tears because I had taken his 'special book' away.

I then looked at the front cover:



If you are a small boy, obsessed with level crossing and telegraph poles, then I have to admit that the book does look very appealing.

Anyway, tears of small boys aside, it was NOT being read as a bedtime story, so I scuttled back in and threw it in with the Mother's Day cards.

I think I need to return to ordering my groceries on-line....

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Taking my Balls Out

I took one of my balls on a day trip yesterday.

To Salisbury and back. That's a round trip of just over 4 hours just in case you're taking notes.

I didn't mean to (that really would be nuts) - it's just that after a morning of howling, crying, sobbing and tantruming (and that was just me - I think my least dignified moment was sprinting down the high-street with the pram, chasing the silhouette of my OH, shouting 'DON'T GO INTO TESCO! I'VE GOT NAPPIES.'), I threw myself into the car and onto the M25 with such vigour that I'd pretty much reached Heathrow before I noticed that I wasn't alone.

There was a very large blue ball sitting in the passenger seat and banging on the dashboard every time I braked.

It looked rather odd, but not as odd as the inflatable men you can buy to put in the passenger seat of your car.

I kid you not.

Apparently they are supposed to deter wannabee car-jackers/attackers. You plug them into the cigarette lighter and they inflate and 'accompany' you on your travels. I'm sure any gun-toting maniac high on crack would be petrified of, what is clearly, an utterly shite blow up doll.

See here:



Hmm, the most disturbing thing about that picture is not, in fact, how utterly ridiculous the whole concept is, but that the woman driving looks uncannily like my 'special pasta' sister-in-law.

I must get the wedding photos back out. Perhaps she actually married an inflatable..... That would go some way to explaining things.

Anyhow, I didn't have a 'man' - I just had a great big ball. I didn't talk to the ball or expect it to save me from situations of peril but I did smell it.

Yup, as the temperature in the car rose and the ball bounced against the heating vents, it became apparent that my balls are scented.

Seriously.

A sort of sickly sweet fake-Vanilla scent.

I find this reasonably interesting.

They are actually proper gym balls - normally used by physios or personal trainers for 'core stability' training. Perhaps such heavy use by multiple indivduals leads to problems with sweaty balls - thus the need for the scenting?

Perhaps someone out there with more ball experience than me will be able to enlighten me? I'm looking forward to comparing notes....

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The Secret to Eternal Life (for dogs)

I'm a terrible one for eavesdropping on other people's conversations but there is too much fascination in the mundane for me to ignore it.

Other people are standing in the queue in Tesco thinking 'boring, boring, boring, I wonder what's on TV tonight?' whereas I'm standing in the queue in Tesco looking at the bloke to my right, who is buying 30 odd packs of 'Tesco Value Chicken Roll' and thinking 'WHAT is that all about? Let's listen in and I might be able to blog about it!'.

And I wasn't disappointed.

The bloke was a bit of a 'smoothie' (for that read 'creepy greaseball who thought he was god's gift to women and talked REALLY REALLY loudly so that we could all be impressed by his immense knowledge of life, the universe and, as it turned out, Value chicken).

The check out girl was scanning pack of chicken after pack of chicken and looking slightly confused (he didn't look like the sort of man who lived on Value Chicken). Slimy man jumped at the opportunity to spread his 'wisdom':

Slimy Man: 'It's for my dog!'.

Girl: 'You feed your dog this? Why doesn't it have dog food?'.

Slimy Man: 'DOG FOOD! Pah. It's practically POISON!'.

Girl: 'Really?'.

Slimy Man: 'Yes! It's full of chemicals. Preservatives and stuff. KILLS dogs it does'.

Girl: 'Dog food kills dogs?'

Slimy Man: 'Yup'.

Girl: 'Are you having me on?'.

Slimy Man: 'No, it's a scientific fact.'

Girl: 'But what if you buy special 'natural' dog food?'.

Slimy Man: 'Nope - even that has preservatives in. Otherwise they couldn't keep it in a can'. (At this point I so wanted to butt in and point out that canning was actually a method of food PRESERVATION and what did he think was in Value Chicken Roll? Nothing but the breasts of virgin chickens raised on Spring Water and organic mung beans? I somehow doubt it. But I had a feeling my input would not have been well received).

Girl: 'Wow, that really surprises me. I must tell my mum. She's got a Shit-Zu. She'd be gutted if he died'.

Slimy Man: 'Well tell her I've had 2 Alsatians. The first one I gave dog food and he lived for 11 years. The second one I fed chicken roll and it lived for 15 years' (well there's a robust scientific trial if ever I did hear it).

Girl: Is that in normal years or dog years? (WHAT!!? Isn't a dog year like 7 human years or something? So that would mean is oldest dog had lived 2 human years. Mind you....).

Slimy Man: 'Normal years' (hmm, he didn't look older than 35. 11 + 15 + 26. Has he really been researching the diet of dogs since he was 9?).

Girl: 'It still died then?' (erm, I would be somewhat surprised if Tesco Value Chicken Roll was actually the elixir to Eternal Life...but go one, surprise me!).

Slimy Man: 'Well yes, it did but 15 years is a long time for a pedigree dog'.

Girl: 'So - if it's dead then who is all this for?'.

Slimy Man: 'My new dog'.

Girl: 'Oh right, well good luck with it, hope the chicken works!'.

So there we are. It was certainly an education for me. An education in the madness of smarmy, know-it-all Alsation owning blokes.

Christ - I hope the owner of the Giant-Lion-Dog/Hound-of-the-Baskervilles stalking my road doesn't hear about the magical properties of Value Chicken Roll. It could be humping my neighbours for decades to come.

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