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.