Monthly Archives: December 2017

Day 6: See, I'm not always whining! I could even (after enough booze) book something similar again!

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Distinct lack of Insta-twats today, apart from their little paddy this evening, slamming doors and shouting profanities whilst walking away. Not sure what it reminds me of most, the Toddler in the midst of rage or the Teabag that was. Only difference is one pisses herself when she gets angry that she can’t understand (and the other…. we’ll just leave that there).

We’ve had a really awesome day. And I’ve got that warm fuzzy feeling that oxytocin, reconnecting with my Small piece, and having too much gin to put in the case home- brings. So this will either be short and sweet, or ridiculously boring. Either way I’m sure the blog will be falling by the wayside, as far less shits are given when things go better than expected. And let’s just say here, the bar was definitely set with the demonstrable shitstorm that the past 4 days have been, so in advance for our lack of catastrophe, I apologise.

I managed to buy not one but two pairs of shoes today, mentally resolving to not go shopping again when shit is cheap and the money card has no reverse exchange option. Plus, they’re really bloody pretty, will make me feel better for the vegans in the world as I eat my pigs in blankets in 3 days’ time, and waterproof. Because we all love functionality. Granted, the Tiny Tornado had full on Twat settings enhanced, fast-touch-fibres (that I was told I had as a teenager before discovering alcohol, fags, and being on the rotund side of life) poised ready to spring into action at each dash for the shop door. The mum-panic that sends your heart racing and philtrum pouring thinking you think you’re not Adult enough for having had respawned.

A shit-ton of playground-ing later and we’re back at the hotel. She ate…. SHE FINALLY FUCKING ATE SOMETHING! That’ll be one less black mark in the red book of Shame for me. I’m a firm believer in the environment affecting one’s mood however, and have surmised that day 3 of this conference must be the less boring one, there are less Tits and Teeth and Suits at dinner than 2 day’s prior, real, normal people. Less business scheduling in conference calls over IPhone 600s and more face to face conversation. And no formidable stilettos clicking, winner!

Bathtime in the ‘blue lagoon’ that is the mood lighting in our bathroom and Small dutifully passes out at a reasonable time, leaving me to drink gin and watch BBC1, after calling the Mothership to find out what time literally anything is on, because as she pronounces, this is the only time she has the Radio Times, saved.

So tomorrow is our last day, and despite the screaming, raging, floor rolling and pissy protests (which haven’t been quite so pissy of late, handy as I only have one pull-up left), and we’re off to the beach. Still undecided as to whether to rent another Benidorm-mobile or if I should leave that life-lesson where it shat on me 2 days ago. To let her play in the sea and ‘make snakes’ across every single cute message written in the sand by likely the only other people currently in Icmeler (the malevolence with which she does this makes me think if I need to be worried for her teenage years, beyond the anticipated routine Twattisherisms). And we’ll try and meet with our Dutch friend, if we manage to not get lost on the Dolmus. Or stranded by a half-charged pensioner wagon yet again.

And the suitcase is nearly packed. Although my dearest and nearest have already given me the odd off-the-record warnings about stepping into the Mothership’s shoes, I’ve clearly not heeded and subconsciously become so. But it’s useful, and had I scorned the purchase of the Mum[bum]bag I’d have been majorly disadvantaged on our treks thus far, so I’ll have one for the team on that one.

Speaking of, I’m in a predicament. Very little of the one open bottle of Bombay, and not fancying finishing it off. Do I chuck it in or try to drink. Have in mere thought I just committed an obscene alcoholic blasphemy and be deserving of having my inner-trainwreck stripped of me? Answers on a postcard.

Love loves, the Dictator and I

Xx

Day 5- Christmas: Suits, gin-sweats and Christmas pyjamas

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What other day can you justify spending the whole day in pyjamas? We’ve gone full on British with it today, cue odd looks from a hotel full of conference attendees (a conference, on Christmas Day?!) in the restaurant, which is getting far more luxurious looking by the day.

There’s a distinct increase in the food which cannot be named, but I’m uncertain if its for the benefit of the Tits-and-Teeth and Suits clicking and murmuring in disgust at Small as she’s quite vocally rejecting anything to eat. My new game, meet the shameful stares of the ‘my-child-would-never-do-thats’ with the same unabashed defiance of the toddler that so disturbs the enjoyment of their carefully portioned continentals, so as not to stain their perfect pearly whites or set them off-balance from their skyscraper Carvellas. It’s rather effective, may try this back at home.

The electric piano is adorned with executive looking flyers (still disconnected) and we pile through the hoards of First-class scowlers to return the Benidorm-mobile key, still in our PJs, of course.

Small’s proclamation of ‘not again, silly mummy’ concretes the resolution that  we’ll just walk from now on, as she sees our 5mph steed of yesterday and proceeds to pull me away.

Back to the room to see what Santa has left for us. Only taking a few light things made this a real mixed bag. But in a nutshell, it looks like Nickelodeon has thrown up on Small, who is now top to toe in Paw Patrol, as I’m sure every other toddler owner’s spawn is today. Gonna have a lot of shit to Shpock when this phase is over.

The hangover is kicking in by this point, I’m questioning the ethics of hair of the dog in charge of a Small. Maybe I’ll wait until after noon (technically 9am Barntown side, is that still wrong?). I’m loving the bouncing on the bed with joy kid, you always know just what mummy needs (vom). I remember I ran out of tonic last night, mixing with some local apple juice concoction instead, sending me to a horrifically dizzying sober-ish dash to the porcelain throne. Full stomach and gin and syrup mixer. She knew exactly what I needed then, innocently presenting me with 3 bottles of varying sizes of water. Darn it she’s too cute sometimes. My argument to the Captain Clipboards of the world stunning my parenting methods  would be to challenge them to do a week here. Zero fucks given, and we’re both alive and happy still so jog on sunshine.

The idiots next door had nothing to say to me this morning, although their professional opinions of my parenting (being-why is your child crying and shouting all the time? Have you ever tried to wake a Small person from a mis-timed nap?) leave me with little festive compassion, and gauging from their self obsessed egocentrism at breakfast as they Insta-selfie their walk round the delights available, they’re got capacity of a gnat’s arsehole to understand real humans. Especially ones that have re-spawned. So we casually pretend they’re dead as we walk past. I fear this hangover has turned me in Victor Meldrew.

I get giddy over the prospect of some culinary festivities for lunch. The crackers we’ll pull, the cranberry sauce and miniature prawn vol-au-vents. The festive soundtrack that has looped for the past 3 days (at various decibels depending on how creepy the atmosphere deemed necessary) is cranked up. This is it. I can feel my stomach juices flowing like the Ganges in anticipation.

My gastric woes match the face of the Small, repulsed by her choices (all perfectly palatable, she was just being a twat). The closest I found was baked chicken. In a sort of chilled gravy sauce (after concentrating hard to not throw up, not 100% due to the hangover). All that was missing was the packet of Jell-O and I’d have been in a gelatinous haven of flavoursome festivity. At least I could have dressed in some charity shop flares and gone all disco-fever on it. That would’ve suitably pissed the Suits off. I make the best of a bad situation and chuck some yoghurt and oregano over it.

Right, no more Benidorm-mobile bollocks today, so gotta find something to do with Small that doesn’t involve getting stranded, we head to see if the lights are indeed on in the pool now. They are, though I’m pretty convinced that Vaughn Monroe and Judy Garland still sound eerie down in this basement, only with an ambient blue backdrop to what feels like an imminent murder scene.

I’m still filled with unease at the far end of the pool, with the same instinctive cortisol/adrenaline rush one is usually conditioned with experiencing when spotting a gigantic hole above ones head leading to a mould ridden abyss. It doesn’t shake away much later. I’m sure there’s something in the Not-wife’s DSM5 about getting ones twat in a tangle over fuck all and tricks of the mind.

 Donning a floatie and very little fear Small and I get cracking. Safety first, see which is the shallow end, there isn’t one, bollocks. Clinging onto her hand I get in first, run out of steps and I’m half jiving half, drowning looking for the bottom. Shit, it’s up to my ears if I stand flat. Maybe I was seeing things to come the other day, I’m like Nostra-fucking-Damus.

In the time that it took for us both to look like Leonardo DiCaprio’s lower torso by the end credits, Small has metamorphosed from a writhing fairy at the slightest drop of water above her shoulders, to full-on doggy-paddling solo a good 5m length, numerous times. The kid who I’ve not yet taken to swimming lessons, and has been in a pool no more times than I could count on one hand, fucking proud mama moment. Which is amazing really, and rather lucky as I’m sure there’d be a disaster should I need to rescue her.

Quick visit to McDs to ensure child doesn’t become ketotic by the morning (that AND rickets would be far too difficult to explain to the Health visitors at the next visit), in our pyjamas still (there was a brief interlude where I had on my spanking ‘Trample the Patriarchy’ tee -cheers Phoebs- but took it off for fear of Small ruining it with rage). Quick bit of Christmas TV and she’s flaked out. Helena Bonham Carter as a fairy godmother, that’s a new one.

Got left a personal message earlier stating that Hennie has invited me to the Taj Mahal for dinner, why the feck not. I’m not hanging out for that figgy pudding, and knowing Jaynie’s having the same, it’s almost like we’re sat being gastrically dysfunctional together.

Merry Christmas everyone,
Pinky and the Brain
Xx

Day 3: Mummy said I never should (book a holiday without first consulting her)

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I’ve literally booked to stay in a ghost town. As my dear not-wife has just proffered, it looks like a clickbait article for what a grand place looks like after an apocalyptic abandonment. It’s darn creepy, I’ll try upload the video of said pool with eerie Christmas hymns playing in the background.

And yes, we’ve learned something here. Heed Mummy’s advice, as even at 30 it’s still quite possible to bollocks it all up. Royally.

My waking thought was ‘Fuck, how is Christmas dinner going to go? Will there be one?’
I feel silly now for snubbing the M&S dinner that was the alternative, thinking if I wasn’t going to cook my own I may as well go abroad. They’ll make a fuss of it won’t they? At least some part of the day there’ll be a sit down meal, I’m over the fact there’ll be no pigs in blankets, was hardly expecting Yorkshires, but being half board if breakfast is as catastrophic as the last 2 days, Small will be loading up in festive McDonalds. And I’ll be damned if I don’t find her some ice cream SOMEWHERE…

Hence the walk around the complex, a last resort attempt to try and find some silver lining in this wonderful mistake. And I find this.

Sheffielders, anyone recall that period of time where Castle Market was closed but the signage and stalls were still there? Loaded with the memories of a time passed, ghosts of a once thriving community whispering in the background over heavy shelves and bowed canopies. I’m there, right there now. Makes me think of what Meadowhall will look like in the year 2086, without the robots.

Though speaking of, I’ve come to notice a distinct overstock of mannekins. The rush of arrival and midnight food hunting oversaw this detail at the time, but now with all the time in the world to appreciate the environment, I truly See. All the air of an upmarket department store with all the pizazz of a pandemic. Tinsel though, every cloud.

These guys are everywhere. The reason I haven’t really ventured downstairs on an evening, fancy bumping into one of these in the dark, bristling nerves to match the tinsel they’re adorned with.
I feel like I’m knee deep in ethnographic study of Fukishima. Timeless abandon.
My dear Dutch friend Henny spoke of renting a bicycle to explore, possibly even to his in the next village, possibly for Koffee and Kaas, but in the absence of his mobile number I can only leave a 1471 in Sheffield. But exploring could be interesting, what exactly, I’m unsure of. 
We’re still sans Paw Patrol. This is hellish.