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.