September, most flew the nest to uni but not mine - oh no, I have to wait until the beginning of October.thanks Warwick, thank you so much.
So, IKEA run for all things studentesque. Wouldn't you think that, as an eighteen year old boy, you would want to eat, shoot and leave? Well, not mine. The pain, the absolute pain of having to decide what vegetable peeler or duvet cover to buy. There I stand, saying bag it and run and he is questioning the quality and economic value - for Pete's sake, I am screaming in my head, just bloody bag it so we can escape this hell hole. It's my money that's funding this so run boy, run and buy like the wind!
No, we have to enter every department and weigh up the financial decision of each frigging item. Have the youth lost their way? All I can think is I am funding this and if I want to do super trolley sweep, what is stopping him?! How can you question whether you need one wooden spoon or two? You play rugby and smash without thinking and you are worried about cutlery! I yawn and roll my eyes.
Then the debate on wine glasses occurs and I practically lose the will to live. He wants to buy one. I question his decision and place four in the blue and yellow bag. He takes three out. I raise an eyebrow.
"I haven't come to uni to be a host, Mum, if I wanted a degree in events management or hospitality, I would have tried a little less at school and tried a little harder at being "fun and nice""
I sigh. God help Warwick and anyone foolish enough to be entertained by him. His glass does not runneth over! The only one glass he has is firmly in his tight fist!
Monday, 8 February 2016
Monday, 29 June 2015
Duffers5 meets Obama
I enter a class to teach. Everything is deathly silent. This is unusual. One soul looks at me from beneath his long curtains and mutters something vaguely intelligible - now I am on familiar ground.
"Do you have something to say?" I ask. One of them swivels round on his chair and stares at me.
"Anything the matter?" I ask.
"Maybe," he replies.
I wait. My eyes are now squinting and my eyebrows raise as I cross my arms in a defensive manner, expecting the normal moans and groans about "effort" and "I don't get it" which has long featured in my job as an educator.
He is now silent and I am intrigued as all eyes are now upon me but strangely in a look of slight awe. Bloody hell. I do believe these youths have got it. By Jove. They've got it. The woman speaks too soon.
"Miss, do you use Twitter?" The loam wolf asks.
I am baffled. Well, I have used Twitter in the past but only really to deliver a stream of consciousness - or bullshite as my husband would say. I follow friends, because they ask and want to promote things. I follow Catlin Moran, because she makes me laugh. I rarely comment. I haven't even mastered retweet. My sons have blocked me because I used to stalk them so my Twitter account is redundant. I failed to even fathom how to attach my blog to it.
" Why." I ask.
The six foot wolf spins round on his chair and looks me straight in the face. The rest of the class also stare.
" Ok, I have a Twitter account and it's boring. I haven't a clue how to use it. Why would it be of any interest to you and how is it relevant? Plus, I am slightly concerned as to why you are bothering to find me."
The wolf leans forward. " It's not us that you should be worried about Miss. It's Obama."
Now, I am interested. "Who?"
"The President!" his tongue drips with patronisation.
I am now baffled. Obama? What are they going on about. I shake my head and return to task and they slink back to their lairs.
That evening, I log on and blow me down with a feather - I am a friend of Obama. He is following me and it's the real deal. I'm not following him but he clearly likes me. So either Michelle and BO think my rare and random tweets are legendary (completely unlikely) or as one student announced under her breath as she left my room, "probably a threat to national security" . Alas, again no chance, I'm in bed by eight thirty on a good day and my days of protest are gone, worn down by bearing sons. Therefore, Obama just must have stumbled across this blog on Facebook and finds his daughters as frustrating as I find my sons! Mr President I feel your pain.
"Do you have something to say?" I ask. One of them swivels round on his chair and stares at me.
"Anything the matter?" I ask.
"Maybe," he replies.
I wait. My eyes are now squinting and my eyebrows raise as I cross my arms in a defensive manner, expecting the normal moans and groans about "effort" and "I don't get it" which has long featured in my job as an educator.
He is now silent and I am intrigued as all eyes are now upon me but strangely in a look of slight awe. Bloody hell. I do believe these youths have got it. By Jove. They've got it. The woman speaks too soon.
"Miss, do you use Twitter?" The loam wolf asks.
I am baffled. Well, I have used Twitter in the past but only really to deliver a stream of consciousness - or bullshite as my husband would say. I follow friends, because they ask and want to promote things. I follow Catlin Moran, because she makes me laugh. I rarely comment. I haven't even mastered retweet. My sons have blocked me because I used to stalk them so my Twitter account is redundant. I failed to even fathom how to attach my blog to it.
" Why." I ask.
The six foot wolf spins round on his chair and looks me straight in the face. The rest of the class also stare.
" Ok, I have a Twitter account and it's boring. I haven't a clue how to use it. Why would it be of any interest to you and how is it relevant? Plus, I am slightly concerned as to why you are bothering to find me."
The wolf leans forward. " It's not us that you should be worried about Miss. It's Obama."
Now, I am interested. "Who?"
"The President!" his tongue drips with patronisation.
I am now baffled. Obama? What are they going on about. I shake my head and return to task and they slink back to their lairs.
That evening, I log on and blow me down with a feather - I am a friend of Obama. He is following me and it's the real deal. I'm not following him but he clearly likes me. So either Michelle and BO think my rare and random tweets are legendary (completely unlikely) or as one student announced under her breath as she left my room, "probably a threat to national security" . Alas, again no chance, I'm in bed by eight thirty on a good day and my days of protest are gone, worn down by bearing sons. Therefore, Obama just must have stumbled across this blog on Facebook and finds his daughters as frustrating as I find my sons! Mr President I feel your pain.
Tuesday, 16 September 2014
Results Day
Five o' clock. All is quiet. Five minutes past five. I toss and turn and fire up my computer. Facebook is asleep and all my Australianian friends are clearly surfing or having a tinnie or five, so I pace, gurn, pace and gurn again. Six o ' clock I make a coffee. Two minutes past six, I am hyperventilating. Three minutes past six, I collapse.
Surely my son's results shouldn't cause this much anxiety but they do. Why? Coz the little bleeders are elsewhere, out of the country. Meanwhile, I am left to collect their passport to a better life.
Seven o'clock, I start to bleach the bathroom - now I know I am slowly loosing the plot. Bleach and I usually have a funny way of missing each other. However, refusing to logon onto the BBC website to analyse results for this year, I scrub religiously at a dubious month old stain in the toilet bowl. After a good few minutes of hard labour and knowing that this feat is nigh on impossible to achieve, I resorted to gazing into the bathroom mirror to see the latest effects of my new anti-ageing cream. Bloody waste of money that was. I defy you age! No you don't it smirks back from the looking glass.
Eight o'clock the first texts arrive from friends and family wondering how my sons have done in their GCSEs and ASs. I have no idea as the school does not deign to open its doors until nine. Eight thirty and I am wondering why sending my eldest to Papua New Guinea to work in a village and learn empathy was such a good idea and why agreeing to my twins to go to Spain was a wise decision either. Now I am going through the pain of their results and they are sunning it. The few telephone calls I have had from any of them have involved monosyllabic replies of joy such as - "sick" or "peng" or "cool". My monosyllabic replies,to the few telephone calls I have received this morning, have involved profanity such as -"f&*k" or "SH1&" or "f$%k".
Nine o'clock, I am queuing with most normal students,who are not bronzing it elsewhere, and I feel their pain. All banter has gone as the line approaches the desk. Some are white-faced huddled in corners; some are openly sobbing and others are rasping for breath. Apparently, they are the students who have achieved their grades!
My turn arrives and a poe-faced individual hands me three white envelopes without meeting eye contact. I try to make light of the situation and ask her if she would like to see my passport as I clearly look far too young to be picking up results for 17 and 16 year olds. Her answer is curt and to the point. Clearly, I need my money back from that cream!
The moment of truth is here. I start to rip open the first envelope of three.
Surely my son's results shouldn't cause this much anxiety but they do. Why? Coz the little bleeders are elsewhere, out of the country. Meanwhile, I am left to collect their passport to a better life.
Seven o'clock, I start to bleach the bathroom - now I know I am slowly loosing the plot. Bleach and I usually have a funny way of missing each other. However, refusing to logon onto the BBC website to analyse results for this year, I scrub religiously at a dubious month old stain in the toilet bowl. After a good few minutes of hard labour and knowing that this feat is nigh on impossible to achieve, I resorted to gazing into the bathroom mirror to see the latest effects of my new anti-ageing cream. Bloody waste of money that was. I defy you age! No you don't it smirks back from the looking glass.
Eight o'clock the first texts arrive from friends and family wondering how my sons have done in their GCSEs and ASs. I have no idea as the school does not deign to open its doors until nine. Eight thirty and I am wondering why sending my eldest to Papua New Guinea to work in a village and learn empathy was such a good idea and why agreeing to my twins to go to Spain was a wise decision either. Now I am going through the pain of their results and they are sunning it. The few telephone calls I have had from any of them have involved monosyllabic replies of joy such as - "sick" or "peng" or "cool". My monosyllabic replies,to the few telephone calls I have received this morning, have involved profanity such as -"f&*k" or "SH1&" or "f$%k".
Nine o'clock, I am queuing with most normal students,who are not bronzing it elsewhere, and I feel their pain. All banter has gone as the line approaches the desk. Some are white-faced huddled in corners; some are openly sobbing and others are rasping for breath. Apparently, they are the students who have achieved their grades!
My turn arrives and a poe-faced individual hands me three white envelopes without meeting eye contact. I try to make light of the situation and ask her if she would like to see my passport as I clearly look far too young to be picking up results for 17 and 16 year olds. Her answer is curt and to the point. Clearly, I need my money back from that cream!
The moment of truth is here. I start to rip open the first envelope of three.
Thursday, 24 April 2014
A hole in the Wall
There is a hole in our wall. The creator of this hole is a mystery. Apparently, not one of my sons is to blame. Every rodent in the house has shirked responsibility. Yet, a hole has appeared on the wall on my staircase.
"Why do you always blame us for everything!" muttered the twins belligerently - first suspects, as they cannot meet my eyes.
"You are just wrong on every level!" claimed the eldest. The boy protest too much. Second suspect.
Third suspect. "Mummy, I love you. I would never do that." states my youngest. No one likes a suck up!
The household furry rodents are silent. So who is to blame?
This hole is quite substantial.
The hole could be an escape route.
Who needs to escape in this house?
Eldest? Working for A S levels and hitting great results so much so that I am driving him to, this weekend, a university of renowned worldwide acclaim. Could he be bothered to attack the wall? No. Effort would be involved and since he has put little effort into anything other than the gym, diet and rugby, he is off my list of suspects.
The twins. Too busy revising, watching "The Game of Thrones" to put any energy into breaking free. Perhaps in a couple of months but right now they are revising and, the Tourette's of yesterday, is only a vague whisper.
So the finger points to my youngest. It may be you! Aka "I'm a Celebrity get me out of here !" However, he is far too busy crafting a mine of beauty online. So who?
Well, could this hole be the secret service? Are me and my boys being monitored because we are hiding the secrets of the country? God help us if we are, because our country would be based on a series of grunts, shoulder raisers and body flatulence.
So James Bond, if you are watching us through this hole, the stains on the boys' underpants are a concern of national security; the rotting and festering bowels in their rooms are toxic and their bed sheets could be used in chemical warfare!
Other than that rodents are taking over my house! So what's new!
"Why do you always blame us for everything!" muttered the twins belligerently - first suspects, as they cannot meet my eyes.
"You are just wrong on every level!" claimed the eldest. The boy protest too much. Second suspect.
Third suspect. "Mummy, I love you. I would never do that." states my youngest. No one likes a suck up!
The household furry rodents are silent. So who is to blame?
This hole is quite substantial.
The hole could be an escape route.
Who needs to escape in this house?
Eldest? Working for A S levels and hitting great results so much so that I am driving him to, this weekend, a university of renowned worldwide acclaim. Could he be bothered to attack the wall? No. Effort would be involved and since he has put little effort into anything other than the gym, diet and rugby, he is off my list of suspects.
The twins. Too busy revising, watching "The Game of Thrones" to put any energy into breaking free. Perhaps in a couple of months but right now they are revising and, the Tourette's of yesterday, is only a vague whisper.
So the finger points to my youngest. It may be you! Aka "I'm a Celebrity get me out of here !" However, he is far too busy crafting a mine of beauty online. So who?
Well, could this hole be the secret service? Are me and my boys being monitored because we are hiding the secrets of the country? God help us if we are, because our country would be based on a series of grunts, shoulder raisers and body flatulence.
So James Bond, if you are watching us through this hole, the stains on the boys' underpants are a concern of national security; the rotting and festering bowels in their rooms are toxic and their bed sheets could be used in chemical warfare!
Other than that rodents are taking over my house! So what's new!
Sunday, 2 March 2014
Caught Red Handed
My boys arrived back from their father's house tonight, reticent and belligerent as usual. One twin had a cauliflower ear from playing football with the other twin - expletives were silently mouthed at each other, with relevant hand gestures to signal war once Daddy had said farewell. My eldest ushered his father out of the building with a patronising hand scoop towards the front door.
Once father had left the building, the twins dived into a scrum of feet, fists and frantic need to batter each other, my eldest son, however, ushered me towards the kitchen.
Shutting out the frackar, he turned to me placing his six foot two bulk against the door and asked if I had anything I wanted to discuss with him.
"Don't think so" I replied. "Ok, university applications. Yes, and further reading."
"Nope, not what I had in mind," he replied, looking at me square in the face. "I was more thinking on the lines of a blog," he continued.
"Great, right about your love of pure maths. That would be great to talk at interview. If you write a blog, I am sure that universities would readily receive it as a form of research," I responded.
He narrowed his eyes, " Really, would they? "
I raised an eyebrow quizzically.
"Would you like to explain your blog to me, Mum?"
I roared with laughter. He narrowed his eyes further.
"How is your blog funny at all?"
As I explained to him, if I had written "Fifty Shades" and earns zillions of dollars would there be a complaint. His retort was that I had not written the book and that reference to "crusty sheets" was wrong on every level!
Every level maybe but you and I have still been caught red handed boy!
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
A Treaty of Treats - party political nightmare!
Seventeen. Seventeen was my best year: carefree, hedonistic and fun! Not words I would choose to describe my eldest son's initiation into his seventeenth year.
A rugby injury, when he was head- dumped in the scrum, has left him angry with his inability to tackle men or life in general. Any request to lift anything above the weight of a feather has resorted in a grimace; an ask to involve himself in family life has also resulted in whimpers of pain. However, since the injury has now been deemed as muscular damage by doctor, physio and a higher being ( ME), he can at least attempt to engage with the idea of a party. Funny that since girls have entered his sixth form!
Requirements from injured soul:
1. Do not look at my friends
2. Do not talk to my friends
3. Leave the building
4. Do not eavesdrop on any conversation
Requirements from me:
1. I will meet and greet
2. No one goes upstairs
3. Bass is turned down
4. Music off at 12
Negotiations from son:
1. You may meet but not greet nor make eye contact - I have a Medusa stare and appreciate his need for his friends not to be turned to stone!
2. You will not listen to any conversations - yeah, yeah get realistic as that is going to happen?!
Negotiations from me:
1. I will leave the building - I only agreed to the interior sucker!
2. I will play decent music music quietly upstairs on my return - The Spice Girls baby boy!
Still a subject of debate:
From him:
1. Why can he not berate me for being a total embarrassment - all the time, party or no party?
2. Why should he allow me to meet his friends as I am a total loser freak?
From me:
1. Why can I not discuss the fact that rugby players have small....?
2. Why am I paying for this party? Clearly I have " mug" written on my head!
Deal breaker on both parts:
His: me breathing
Me: not being allowed to laugh at his growing moobs! ( not true but mummy mafia weaponry)
A rugby injury, when he was head- dumped in the scrum, has left him angry with his inability to tackle men or life in general. Any request to lift anything above the weight of a feather has resorted in a grimace; an ask to involve himself in family life has also resulted in whimpers of pain. However, since the injury has now been deemed as muscular damage by doctor, physio and a higher being ( ME), he can at least attempt to engage with the idea of a party. Funny that since girls have entered his sixth form!
Requirements from injured soul:
1. Do not look at my friends
2. Do not talk to my friends
3. Leave the building
4. Do not eavesdrop on any conversation
Requirements from me:
1. I will meet and greet
2. No one goes upstairs
3. Bass is turned down
4. Music off at 12
Negotiations from son:
1. You may meet but not greet nor make eye contact - I have a Medusa stare and appreciate his need for his friends not to be turned to stone!
2. You will not listen to any conversations - yeah, yeah get realistic as that is going to happen?!
Negotiations from me:
1. I will leave the building - I only agreed to the interior sucker!
2. I will play decent music music quietly upstairs on my return - The Spice Girls baby boy!
Still a subject of debate:
From him:
1. Why can he not berate me for being a total embarrassment - all the time, party or no party?
2. Why should he allow me to meet his friends as I am a total loser freak?
From me:
1. Why can I not discuss the fact that rugby players have small....?
2. Why am I paying for this party? Clearly I have " mug" written on my head!
Deal breaker on both parts:
His: me breathing
Me: not being allowed to laugh at his growing moobs! ( not true but mummy mafia weaponry)
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
Bed Breaking News
Yet again a broken bed!
The boys have been through four in six years.
First bed death: three jumping up and down on top bunk in time to " We are the champions of the World", during an important football victory, which resulted in two needing plasters and one needing staples - death followed soon afterwards - those poor, poor bed slats, may they rest in peace.
Second bed death: five thirteen year old males decided to run and bellyflop with full weight onto unsuspecting bed. Result, instant collapse and death.
Third bed death: gradual and slow drawn out demise due to constant use as fight club arena for twins. Bruised, ruptured and haemorrhaging it eventually gave up.
Fourth and, hopefully, the final bed death: eldest son's bed. Reason for death - over use of fourteen stone rugby prop dreaming, I presume, of next match. I can only presume this is the case,as no human male or female would enter his lair without need of a tetanus jab, yet the noises emitting this feral hole seem akin to the NZ Haka! So either he sings the New Zealand chant of his step father subconsciously; or has sleep apnea and is gasping for air, writhing around maniacally with a desperate bed breaking need to breath or he is tugging on his favourite - that climatic call of every male in England ......that first try!
The boys have been through four in six years.
First bed death: three jumping up and down on top bunk in time to " We are the champions of the World", during an important football victory, which resulted in two needing plasters and one needing staples - death followed soon afterwards - those poor, poor bed slats, may they rest in peace.
Second bed death: five thirteen year old males decided to run and bellyflop with full weight onto unsuspecting bed. Result, instant collapse and death.
Third bed death: gradual and slow drawn out demise due to constant use as fight club arena for twins. Bruised, ruptured and haemorrhaging it eventually gave up.
Fourth and, hopefully, the final bed death: eldest son's bed. Reason for death - over use of fourteen stone rugby prop dreaming, I presume, of next match. I can only presume this is the case,as no human male or female would enter his lair without need of a tetanus jab, yet the noises emitting this feral hole seem akin to the NZ Haka! So either he sings the New Zealand chant of his step father subconsciously; or has sleep apnea and is gasping for air, writhing around maniacally with a desperate bed breaking need to breath or he is tugging on his favourite - that climatic call of every male in England ......that first try!
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