Will You Walk Me Down The Aisle?

Wedding preparations are afoot in this neck of the woods. In this house to be exact. No I have not resorted to marrying off my eldest to the highest bidder although I have been tempted at times! I figured that any bride brave enough to take him on would soon send him back with her father demanding a refund and possible recompense.
 The wedding plans are for my looming big day in April. The venue is booked; the rings have been ordered and I am sure everything else will fall into place once my fiance has organised the rest of it. Yep, I am more of an ideas person and he is more of an action man! His disgruntled moan of "Woman, you need to do something!" is just a ruse on his part and he secretly cannot wait to meet with caterers; order the flowers; chose the invites; sort the music; design a cake etc. All men love to take control don't they? So this bride- to- be is showing her man that he has all the power and he is a true alpha male, a hunter. A hunter of all things wedding. This bride-to-be is sitting back, having a cuppa, watching and letting the hunting begin.
To ensure he fully understood that I will support all his decisions I took the trouble to buy him a file so he could sort everything. That is why I cannot understand his feigned reluctance and  raised eyebrows.  I fail to understand why he seems a little stressed and even a little irritated. I have told him that I know he will arrange a wonderful day and I will concentrate on finding the most perfect dress. Seriously, I think I heard the term: "Screw the dress" However, like my eldest I think he finds annunciation difficult and I am convinced he really said: " I'll do the rest".
Not wishing to seem lazy, I offered to get involved. He looked at me from under his brows: "How exactly are you going to get involved? Plan your hair? Organise a girl's night? Or just plan to turn up?" I actually believe I saw sarcasm dripping from his lips.
"No. I will arrange something!" I replied.
"Now don't go to too much effort, darling, I want you alive for the "big day". I think." was his retort. Well that did it. With a peevish sigh I marched to my eldest son's room and knocked.
"What?" barked said boy.
Still from the other side of the door I said:"Can I come in?"
"Why?" he barked again.
"I need to ask you something."
"What?" he growled.
"For the love of God, can you walk me down the aisle?" I snarled.
"Walk you down the aisle? Walk you down!" he roared through the closed door. "I'll  drag you down it if it stops you from constantly knocking on my door! I'll push you down if it means you will stop gazing at grim dresses on the internet. I'll fire you in a rocket down it if it means you will go and organise something in the house!" I remained motionless outside his door, arms crossed, affronted  As I turned to thump downstairs I slapped into the hulk of my fiance who stood there laughing. " I'll launch her straight back to you boy if she doesn't start trying to help organise something!"

MIDuffers5 - Mummy Intelligence

Recently I have just caught the "Spooks" bug.  Ok, I know that the BBC programme started way back when  but I was clearly very busy between 2002 and 2011! However, 2012 is the year for my initiation and I am hooked! Seriously, every loiterer on the streets of Leigh on Sea  is now a potential spy; people talking into headsets are clearly on a mission and any bulge in clothing is a potential weapon - no pun intended but hey I am from Essex!
It gets worse. I now believe I have missed my vocation. I have delusions of spy grandeur! I have thought long and hard about why and how our Intelligence Agencies could have possibly missed me in their graduate recruitment programme. I believe it due to a number of issues.
 Firstly, I am very forgetful so this would have hindered the mission as I would not  have been able to  recall where I was supposed to be or who I was supposed to be meeting, but I have reasoned this could have been an asset, as I generally cannot remember what I am doing from day to day so under torture I would not have released any details of worth or sense. However, torture was a tricky issue. My pain threshold is zero. Sleep deprivation would have been a breeze - I have had years of that as a mother-  but any other pain and I am generally balling. Running and climbing also proved a problem for me. In "Spooks" the females seem to run, jump, climb and fight in short skirts and stilettos  Again, I rationalised, that being an Essex girl and having been attired just so in my youth  and attended many a club where verbal and physical fights had broken out, that perhaps this would not be such a huge problem after all. Sleeping with the enemy also became a concern. My face is generally an open book and I have never been one for numerous liaisons so that was definitely off the menu.- lie back and think of England - no thank you, unless they looked like Johnny Depp when I could just manage it, other than that I may have had to gag a little before copulation. Weaponry could have also been a sticking point. Generally, I am DIY useless and an attempt with a drill has resulted in carnage. Yet again, I turned this into a positive. During a shoot out I could, unwittingly, have annihilated any opposition as I struggled to control my gun; thus saving the team. However, risk to civilians was high on this front so I decided that I needed a desk job.
Out of curiosity and knowing they had watched the series, I chose to ask my elder sons which "Spook" they most thought I was like. Clearly Roz and Jo were high on my wishlist. My eldest announced Ruth with conviction.  The twins remained silent.
"Why? Is it because you think, like her, I am so intelligent and can see through to a problem double quick?" I admit I sounded rather desperate and excitable.
"No,"he replied.
"Is it because she is likeable, vulnerable yet tough and loyal?" I asked.
"No," he replied.
"Why then?" I enquired.
"Do you really want me to answer? Do you really?" he was playing with me now.
"Yes," I sounded pathetic.
"Ok - but if you sulk, it's your fault," he said with authority. I was nervous now. "It is because she has the same stupid lip quiver that you have when you are upset. It is because she cries so readily and has no ability to protect herself in a tough situation. It is because she has a sad taste in clothes.It is because she loves everyone and needs to harden up. But more importantly, like you, if she had had a son who had left his Facebook on, she would have scanned through like you do to mine. If she had had a son, she would have read his texts like you do! If she had had a son, she would have read his history on the computer like you do! "
I grinned, "That's Mummy Intelligence for you!"
"No that's damn right snooping," he growled.
So I am  a spy and I didn't even realise it. I am a Mummy Spook! The fact that the enemy have realised, is besides the point, I will just have to try new tactics! Claerly I am not a MILF but I am proud to say I am a MUMOOK - a mum spook! I wonder how many of you out there are snooping, spying and spooking on your kids cyber land activities? Is it wrong? Well this MUMOOK says, I don't think so!

Essex v Surrey

 My man - my gentle man lives in his rural patch of bankers and corporate finance. A delightful enclave of Surrey. A stunning landscape set in the Surrey hills. However, this landscape has been infected with those that sneer at the less fortunate: us mortals who do not own a hedge fund. A garden of Eden - beautiful but deadly. Harsh.\Yet it is a true statement - four wheel drives, loafers and loud braying befit the newly arrived "second wives" of the market town that sits among the Three Counties of Surrey, Sussex and Hampshire. Here one's face does not fit unless there is a huge wage packet attached to it.  Here gossip is rife about which school is the best; whose husband has strayed and who has gained the biggest pile. If your offspring,  probably a beautiful accessory, did not gain the school that was "the IT school" then a multitude of labels are available for a price of an Ed Psych report. The born and bred have faded and barely have a voice. They can still  be heard, just, amongst the iphone and blackberry loud chitter chatter of the wealthy elite. If you take time to dig deep.there are truly wonderful folk to be found with generations in the graveyard. But they are hidden as the "succeeders""who  have taken root and grasped this beautiful market town with a corporate, monied grip.
Essex, my home county, is just as bad.  However, in Surrey, these new folk have the accents of pedigree but I am sorry to say less grounding. Not that I am saying Essex is any better - rough and ready and, where I live, plastic and orange. How do they differ? Essex is money, money, money. Surrey is money, money, money. Hedge funds will out in both counties. However, there just seems to be a more real feel to Essex.
On the Estuary run from Fenchurch Street to Shoeburyness , you can find the most successful entrepreneurs in the country of fiance, art and literature, possibly due to ill gotten gains, but those apart, success is embraced not criticized nor bitched about. I can still walk into any of my locals and mix with all different walks of life and noone cares. In Essex, stereotypically we have bought into that image of the blonde and  plastic doll adorned with bling.  That living, breathing, walking, talking doll can be from any walk of life in Essex - we still love her or him./And yet, we don't care if you are orange, punk, emo, plastic, wealthy etc, if you can sit, chat and argue, in my home town of Leigh, we will listen. That is the truth. We are so happy if any one will debate or listen - we are the end of the line- the arsehole of England!
Yet in Surrey, there is a complete divide of those that have and those that do not. If you ooze wealth then you attract wealth. Then is no room for the extraordinary  There is a dress code.  Woe betide those who do not follow it! Success is only praised if that person can open doors or is so very wealthy that their door may only be opened if chosen.  One can only befriend them if they are climbing that corporate ladder. The real Surrey folk have retreated and are hard to find, like pearls you have to dive deep. Strangely in my TOWIE land of Essex - the flatland of gain and Sylvia Young, I still witness that slap on the back to sa:y: "well done my son" . Is that because non of us have strayed from our roots? Well I did. Or is it because in Essex we welcome success. I think that I am probably  prejudiced being an Essex girl who can trace her roots back for at least 5 generations.But, I admit, we do love bling and celebrity; we do celebrate wealth and gain but since we live at the end of the mouth of the Thames, we realise that  home is where the heart is and we need to stick together as noone else cares. We have been persecuted  (Matthew Hopkins), ridiculed (white handbags and stilettos  and left to flounder (Thames Barrier). Yes, we have a tier system. Yes it is wrong. Yet, anyone can join it through hard work or marrying well - like Surrey  What is the difference? We don't ditch our friends because they do not fit, we take them along for the ride - be it the end of the line,Shoebury or the end of the line,The City of London. We don't care if their face fits or not; we care about them.

Medals, Mess and Mayhem

The break from school has happened and non too soon.  My testosterone driven household is lethargic and grumpy. Exams are looming which means work - a bitter pill to swallow for the older three.

The twins have refrained from their loud outbursts of tourettes and have resorted to low mumbled mutterings of obscenities due to exhaustion. Why? 

Well, one has discovered the Duke of Edinburgh Awards so now has to converse with the elderly and the youth so swearing is off the menu, although, according to him, one of the elderly, he has recently met, has a better knowledge of profanities than he- should I be worried? Can you gain a medal in cursing? If so he would have hit gold already without effort!

 The other has joined the cadets and has learnt to march, build camps and polish boots! I offered him all the shoes in the house to clean; suggested he marched the washing upstairs and enquired whether he would like to make the beds. Strangely, he declined as apparently this was against "orders". Not against my orders I insisted and drilled him in the "mummy mafia" way! My "drill" has enabled him to understand  how I wish our mess house to look.  He is an unwilling student surprisingly. However, Phillip and army may be a distraction but as I pointed out exams are a reality. Gurning is alive and well in my house tonight! 

The eldest has surprised me. Always one to follow his own trail, this morning, without complaint nor want, he called from his teenage pit: "Bye Mum have a great day at work!" Initially I was charmed and warmed by a glow of maternal love. However, two blocks down on the Leigh Road, once the wind had lashed me into sense, I thought what has he done or what is he planning to do? Ok, cynical I agree but actually, I think bloody realistic. I almost turned round and pelted back to find out what the blighter was doing. I soldiered (ha) on and this evening was greeted with a list of complaints from said teenager to why exams are unfair, revision sucks and why can't he just "chill". I think not my friend. Clearly whatever he had planned had failed and I was the enemy once more. A position I felt far more comfortable in.

As for the youngest, my sweet, gentle boy, well, he was in a cross country race today - chosen by default- as one of the fastest runners was off sick. He was so proud to have been chosen and I made sure I was there to witness his moment of glory. All began well. The relay began. He was second. He was tagged and he shot off with the wind beneath his feet. I lost track of him as he entered the wood. The hare, a Year 10, appeared first swiftly followed by a young competitor. My son followed soon afterwards and we cheered him on. He was running for dear life and the crowd lifted him. Quick on his tail came another competitor running for victory trying to overtake. My gentle son, lifted by the cheers from his school, decided, in a moment of madness, to offer a sharp backhanded swipe to take out the opposition. Terrible and misguided, I agree. However, my gentle giant clearly thought he was a competitor in 'The Hungergames' as once the runner had regained equilibrium and tried to overtake once more, my boy continued to swerve  shift and swipe to ensure a win. I am not convinced the PE department, headmaster and governors were part of "The Capitol". And as a parent I watched in horror.

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.