8/8. THE END.

So this is it, the end has arrived. It has been a blast, at least for me. I feel that I have achieved something here. Perhaps achieved is a little strong. At least I have put a few words down sometimes in the right order, occasionally raising a laugh; or at least a little sigh as you ponder why you have spent 5 minutes of your precious time reading my inner bilge. I don't expect any comments, or pleading with me not to go, you're not that type, but dear reader I do thank you for your persistence. I have been made aware of late that many aspects of life should be very much about quality, and not quantity. You reader, are a fine example of quality, it could be deemed a shame that the quality of what you have read has not followed suit. And so the mundanity of this lengthy goodbye is nearly, but not quite at an end, I feel I should leave you with some pearls of wisdom:

A job done badly, is still a job done, and sometimes that is all you've got.

7/8

I have always been a little in awe of creative people. Once I thought I was one, but having gotten to know me a little better I think I am a little bit of a wrecker. I do not think there will be a Sistine Chapel from me. People who create, take a piece of crap and present it back in beauty. Or perhaps, some present it back as crap, but this time you look at it differently and you are moved.Creative people travel with humilty across the world with faith that they will find a place to perform. They make and grow and share their productivity. They fund their own books and teach themselves new skills. Through other's creativity I can empathise with situations beyond my personal experience, I can be challenged to be a better person. I am sure enjoying other's creativity at times lessens my blood pressure and stops me from indulging in practises that could cost the mental health budget dearly. Thanks to all you who inspire me and lift me out of my sandpit, where left to my own devices I am punching holes in castles. I am just wondering if a huge government cut in the arts. is money well saved?

6/8

Not with a bang but with a whimper...It makes me infinitely sad that the blog demise is watched by no one... To quote or mis quote one of my favourite films 'We all die alone'. And so it must be, we can never really drag the living to our death scenes.

5/8

Ahh, reminiscing over the sweet soulfulness of summer. Tall grass, sunburn and insect watching. Scorched toes and callouses from bare feet walking, parched grass and grazed knees, mud and sand caking your legs. The days never ending, early rising and late sleeping. Meanwhile mum and dad are chuntering and bickering; money not enough, bills unpaid, weather too hot, too rainy, too cold. Too tired, too past it, too bored, too old.

This year I am a little smug as my adult/child comparisons are directed else where, because this summer I have felt just a little bit more like a child. I have made every effort, despite the pointless adult worrying and pondering; to play in dirt, insect watch and celebrate every time the sun has parted from the perpetual cloud. I have been more than a tiny bit silly, and have had headaches and bruises to prove it.

The summer is drawing to an end and if you were to ask me what I have done, I don't think I could tell you. I haven't got many pictures and mostly it was just me and the kids. That pre-summer list came to nothing, but I am sitting here with a little sense of well being as I pick the dirt between my toes.

4/8

This is the scene where the anti hero grasps the blog by its neck in the first stages of strangulation. The blog still has a little strength left as it flaps its arms wildly, eyes popping and veins bulging as its bulk is lifted off the floor. The scene is relentless and the audience is audibly uncomfortable; it should of ended hours ago but alas we are only half way through.

I was asked today if I was still blogging to which I answered 'Yes, but not for long'. There are many reasons for rapping this thing up. It is time to move on.

At one point in my life I moved on at regular intervals, for some cosmic reason I have found myself for the last 10 years in the same place, with the same people, in the same job. My sentimental side longs for a wistful rummage over a box of discarded memorabilia and I would like to add the streets of Leeds to the archive maps of my dreams; practically this is not going to happen any time soon. So the death of my blog is a substitute, a faux beginning and a contrived end. At times when I feel a little blue I will look through and weep, fat, lonely tears, a little regret that it never entered my head to write anonomously or to pay attention in those grammar classes.

3/8

It was probably a bit too much to ask, for you to stick around in the midst of the semi dramatic blog death scene. I left you with dead air and a low hum whilst I enjoyed the hum of Devon. But I am back now, crazy and wild, exploiting grammar, sticking commas any which way' starting sentences with but and flogging this dead horse with all the vehemence I can muster. Today I will provide you with a lovely , little ditty despite half of my audience, yes you, not making full use of the click and minimise function.

Today, yes husband even me, I am humbled; modest even in my address. For I have nothing of note to say, only questions to be asked.

• Why do really stupid people give so much advice?


• Why does it start raining at the beginning of summer and not rain in the midst of winter?


• Why when you have time is it not accompanied with motivation?


• Why when you are highly motivated do you not have any time?


• Why is money so difficult to keep hold of?


• Why do people spend so much time thinking they are rubbish when most of us are pretty much of a muchness and we might as well spend time our time doing something else?


• Why do really rubbish people think they are fantastic?


• Why does it ALWAYS rain in Devon and Cornwall?


• Why don't children have an off switch?


• Why don't husbands/wifes have an off switch?


• Why don't you switch off the computer and do something less boring instead?

2/8

It was the last of our bands in the park. A signal for winter weather to come and summer holidays to start. An equal mix of preschoolers, over 70's and winos attend, united in their capability of leaving behind wet patches. Winos, preschoolers and old folk got up to dance and I was left wondering which way to dive if any should fall over.

I have plans for the Summer. Even though I will be hard pushed to fit them into the uncustomary 5 weeks instead of the usual 6. I fully intend to sound track each and every one of my last few blog posts, keep the house a little tidy and finally complete my application to do a Masters. This Masters thing is quite important to me, I would like a real qualification, instead of an honours in the Art of Procrastination. However this year I have achieved a decent hair cut which for me is no small thing.

One, two, three and I'm back in the room. Pulled back from a far fetched dream of a mortar board perched over perfectly, funky hair. I'm grinning, clutching my doctorate, 'Come to me my pretties let me in to your mind, it won't hurt a bit'!

1/8

• I am sure you have all enjoyed my posts. Well perhaps you didn't but at this late stage it is too late to care. This my faithful follower is the beginning of the end. In fact it is the 8th step to the end. After wheeling by buggyless baby around for a week, inspiration struck amongst the estates of South Leeds. And so I will outline the long and slightly over egged swan song, if you have the consistancy for it perhaps you can stick around to the bitter end.
  
  It was never going to be a long term committment, this barbed, poor commentary on my South Leeds life. After all there is only so much milage in dog poo, litter and local madness. It is time to crack my knuckles and get to grips with my more serious side, but more of that later.
  
  Today I want to share with you the little things I have learnt on this journey of self discovery, stay with me, and whilst reading enjoy this
  
  *The love of pictures may be greater than the love of words.
  *I talk too much
  *dog poo is funny only once, and then it just sticks on your shoe.
  * 35 is exactly middle aged.
  * It is easier to see others good points, then too write about your own.
  * If you want to be really clever then you have to read.
  * Revel in wrong facts and pass them off as the truth.
  * Loneliness is pretty bad, but inertia can be worse
  * No one is interested in song titles, unless they have once danced to it.
  * Star Wars is not the only place of great learning, Doctor Who is.
  * Two readers is 50% more than 1, and 100% better than none.
  * The love of Twitter is fleeting.
  * Laughter is seldom, tears are rife.
  * Don't put two friends with the same name together on your mobile contact list.
  * 12 followers is the correct and biblical amount.
  * RSS feed is not for ducks.
  * Lists are not only for ticking
  * Like Friends, somethings go on too long.
  * If after 10 years you aren't remembered move on.

Dance With Me.

I had a dream last night. In it was the perfect plot and set of characters for a novel I was working on, it would revolutionise the 'teen book market (even in dreams my ideas are adolescent).

Further into my dream I was in a crowded room; instead of the usual dream like state of nakedness, I dressed ridiculously complete with pink socks and a 'Dance With Me' T shirt. I had silly shoes which would not let me stop dancing and so I whizzed endlessly on one spot on a coloured-light-checkered-dance-floor.

The dream continued, and I made 2am phone calls to taxi's, only instead I woke up hard working friends out of deep and pleasant slumbers. When friends commented politely that I looked gorgeous I replied 'I know'.

I also dreamed that I had completely run out of steam, that I was no longer relevant or funny and that all my current affairs knowledge came from reading facebook and yahoo news; that and a sinister blog mite had slipped in and started its own surrealist nonsense.

But then I woke up and discovered it was all *a dream.

*Please excuse the state of this weeks blog, I am off to detox, sing with some monks, scout around the local vicinity for something to rant about, walk around town with a babyless buggy and will be back to my old self sometime next week.

Rene and Georgette Margritte with their dog after the War

This week has felt a little surreal. In a muted real life Magritte way, as apposed to a full blown Dali episode. Spent last Sunday listening to the other half expel wastage from both ends, through no fault of his own except for getting in the way of a few vicious virus particles. I think my present wings of steel did not allow any of the buggers in, instead I have been content to whet my appetite with a little dizziness and a sense that all is not what it seems.

Somehow through it all I managed to finish reports, turn in to work and daydream about tweed and melting circular libraries. This week, amazingly the house has not fallen through, despite the cat monsoons, and I have held one or two conversations that have made sense. I blame the fact I am reading again, that and Lars Von Trier.

I have been reading a few blogs lately, unfortunately for my weary mind, from people who are well educated. And for the first time in a long time I have been feeling the necessity to reach for my dictionary, and it has made me nostalgic for a time when the dictionary was my favourite ablution companion.

I am going to get some extra sleep, and immerse myself in something wholesome. Perhaps make some soup from my homegrown lettuce. Tomorrow I am planning on making some sense.

The man with the child in his eyes

I was at some point, hopefully the appropriate point, an academically over average 7 year old. Unfortunately my academic prowess never quite progressed with my years, not to mention my curtailed span of attention. Of course I am a little disappointed that my intelligence couldn't bring me more of the lifestyle I would like to be accustomed to. I try not to push my failed ambitions on to my offspring. Although I have been known to snap 'What do you wanna do that for?', with one eye on the crumbling house as the eldest explains she would like to become a teacher.

One week I made her come home and do her homework before doing anything else, she squirmed uncomfortably and I squirmed even more uncomfortably for possibly the longest 10minutes of my life. So I will confess, despite having the perfect psychological profile to become the world's most pushy parent I fail on all accounts; well my 7 year old intellect and attention span just cannot resist those games they play. Hold on one second... What was that? Yeah! I get to be the Master of Doom!

Wordy Rappinghood

I am going to make this fast. I have a date, in bed with a ... book!

The past 7 years I have neglected the noble art of reading. I have instead dedicated time to breeding, housework and bemoaning the fact that I am poor. I have built myself up slowly. Starting with cereal packets, moving to the Guardian and making small steps up towards the second child's Doctor Who magazine. After which I finished my good friend Gunter Grass and now I am reading a book... from the beginning. I have been in the intellectual doledrums and I have missed stretching the grey matter. The thing is I am one of those opinionated types, I am sure this will have passed you by, recently I have fallen into the trap of modern folks in that I am basing my opinions on the idiot lantern. Now I have recently found a blog which bases its opinions on Star Wars, that of course is permissible.

Dance to the Music of the World.

The children have been busy with their homage to JG Ballard. Making our little home into a wonderful, magical, mystical land; thankfully one that keeps on the right side of fantasy without the horror of corpses in the freezer. Together they make an interesting team, the slight one likes to draw vampires alongside the eldest's fairies and flowers. Trying to find the beginning and the end of one of their fights is like unravelling an impossible knot, the only common denominator is that it usually starts and ends in laughter. They are best left to it I say, as long as there is no drawing of blood; they'll find their own way.

The television broke this week. Instead we saved up our watching time for the fine experience that is Hyde Park Cinema; I got all Lynchian and took photos of red drapes and asked my 6 year old if the pre screening soundtrack was from 'Lost Highway' or 'Twin Peaks'. She scanned her memory of Dad's ipod to answer, correctly I might add.

At the beginning of the week the slight child made me chuckle when she asked if she could phone dad for 'A sad song', 'Why do you want to listen to a sad song?' I asked. 'No mummy, Sad Song' she replied singing a perfect redition of Lou Reed. This is just a little time after the eldest used Tom Waits as her point of reference to describe a gruff voice.

On some occasions you just have to talk about the things that you like, and if that means a little conversation with yourself then so be it. Like plugging in your ipod and nodding along in a crowded place, sometimes a little of what you fancy is all that you need. Now excuse me whilst I read the Tin Drum to the baby.

Praise You

Every once in a while I think it is good and proper to sing your own praises. This is a practice I have adopted in adult life, largely because I grew a little weary of waiting for some one do it for me. Usually my daily devotion to myself is a private thing: giving myself high praise for my prowess in the kitchen (providing my offspring with 2 veg and fishfingers), my complete professionalism (making it into work) and my devotion and patience with my kids (addressing my screams into a pillow instead of child). You see what I did there, didn't you? And you are already feeling more positive? Well at least about your own life, if not for mine (not that I mind, I am in the process of heaping adulation on myself for completing this post).

So here goes my first public self praise session. Today I have not watched one ounce of T.V because I am intellectually capable of feeding my own mind (not to mention the little **** that broke it). I am a creator and a maker, I enjoy making space in the creative mess made whilst creating and making. I haven't eaten a cake today. And most of all it is past 5pm and I haven't poured a glass of wine. I am truly a splendid human being.

Live when I'm alive, sleep when I'm dead.

Although I am providing at least 2 faithful followers with a pithy aside, I am doing more than that. In my own way, my weekly ramblings are becoming a little keepsake for our family life.

It has been on my to do list, ever since idiot child number One was born to make some sort of memento of the occasion. Except when they are there, they're around you ALL the time and what you really need is a memento of your life before, when there was half a minute to yourself. 'Oh look there I am with a perfect white backdrop staying in the pub too long on a Saturday afternoon, ahhhhh there I am again grinning cos I stayed in bed all day reading novels'.

Having children takes adjustment, some of us take a little more than others. After nearly 7 years I can just about remember that I can't leave the house after they are all in bed (although I am sure I could, idiot child 2 is a dab hand with the phone).

Before you start ringing child line, and more importantly flash forward a few years before the kids get a handle on google. Neither 3 are idiots, in fact the complete opposite; at 6 and 4 they already understand the plots of Dr Who. And for that I am glad, they will be wise enough to largely ignore their ma and pa and find their own way. Which hopefully includes as much fun as they have given me.

Fools Rush In (where angels fear to tread)

Those of you in the know, realise how outta character it is for me to harp on about a subject. I am by nature a leave well alone kinda gal. I like to look each day in the eye and start afresh, leaving behind and looking onwards.

Ok you can come back now, I'll start telling the truth. That ridiculous sketch 'You wouldn't let it lie' was written for me. My two readers, who I incidentally pay to read this, know I have never let anything go in my entire miserable existence.

This blog post was meant to be a follow up to the last. I was going to expound on my views of humour, to carefully make the point that whilst I am allowed to poke fun at da events which accompanies living in South Leeds, those not living in da neighbourhood are not. So leave your opinions at da back door. (A response to all the negative stuff I read about my area).

You may of guessed I got bored of carefully making a point. Instead I used a metaphorical sledge hammer, and now I am reading this back in the worst American Italian accent you can imagine and wondering why every old member of the Godfather looks like my dad. I am tired beyond measure and probably not making much sense; first I blamed my son for waking up so early but I think I truly blame Francis Ford Coppola for making the criminal underworld so compelling, and bizarrely moral. Perhaps this is why they all remind me of my Dad. Possibly for that comment, tonight I sleep with the fishes.

Rainy Days and Mondays

It is only right and proper that I am careful as to where my humour leads me. Like a runaway train thundering down the track, myself huffing and puffing red faced behind, holding in the guffaws after one too many dangly bits joke. I confess this is not the only track my mind wanders too, I am afraid I have to stop it sniffing around many a dark and dank crevice.

I have this theory that out from the cess pit of humour springs hope. Many a good joke has come about from a spot of healthy oppression. Just ask Joan Rivers... Before you start throwing your placards at me of course there is no such thing as healthy oppression. Except for perhaps the Cabbage Soup Diet. I suspect the last thing on any self respecting despots mind is whether the last heinous act he/she has committed will translate into a good gag.

I would advise you steer away from the despot route if you are in the business of making people laugh, although I believe tickling is a bonafide torture technique. I would like to think those who successfully lob the PC book away have probably lived through their jokes first, turned their misery into mirth and are now reaching out and touching the rest of us; albeit somewhat inappropriately.

Don't stop till you get enough

I promised there would be no more talk about football, but I lied. I also promised that I would post on Sunday, double lie. The thing is I forgot for a few days that I was a teacher, only to be jolted back to reality by facebook. A friend of mine had left her planning to the last minute, I'd just failed to remember it is part of what I do. How rock and roll? Let's be honest these days I am as edgy as a tomliboo.

On Saturday I left the confines of barracks and began a night out. Beginning in the city centre watching football on a big screen; feeling like David Attenborough musing over the strange beast that is the young 20 something male football fan. By 11.30pm I was noshing on a 'footlong', dreaming of fluffy slippers, tea and duvets.

My night time stamina was probably effected by the gorgeous but oh so painful heels I had chosen; that and the fact that my current hair style resembles a member of the hair bear bunch who has spent all day in a ball pool. Half of me is a little disappointed with my nocturnal performances but the other is very satisfied with its lot. So until next Saturday I bid you Goodnight, I have a date with a fleece all-in-one.

It's coming Home.

The holidays are over and it is time to get back to business. I have stated before that this blog would run to September. So in football terms I feel as if I am now entering the second Half. Oranges have been sucked and The Coach has given the team a pep talk, ending with a huddle up. The game was started without a plan, just lots of hairy legged concepts hogging the ball of weekly contention. I guess this half we should have some team playing, less of the flash more of the flo'.

Unfortunately the Wild Alternative Gags are rather distracting and not behaving politely. Instead of making the off pitch play more interesting, they're absent, possibly shoe shopping and cocktail drinking. Perhaps I should follow Capella's decision and keep them at home and get down to serious business.

And that folks is possibly the end of any football metaphors. But before I go (until tomorrow you remember). I would just like to thank: Online dictionary for sorting my metaphors from my similes. Wikipedia for info regarding the current football manager. A friend of mine, who is a truely talented writer and reads my stuff, giving me some the encouragement to enter the second half.

Ain't No Mountain High enough

Monday morning I am up early, with a film of sweat and panic. There is usually no matching socks for the girls, the shoes haven't been cleaned, again, and I am busy wafting damp (but clean) knickers in the breeze. I look around the house and it is more 'ish' than the accepted other part of the word 'tidy' and I wonder what has happened to my weekend routines.

I'll tell what has happened. I have gotten myself a new hobby. This my observational spider sense tells me, is an epidemic amongst the 35+. For years we sat on our backsides thinking wistfully. Making plans for when we were grown up and had somewhat of an ideal situation. Now we are a hive of activity. It is almost slightly unhinged as we throw ourselves into marathons and mountain climbing, art exhibitions, gardening and sewing; anything that keeps us achingly occupied.

The painful truth: this, as they say, is it. With it comes the realisation there is no prince charming, no lottery win, and no fairy godmother. We are approximately half way through our forsaken lives and as my mother would say 'The dinner does not make itself'. Although for me at least, it would have been better to start some of my ambitions earlier, there is nothing like the wisdom of mid life and the fear of death to get you motivated. Besides I might even get an age defying bod and a few homegrown veggies whilst I am at it.

The Heat Is On...

As a rule by Wednesday I have concocted some sort of post on my walk to work, and look forward to the weekend to 'get it down'. However as you have become aware, this in recent weeks has not been the case. Perhaps it is the flow of tears and snot as I wade through Pollen (hooray not poo), which is killing the creative vibe. Or perhaps like my game of bowls, my skills are only there when I am blissfully unaware, as soon as I become fixated on any ability to strike, poof, the strikes dry up! I guess I could try walking to work blindfolded or coax myself into a zen like state of unawareness but I have an irrational fear of loosing my life on the main road.

This blog began life with The Worst Christmas Fair in the World, and swiftly became a carthartic half hour, a safe haven to rant without harm to myself or others. It is just that my own therapy is too good. Of late I have passed many South Leeds atrocities and not even blinked, instead a few butterflies skip by, a little cherry blossom floats down and I skip my way through the filth with a smile on my face. I am afraid goodness is just not funny, and happiness is a real humour killer.

We're all going on a Summer Holiday....

In two weeks I am going away on holiday. This year I have as yet, foregone my usual particular planning. In fact I have stored the knowledge of my holiday to the back of my mind, a place usually reserved for life's little unpleasantness's. The thing is I don't think Cliff's 'no more worries for a week or two' would have been so forthcoming if he had taken his vacation with 3 young ones.

Once I had a vision of young children on holiday, it included cottages, hay fields and sunshine with the odd baby animal thrown in. Now when I close my eyes I see babies flying, muppet style, after coming into contact with livestock (one of my offspring was once kicked by a particularly vicious Shetland). I know I sound ungrateful and it will be great once we get there, but sometimes the getting their is needing-a-holiday inducing in itself.

First there is the pre holiday house tidying. A holiday provides you with the false hope that your house could be as spic (sparse) and span as a holiday let. Then there is the packing and I have to fight a sudden urge to iron. The ridiculous notion that peoples from outside of Leeds will condemn us greatly if we holiday with creases, of course the rest of the year it does not matter.

Not to mention the travelling and journey time which follows its own particular formulae:

number of children X 5 toilet breaks π /(Sit down all you'll get out and walk)+ mums lost her way and have I locked all windows/doors₂

However we WILL have fun. And I know I can live with a year's worth of 'Do you remember when's...' from grateful offspring.

Walking on Broken Glass

In a past post I committed to the blogosphere a new found ability to stick at things. Right now I am growing a little concerned, last week I posted late and this week, not only am I late I cheated considerably. I am undeniably in that quagmire that blogger's term writers block.

Whilst fighting the good fight in order to fulfil my posting duties, I am making myself more commitments, ones that kept to myself I could 'forget'.Come the month of July you will see me take this sagging, birth torn body out to lollop the 3 peaks. The Husband is right, I can't keep a secret.

Yesterday I began my training: i-pod, rucksack and I pounded the streets of South Leeds, grimacing inanely as I listened to Rage Against the Machine. I am quite pleased with my first session. Next time I will pound the Streets with the baby's pushchair filled with bricks.... Did I say I was training for the 3 peaks, I meant to say I was training to take over the post of Village Idiot. Anyway for motivational purposes I have posted a before picture, just so we'll all be able to see how far I have to go.

The Art of Noise

Debs has writers block... Let the kids do the work!

57 channels and nothin' on

This weekend I shared a warm and fuzzy feeling, at first I thought it must be yet another head cold and then on closer examination and to my surprise, I discovered it was love. Yes my loyal 2 readers (have you forgiven me for leaving you hanging this Sunday?); I was feeling an overall celebration for the 'L' word.

On Saturday, a wedding evening do allowed a little abandonment; and I gleefully suffered 'Wedding Whiplash' (a condition caused by gentle head banging as appropriate at a wedding do)*. As I casually threw wedding 'shapes' I felt somewhat joyful about the whole marriage thing, such a feeling brought about by the obvious love between the bride and groom.

I am glad my teenage ideas of being an itinerant loner never came to pass, being safely coupled off allows me to keep some of my sanity. Now I dream of matching knitwear and laughing stoically as I listen to his jokes for the millionth time. Never fear I am not going to start posting up pictures of our home made jumper collection, but once in a while I do not think it is wrong to be a little relieved and a whole lot thankful. So far, and for me, the gamble that is marriage has paid off. The way I see it with the companion thing all sorted I can concentrate on what is really important. 'Now shut up husband and pass me the remote'.

* This is not to be confused with Rock club whiplash, which can leave the victim at odds with their neck for days, sometimes weeks or in some extreme cases years.

(Not just) Knee Deep

Dear Mr Dog Warden,

Last week I said some things in haste, I now know that this was unfair. In order to make it up to you the next time you are in South Leeds, please call round. We can have a cup of tea and make light of the subject 'cos I realise, it might get to you too. Perhaps you'd like to play some new games I have devised: Dog Top Trumps, Match Pairs (Turd with Breed) or Guess the Dog's Dinner? I feel I should congratulate you, a small chink of hope, when the rest of the world has given up. So Mr Warden don't give up, I have heard it's just you and 3 of your friends entrusted with the whole of Leeds. Perhaps one day some one will invest in you and there might be a possibility that as a team we can wield a giant, not so metaphorical, shovel.

My recent posts have been a little preoccupied with local politics I will not apologise; after all said and done this is an election year. If I'm honest I can rant until I am blue about my local pool closing or anything that directly effects me, but my attention wanes when it comes to general issues. The fact is I don't really know, and when I try to invest time into finding out, I realise I can't really be bothered. As a younger more agreeable person I could listen to cat fights and unpick a policy out of the to and fro of put downs, now I'd rather catch up on the cleaning. I can't quite help thinking does it really matter?

This time around I am not going to feel any guilt but celebrate my political nonchalance. After all I am quite thankful that I can make my vote according to the colour which best suits my complexion if I choose to. And I guess that is how democracy works.

Things can only get better.

It is not often I return to a previous rant with some good news. I feel I need to ladle high praise on the village council. They have collected aforementioned green bin. They have collected and given us assurance in writing that we will have regular collections.

Now I can roll up my sleeves and get knee deep in my next community based project. Yes you have guessed it, I am turning my attention to crap. The man of the house has already written a carefully worded letter outlining the state of our pavements and streets and the council have duly reciprocated. Their equally carefully worded letter can be paraphrased thus: Unless you the citizen of said village, spend all your time patrolling your streets, stop every dog owner and ask their name and address and whilst your at it follow them to ascertain where and when their dogs excrete; we are loathed to spend any time on doing anything about it. Even though we do spend thousands putting up do not foul signs which are not enforced.

It is an interesting attitude to take to such a public nuisance. Perhaps all crime prevention should be abolished to save a bob or two? Perhaps the next time there is a football match instead of spending any resources preventing the inevitable pint and a fight; just ignore the mess and only do something about it if someone complains complete with a name, address and a number.

It is not rocket science :'Oi dog wardens come on down to South Leeds, for your info dogs generally poo 2-3 times a day (usually after their food) most probably morning and evening. Take a walk round, I am sure if you do you will hit the jack pot. Or at least be scrapping something off your shoe. Of course I am not suggesting you've never been here, its just that after 10 years I'm feeling that I have more chance of meeting the toothfairy than encountering one of you'.

Just me, myself and I.

Don't get me wrong I enjoy writing with a hint of humour and I do enjoy hearing the complements received after making someone laugh (thank you Mamma W). However every now and again in a blogger's life one writes purely for ones self. I know what you are thinking, maybe something along the lines of 'Oi you, and your inner feelings, Go get a room!' But I am afraid my psyche and I are too lip locked to take much notice.

My plan is to close this blog in September, because by then I hope to be pursuing writing of a more academic nature. This plan has been on a low light for sometime now, and I have been plodding, behind the scenes, towards my goals. Many things have been put to one side, and sometimes comfort has been sacrificed over frugality. The proof of the pudding is in the eating and very shortly I will find out if my plan is at all viable; and that is what is giving me the emotional heebie jeebies. No one likes failure and I have the added problem of a genetic predisposition towards absolute fear of rejection.

For now, I have finished snogging with my inner psyche, and perhaps we are off for some relationship counselling. If after all that, you feel bloated and flatulent with inner angst, I do apologise but only slightly, do not fear I will be back to your favourite subjects tomorrow.

The Green Mile

Sunday is the day where I bring my ramblings closer to home and hopefully share a little of the apple pie existence that is ours. Words from our beautiful homestead nestled in a picturesque village, in the province of South Leeds. [1]

In our village it is custom to use resources carefully, for example by sharing recycling bins. Those who live in streets without, feel it is their duty to share without complaint, or failing that use the community based recycling facilities known affectionately amongst villagers as Da Street.

Our village council ensure the needs of those applying for a recycling bin are genuine by making them ask for approximately 3 years and firstly supplying applicants with a 'test bin'. This is duly uncollected and returned.

It is policy to then wait for a prolonged period and to offer applicants a second recycling bin, ensuring that collection is guaranteed. To ensure no misuse of recycling facilities it is a further requirement to fill appropriately, leave correctly and then bring back on to property, uncollected, at least twice. The village council look at each case individually and deem collection necessary based on the frequency and vehemency of further phone calls from applicant.



[1] The author of this blog will not take responsibility for any foreign travel to the province of South Leeds based on reading of this here post.

Chirpy Chirpy Tweet Tweet.

I have discovered the joys of Twitter. In my own mind I see my daily tweets to all 4 of my followers (soon to be 3 after clicking on one the tiny urls!) as a service.

To me, twitter is a wonderful source of finding out and providing information, I now follow interesting folk like Yoko ono, Stephen Fry and John Brockman

The wealth of information at my disposal! And all discovered by messing with this blogging malarkey! You see I need a purpose and if not to draw in thousands of readers (my comfort is I am scribbling for a niche demographic... of 2); it is pursuit of knowledge, a mental stretching of a flabby mind. The mental fog brought on by the thought of voting in the general election coupled with the fact I haven't read a complete book for about 5 years, is making me doubt my wee inner voice.

I like the idea of providing others with sweet morsels of knowledge, perhaps it will lead you to a thought never thunk before. By the way if you have a chance could you send those thoughts back this way, 'cos I haven't got the foggiest who I've linked and what they're on about.

Pulp Fiction

Last night a dj saved my life. Actually it was tonight and it was our good friend Jarvis Cocker, www.bbc.co.uk/6music/shows/jarviscocker he in his understated manner noted that an artist sees things in a different way. This difference was viewed positively and necessary, I do hope I caught the gist of the discussion with Laurie Anderson correctly. Sigh! A different point of view seen as a complementary aspect of society, not just an irritant.

Of course I am no artist, but I live with one so surely that allows me to make claims on platitudes. Feeling good by proxy, sounds vaguely Freudian. I'll have a piece of that.

I have been so pleased with myself, my readership appeared to be growing. I gained a rather dedicated reader from London. London that's a sophisticated bunch, they'll know about the ways of the world. It turns out that I am that sophisicated reader, my aging computer is playing tricks on me.

Micro Meditation

Firstly apologies for my tardiness, a day behind (somewhere in the back of my mind I can hear 'I told you so'). The husband and I have not been at home for a day. We have been off having fun, something the pair of us need to get used to.

The children have been busy with sleep deprivation training, in adult terms a sleepover. This training will help them with the sweet but brief 'party years', just before the fatigue of realising your dream job isn't out there and there is no romance in poverty.

It has been a week of quiet contemplation in those micro seconds between the kids demanding, whinging and being recklessly optimistic (half term again). I was lucky enough to enjoy some retail counselling from the assistant at Gap. That rare moment in modern living where you feel calmer and more valued after speaking to a company representative than before. Simple acts like exchanging damaged goods without receipts can be done in a way that uplifts one's soul. 'I like that man mummy'; high praise indeed from a child which two minutes previously had been shattering windows with her tantrum scream.

And of course I have received some feedback from 50% of my readership, thank you, that one comment will keep me going for a while.

Blogging For Dummies

I visited the library yesterday and came away with Blogging For Dummies. At the moment that speaks volumes, what began as a private therapeutic action is continuing to fall head long into uncontrollable obsession. You may be shocked that I am posting uncharacteristically during The Week ; this is mainly due to my aforementioned growing obsession and partly cos I want to check out a couple of new gadgets. I think they might be slung into the cyber bin, but I am hopeful they will work. One of the things that I have picked up through my quick squizz of blogging for dummies is the notion of a blog being interactive. In my eagerness to write and comment humorously about my everyday occurrences I've missed the point of interaction. Indeed only this morning I was providing my husband with a monologue about the onesidedness and tedium of monologues. So all two of you, feedback please. If I have held your attention for more than a couple of seconds, please tell me whatcha liked. And of course, the hard bit, the side of this I am not really built to take.... tell me what's bad.

Dem Bones. Dem Bones.

Against my better judgement I purchased the album Pop Party 7 for my 6 year old. It is really quite unsuitable. One song in particular promotes the misconception that equality of the sexes is achieved by ladies adopting a sexy but don't touch attitude. This is irksome enough, however what I really object to is the mathematical improbabilities which are being thrust at impressionable minds.

According to the song, these lovely ladies would become billionaires if they had a dime every time a 'silly' boy stopped to stare. This requires one to be stared at 10 billion times. Now, these 'babes are reportedly in a club, one which presumably flouts all health and safety recommendations on capacity or perhaps more reasonably these stares are calculated over a period of time. Further research and the assumption that a stare be approximately 2 seconds would result in an an accumulative stare of 20 billion seconds. On this recommendation those 'silly' boys have become very disturbing boys and are exclaiming 'Hey Sexy!' at some captivating skeletons, perhaps littered with a few writhing bikini clad worms. The only feasible explanation is that these women have accrued a rather large but dedicated group of stalkers, which are permitted certain liberties in order to validate their sexual equality.


For those looking for a Bank Holiday Monday project, the following from WikiAnswers may help with any calculations which may arise.

1 min = 60 seconds
1 hour = 60 min = 60 x 60 seconds = 3,600 seconds
1 day = 24 hours = 24 x 3,600 seconds = 86,400 seconds
1 year = 365 days = 365 x 86,400 seconds = 31,536,000 seconds

To get the number of years for 1,000,000,000 seconds, we just divide
1,000,000,000 by 31,536,000

It should give us : 1,000,000,000 / 31,536,000 = 31.71 years


10 billion dimes = 1 billion dollars.

The way to a Man's Heart...

The marking of calendar events is a developing interest of mine. As yet this celebratory side does not extend much beyond my very immediate family; I still have much work ahead convincing the oldest member of the flock that birthdays and holidays are to be embraced with gusto.

This year the original celebratory idea of extreme sport at Xscape, quickly turned into an exercise in extreme eating. What with birthday meals, birthday breakfasts (complete with chips!?) birthday cake and coffee, birthday Cava and more birthday food. As a result we managed to indulge in the extreme sports of breath holding, wind dodging and duvet flapping; providing more than enough adrenaline for pair of us.

My insight into what makes a good celebration for my husband is finally paying dividends, and having effect on how he sees important family and calendar events. After watching him ceremoniously 'Open' the homemade compost bin, with the ritualistic tossing of peelings and teabags accompanied with a little faux speech, I can't help but feel a little proud.

Happy Easter

(I like my town with) a little drop of poison

On occasion, you hardened livers of life, it is not all sunshine in the Deb's household. Sometimes it is a little Dark(o), I like to think of this as our brand of gloom with a cheeky humorous 'O'. In these times you have choices, firstly you can wallow. I do an excellent line in wallow, although my husband's wallowing is arguably superior. Or you can use an old fashioned approach and 'count your blessings'.

Well, I have managed to teach baby Lolbert to shake his head rhythmically whenever I sing 'I just called to say I love you'. Not to mention Frankie provided me with five minutes of freedom whilst feeding brother/herself, before deciding he should wear the yogurt. I have also managed a whole day of not fretting about housework, OK I wasn't in the house and on returning I did have to apologise profusely to a friend who came to babysit, but its a start.

The Husband and I managed to leave the house, together, after dark. A somewhat bewildering experience. What began with hope of exotic and quirky fun, quickly turned into a dinner at our usual and a bus back at 11. However in our defence, the bus journey can be a little vicarious, which goes to show we can live dangerously.

Women's Issues

The fact come Monday I choose Glee over the more serious BBC three Women, probably is an indication of some of my feelings. However I have been watching the trailers to Women with anticipation, and feeling there was a lot to be gained through viewing.

I will at some time spend some time catching up, but I was a little dismayed by my feelings to the glimpses I saw. Maybe I have to admit that the world of celebs and Katie Price have left their mark, as I couldn't help but wish the young lady giving the speeches was just a little more glamorous. And why did she have to shout so much? It reminded me of past experiences with other types which claim the truth. In my experience (don't we just know it readers) shouting is derived from anger and no matter how justified anger is it invariably leads away from the truth. The great philosophers Yoda and Skywalker will account for that.

Stuck on you.

If you listened to my mother she would tell you the trouble with me is that I am unable to stick at anything. As mothers tend to, she is describing me as the child she knew. Now of course I am a reformed character; for nearly 10 years I have stuck at the same profession, the same husband, and in the same part of town. More recently I have become rather attached to an unfeasibly long chest hair, which I am determined not to remove until it reaches my navel.

Despite my eldest child's predilection for danger and the very occasional urge to leave them for an extra long stay at grandma's/aunty's/friends or any half decent person that will have them; I have stuck with my children.

So mother, I am determined to write my weekly blogspot and my new track record supports this notion. And if my children's faces are anything to go by sticking with me can sometimes be a little bit of fun. As for the chest hair I'll keep you posted.

Traffic

Since my reckless sister introduced me to the world of the blog and unleashed a monster, 'traffic' has become a word loaded with meaning. When I am not breaking my fist on hapless male drivers windows and asking them ever so politely 'Could you maybe not run a red light as my offspring is with me? There's a good boy' I am dreaming of my 4th reader, shiny and doe eyed discovering that laughing at another person's misfortunes is so much fun.

What started as a little personal relief is now manifesting itself as a shameless traffic stopper which will go to any ends to double its readership. From the subtle mention mid conversation 'southleedsliving.blogspot.com', to the offering of plonk if you'll just join my facebook group?

Blogspot eh? The great equalizer, giving the ordinary folk a voice, providing the frustrated scribbler a blank page. Together we can ruminate the merits of appealing to a wider audience of perhaps 10, and the mythical goal of becoming... A Blog of Note. Or I could stop now, post a few piccies and just start writing about poo.

please feel free to subscribe to my now weekly blog, which on occasion has some good pictures and often has subtle reference to humour of a sort.

The meaning of Life

After inadvertently slipping over to radio 2, who amongst us has not had that discussion: 'That Alanis Morrisette she hasn't a clue about irony,' and then continued saying, 'Tsk those Americans really don't do irony.' But if I am entirely honest I don't really understand many common words and concepts. Par example, I was trying to convey the concept of technology to a group of 4 year olds; on the face of it a simple concept yet deceptively complex. After reeling my mind back from the visions of post modern whizzers dials and bleeping, I used the online dictionary. The definition blew my mind and I came to the conclusion that technology really is a philosophical concept.

Bruce has been touting a joke since the beginning of our relationship, he has waited patiently for its perfect execution. Whilst visiting a nurse to secure a vasectomy appointment she asked, 'Where would you like to go?'. Now was the most perfect moment, 'Well Jimmy's or Seacroft, it doesn't make a Vas Deferens to me'. The nurse made no response.

Grand Relocation Designs

The home improvements continue. This is a process which is seemingly unending and I would describe it as similar to trying to walk through quicksand, two steps forward and four steps down. In fact a lot like the mud we are trying to tame in 'Our Patch', as cbeebies likes to optimistically call it.

I ordered some recycled* plastic raised beds, and waited for them to arrive. The conception was easy but the delivery was a little difficult.The driver insists he posted a card through the front of our postboxless pvc door. After searching both inside and out for this card I have now spent roughly two hours trying to reinact this feat to no avail. However readers this is not time wasted, as if I am to sit in the seat of smug rightness I like to check my facts.

*readers are now aware I have successfully completed the 2010 prerequiste nod to being environmental whilst hanging on to more important motivations such not making things difficult for one's self and not spending excessively.

You probably think this blog is about you.

That's it Folk's. Maternity leave is over, the third and last (vasectomy willing) child has been born, weaned and is crawling. 'Back on your Heads' calls The Boss and I jump to it, as now I am back at work. It should all be very exciting, it could all be very challenging. Somehow, I find myself looking through the classroom window wistfully, wondering if there is anything out there.

The Web as we know it today began its life on my 16th birthday. Whilst I was crying over my missed spent future, an anarchic force was created, a proposed leveller of means and intellect. This my friends, was a way that lowly voices could be heard. The revolution would not be televised but may be found on a blog.

So perhaps I should close my curtains, afterall napster is defunct, google is being accused of not being as unbiased as it set out to be, and I have only really ever bagged 2 readers. The rest are looking up Katie Price's love life. But once in a while I like to look up out of my occupational rut, stretch my capabilities and have a little dream.

blogsplotation

Today I was blessed with a brief moment of semi relaxation. Rule no 1 of teaching, parenting and quite possibly the MI5 'Never let the enemy catch you whilst sleeping'. During this time I allowed a portion of my self to relax whilst cleverly keeping the rest poised and armed for action. It is no longer in my remit to think too deeply, since my Grey Matter is taken out and exercised daily around the wasteland of 'What are we going to eat' and during the operation named 'Early Evacuation of habitation (leave no one behind)'.

This thought lingered for a while and caused excitement, a Maslowian moment resulting in a leap and a drippy passage down the corridor. As I made myself dry enough to connect safely with an electrical appliance I cleverly entitled my thought: 'In a World of Reason Where is the Madness'. I chuckled to myself at the intriguing nature of the title and how it would all make sense once I used vocabulary in an inventive but droll manner. How intelligent I am! A brain which matches the thinkers of our time! This is the meaning of The Blog!

I can't wait to share this idea with you. It's amazing I am sure, at least I think it was, first let me call Grey Matter in from her daily exercise.

Walk on the Wild Side.

I would like to invite you to take a walk with my serious side, if you would, allow me to make a point. Please take a walk with me to my children's school. Perhaps you begin this walk with a head of glossy brown hair and a calm yet sunny disposition.

The first road requires a little dexterity, we crane our necks back the way we have been and swing to the direction we are going and pray that cars will indicate and take the sharp turning at a reasonable speed, perhaps showing some awareness of pedestrians.

The second is a zebra crossing, we have a few deep breaths allowing the cars to slow enough for us to demonstrates some faith they will stop. We then jog, shout and drag each other in order to make it across in the few allowed seconds.

At the third we forget the highway code and we tentatively poke ourselves out between parked vans, since our vision is so impaired we collectively rely on The Force and then we throw ourselves across the road.

At the fourth I thank the Lord for the lollipop man and just hope his luminous green suit gives drivers enough of a hint that they should stop. Although sometimes this fails and as yet only one child has been hit, but luckily that one bounced.

We arrive at school sunny disposition replaced by frayed nerves, glossy hair turned to grey.

Anyone for Turdage?

Every family has a cutesy little game, often unique to them and a favourite to get them through some mundane daily chore. We have a special game which I like to call rather charmingly, 'Count the Dog Piles'. We often play it walking together towards school safe in the knowledge families which play together, stay together. I do however have an inner debate as to the rules of the game, for example what should class as one unit? Can an especially elongated or disjointed pile be counted in terms of portions or should one take in to account the personal situation of a dragged defecating dog? Does one presume the origin of discreet piles in close proximity as one beast or could communal doggy extraction play a part? Perhaps it is best for our family's sanity to underestimate as a turdage count in excess of 50, can make one reflect unfavourably on one's environ.

Once we have tired of this game or the weather conditions permit, there is another version called 'Count the sputum'. This however takes a strong constitution, unless one is looking towards adopting community minded behaviour and contribituing to another fav of the local area called 'Watch the Vomit Splats'.

Throwing the baby out with the bath water.

Years ago when I was a child or perhaps a teenager, I visited an old couple, armed with the excuse that I wanted to play with their kitten. Maybe the kitten was the reason for my visit or otherwise I truly enjoyed their company.

I suspect that back then, even to a couple in their 80's, my awkwardness was palpable and once I left their house to attend some prayer meeting or another they would mumble to each other 'That girl really needs to loosen up'. So, one visit I left their house not empty handed but with a box of 7 inch singles. Sadly record collectors I have little recollection of that box's content, condition or age. I remember only one, a certain Chuck Berry song 'My Dingaling'.

Many people cite Chuck as a great influence. After listening to that record I was confused by such subtle titillation. The next day I took out that box to the bin and haven't heard much from Chuck since.

Knock, Knock

Of late I have become a bit of an Internet stalker. Google has a lot to answer for. There once was a girl who befriended me when I was 16, shining a cosmic light into a dusty church hall gloom. For some reason our friendship did not make it through the University years. I have discovered that she is a prolific blogger and Internet publisher, active environmentalist and artist, perhaps living a little of a life I imagined as a young person. I have found myself having a cheeky check on the life of someone else and in turn questioning my own Internet footprint. This comparison along with January weather and Seasonal Self Pity has left me feeling a little melancholy.

Now my question is this should I blog during intermittent blue or red mist, or should I leave it until the sun shines through, will my audience of two keep hanging on for my witticisms or perhaps they will bear with me in the gloom. As a Carrie Bradshaw posed question: In a blog supossedly made up of humour when is expression too expressive? Whilst I leave you two to mull this over I will rake through this living for a side splitter.

Carry on regardless

Christmas is over the fat lady has sung. I am actually struggling to find any of my usual wit and apologise if today it would appear that this is just for the sake of it. Only I know myself very well, we have been cohabiting for 34 long years, I know that sometimes all I need is gentle coercion and at other times I need a toe capped boot up the jacksey.

So from me to all of you, yes all two of you, here is a metaphorical toe cap up the behind in a bid to keep some sort of momentum. In an attempt to keep the Behind of Life pert, spandexed, sequined and grooving giving it a few more years before sitting down.