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.