Blingage!

If friends could be classed as jewels, then diamonds were certainly the friends who I attempted to collect at school aged fourteen. The "friends"with whom I adorned myself were those cool, distant and dazzling ice-cold blondes with beauty and brains, so sharp they could cut like a knife. However, they may have been all things bright and beautiful but I had, unfortunately, not left the carbon state and in that state of development I was to remain - smudgy, stubby and crude. I was a diamond in the rough. Well, to be frank, I wasn't even diamonte - just sort of coal with out the potential to light. I soon learnt that carats are not the sustenance that feeds the soul and good old bling - or carrots - slightly orange (if from Essex), bit knobbly, sometimes pretty but always individual are earthy and keep you safe,especially at night when ones eyes are fading through lack of sleep or too much of the amber nectar! So now, my friends are more costume jewellery - artistic, funny, outrageous and tacky but long-lasting and affordable.
Try explaining that to one of your sons whose heart has just been severed by a diamond!  Apparently, she was stunning and classy. Apparently, she was intelligent and pedigree. This jewel did not come under my "loupe". I was not afforded the pleasure of weighing her suitability and worth. Still this diamond has cut. A hard lesson to learn for a mere male  mortal. So, "bling" may have become a dirty word; may have been sent to the realms of "tacky" but if it shines, makes you smile and is long-lasting, embrace and face my son - that "blingage" will always be the jewel you can rely on to suit every occasion, if well chosen!

Girls Girls Girls

So last weekend our annual local regatta took place and, as usual, I chose to host the Saturday night after blast party at mine. Mad? Yes. I have embraced that madness for a few years now. So the good, the bad and the ugly wend their bones up to mine for chilli and jacket potatoes for an after shin-dig party.  Sometimes it's fun; sometimes it's fraught but this year for some strange reason- it was full of a gaggle of pre-pubescent girls (offspring of friends and relatives), as my boys were off out into the wilderness and away from home.
So amongst us adults, screamed these banshees and I have to say for once I felt so very lucky to have boys. Every track on the music dock was changed with a: " OMG that is so rubbish!" Olly Murs, One Direction and Bruno Mars found themselves alive and kicking.
Thirty adults were at a loss in dealing with this feisty, feral near grown up female on-slaught until one brave soul (who may now be resting in Valhalla as I type) boomed:*ENOUGH!" and the flock fled upstairs.  Peace descended.  Us old and weary began to socialise once more and drink, drink and be merry. But all was deadly quiet from the harpies of doom. I felt within my very bones that this was not a good thing.  And indeed it was not.
I ventured upstairs- deathly silence . I had a feeling this was not so good. Where were these minxes? Where were these mixers of emotions?  I soon discovered. My wardrobe was  ransacked, adorned by some of these small pixies but for the most part generously littered around the first floor of my house.  Next I discovered the only small boy in the house that night quavering smeared with their warpaint - lipstick and nail varnish.  He was still breathing but in shock.
 Finally these small "Amazons" were spied in one of my boys' rooms adorned with my jewellery leaving their mark on one of my twin boy's blackboard (was their scribbling: a curse, a love note or a spell? Who knows?) and  attempting to hack into the said twin's facebook account.  When challenged, the eyes welled up and the amateur dramatics ensued - worthy of a true Oscar.  I have to be honest I laughed.  Three hours later at one in the morning, my laugh was more of a sob.

Back on the Chain Gang

Summer hazy days are over and reality has come to bite us full force on the arse - school's head has awoken spitting like a cobra poisoning those lie-ins and hours of fun. Noone in my house is happy.  Noone in my house does anything but glare.  Nothing is right and everything is - OMG sooooo not fair!
Seven o'clock knock on the door is greeted by new realms of obscenities from the twins; the eldest usually answers with a shout : "I know already!" muffled from under the duvet and the youngest bursts into tears.  It's a happy home!
 Breakfast is a silent affair unless uniform has been misplaced and then pandemonium breaks out.  I sit watching them race helter skelter trying to find clean shirts, trousers and pants, a wry smile on my face awaiting the insults to ensue: "Where is my.......? Why can't you sort it? I wish you could buy a mum1" I have bred misogynists but I remain sitting, reading the newspaper and pointing in various directions as the clock ticks. Eyes are clearly just decorations on my sons' faces and the laundry pile is a mysterious place to which  they dare not venture.  If, however, clothes are not the issue of the morning then the quiet is only broken by the loud chomping of jaws as pounds of cereal are consumed.  A quick tussle of testosterone as they barge their way out of the door and I am left to clear away the remnants of oats and barley and crockery before I head for work.
Evening is equally as pleasant.  I become cook, counselor and referee.  The eldest locks himself in his room and rarely ventures out unless to play rugby or depart for the gym which gives me the perfect opportunity to change his bed sheets which seem to have usually become crusted to the mattress! The twins enact a scene from "Bugslife" as they roll around incomprehensible on the floor in a punch-up, generally over a pen!  The youngest is still crying due to homework. So I race around loaded with offensive smelling sheets, opening the oven door with my foot to ensure the food is edible and with one hand grab a ladle with which to separate "double trouble" and in between all this talk the youngest through his latest schoolwork induced panic attack.  It's a happy home.
Bedtime is a trauma.  The youngest has developed a fear of the dark, ghosts and sleep.  The twins still grunt profanities to each other from their bedrooms and the eldest scolds me for daring to enter his domain to change his sheets. "Well, darling, I came, I saw but I was conquered by the pile of damp tissues amassing on the floor so I left that for you to pick up in case IT were important!" I sweetly retort.