Friday 30 September 2011

Home alone

Last night we delivered Eldest Beautiful Daughter to the student house she will live in till next year. Mummy no likey, mummy really no likey. It's awful, really grim and it smells funny. It's a 3 bed terrace with a skanky bathroom and nasty old furniture but I expect White Company and Cath Kidston would be a waste of the grand a month rent the landlady's getting, wouldn't it?

I so should have gone into student housing, that would have made my fortune, low cost house stuffed with cheap nasty tat, and spend the rent money on my own house, it would have the White Company coming out the wazoo. Another fail on my part.

There has been intense and protracted negotiations re EBD's bedroom at this house, it's the biggest and the newliest decorated, EBD was really not keen to let it go but BBD is quite forceful and as she says, EBD doesn't live here anymore, just in the holidays. Let's just say it's been tricky, and I, as always have resisted making a decision. However by the time I got back, Beautiful Baby Daughter had moved all her stuff into Eldest Beautiful Daughters bedroom, had a bath and was wearing EBD's dressing gown (which EBD was gutted to have forgotten) and was having a hot chocolate out of EBD's mug (also forgotten) If EBD finds out she'll kill her and I won't have to decide who gets the bigger bedroom.

So today, for the first time in 3 months, I am completely home alone, no EBD floating around demanding to be entertained, TBS and BBD at school and just me. What will I do with myself all day? I wonder...

Monday 26 September 2011


I am in a decluttering frame of mind. I am paring down my possessions, downsizing, freeing up, clearing.

Last weekend I took over 500 books to Oxfam. My book collection was getting completely out of control and had spilled into every room. I have only kept what fitted into the 3 bookcases I have in the office and the lounge. Any new boooks will only be bought for my Kindle and one day I will replace the books I couldn't bear to part with as an e version and be actual book free and virtual book heavy.

I have asked for an Ipod for Christmas and I will then get rid of every CD and LP I own.

And then I'm onto children...

Only joking, EBD is going back to uni into a shared house (because as I predicted way back here in JANUARY she hasn't learned to drive and I can't/won't do a 60 mile uni run) but TBS and BBD don't show any signs of moving out.


But I live in hope.

Wednesday 21 September 2011

Mummy fail

Picture the scene, a kitchen with 2 daughters and my best friend. I am pottering around doing chores and they are making dough for pizzas. A lovely contented, peaceful picture, could even be used as an advert. My daughters are reminiscing about all the things I used to do with them, they recall baking sessions, cooking sessions, craft sessions and so forth.

The next time I enter the room, I get this

Eldest beautiful daughter - " God, Mummy - you never do anything like that with us anymore, you're so boring now"

auntiegwen - "that's because you are nearly FECKIN TWENTY, I am in flitters with entertaining you. I have had almost 2 decades of finding stuff to do with you, again, NEARLY 2 DECADES.

I know you don't need the capitals for emphasis, sure you're probably the same yourself. I think after all the top notch mothering they have received I should be allowed a bit of time off for good behaviour. I mean all I want is a bit of peace, the ability to water my plants unmocked and not have my clothes ridiculed. Oh and an end to war, a cure for all diseases and thinner thighs, obviously.

Thursday 15 September 2011

It had to happen

It was only a matter of time, I mean me with my White Company addiction and my fondness for Cath Kidston fripperies.

I must be their target demographic but I have never succumbed for myself, when the children were smaller I did dabble and I was bought something once. But I held firm nothing for me thanks.

They wrote to me, told me I was a hard nut to crack, offered me all sorts of enticements. I ignored them. They emailed and whispered promises of all kinds of middle class loveliness. I caved.

It had to happen eventually.

So I will fess it up.

My name is auntiegwen and I...

sorry, I can hardly bring myself to type the confession

My name is auntiegwen and I bought a Boden raincoat.

The cliche of the middle class mummy.


Wednesday 14 September 2011

More teenage boy stuff

Just because your boy has grown to 6 foot 2 doesn't mean he's grown up in anything other than a physical sense.

The Beautiful Son had a sore throat, it was so painful that we had biscuits and crisps in our house that survived more than a day, which was unheard of. I told him to go down to the doctors and make an appointment. Our surgery insists you present yourself in person (or a representative if you are too ill to leave home) at their reception desk at 8am to make an appointment. They won't do it by phone, I am sure there were communist bread queues shorter than we have at our surgery.

TBS insists he can't go by himself, so off we go and make his appointment. We get one for 9.10 am, so we go back home for an hour. He insists I have to back with him too. I enquire would he still want me there if it was for a sore bum, he assures me I'd still have to show up for that. As he put it "you're my mum, of course you'd have to come, I can't deal with doctors on my own" I just pray he never gets an STD.

The doctor diagnoses tonsillitis, prescribes antibiotics and says if things don't improve in 48 hours to return for a blood test to rule out glandular fever. He also remarks on TBS being an infrequent attender. TBS felt slightly put out, a bit like he'd been shirking.

Of course TBS can't go to the chemist by himself, I have to take him there too. I tell him he can't take alcohol whilst on them. I elaborate by telling him that mixing alcohol with antibiotics causes diarrhoea, and it's so fast acting most people don't get to the loo on time. I wonder if I can still get away with him believing everything I say if I use my mummy's never wrong tone, will it still work? I see no signs either way.

Later I overheard him tell his friend Johnny "nah, I'm not drinking at Rachel's party, no chance I want to cack myself"

The last word goes to me, we all know how I like the last word. Scuse me whilst I throw my head back and laugh like a muscateer.

Monday 12 September 2011

In real life

When you have a blog you can present a view of yourself that's quite flattering, selecting carefully which bits of your world you want to share with t'internets. You can project an image of a perfect life if you so choose. I could tell you that I live in a gorgeous house with beautiful children and my life is chock full of joy all the live long day. I could tell you I am thin, unwrinkled and without a grey hair upon my head, I could claim great wisdom, good dress sense and a serene inner calm and be thin, did I mention that? I am seven stone and 5 foot 10 and have no boobs. I can also cook, sew and sing and I once ran a sub 4 hour marathon. I also have my dream kitchen. In my head.

I wish I'd thought of that, instead I regale you with tales of domestic incompetence, technical ineptitude, drunken teenagers and fatness. It's too late to tell you my life is perfect, some of you have been reading for years and some of you actually know me in real life.

I have a million faults, I wish I didn't. Some of them I've known about for years, some of them I've tried to address and some of them I've just not been ready to see.

In my head I am laid back and almost impossible to stress out, I'm a "go with the flow" nothing fazes me type. In real life I can get to full fat cross shouty shreikery more quickly than a Ferrari gets to 90.

In my head I am a proper traveller, turn up with a passport, credit card and a spare pair of knickers and see where I end up. In real life, I book flights and transfers and live with a low level degree of anxiety that something will go wrong. I am terrified of missing flights and don't relax until I actually arrive.

In my head I am great at sharing, I am a "what's mine is yours" help yourself nice person. In real life if it's mine I like it to stay mine and if I lend you it especially books I want it back, even if I know I'm never going to read it again, it's mine so give it back.

In my head I can't bear the sort of people who at shared dinners whip out their calculators and demand we all pay for what we have eaten, in my head I am one of the people who say oh there's 6 of us, lets just divide by 6. In real life I am secretly glad that they do as I am fed up subsidising someone elses's 3 course and a bottle of wine feast when I've had a plate of pasta and a sparkling water and paid £30 for the privilege.

In my head I am not a control freak and an insistor on getting my own way but in real life my way isn't just the best way but the only way. And I insist upon things being my way and say such caring and loving gems such as "you don't have to live here"

I am just coming to terms with how much control I have and seem to need, I always thought I was really flexible and open to other peoples point of view and wants and needs. I always thought that the kids set the agenda and I just facilitated things. I am sometimes okay with things if it suits me, that's the key right there. I suppose that being the only adult in the house for the last 5 years has given me the last word. I like the last word. I like to be the boss.

In my head I never wanted to be a bossy kind of girl. In real life I have become the bossiest of bossy girls, but I am trying to be less bossy and more open to other peoples wants and needs. I am trying to be better at sharing. I am trying to be less stressy and anxious.

But I still want the last word.

Wednesday 7 September 2011


Over the last few days Dad's have been on my mind. Probably because of this I keep finding and reading blogs about dads and what they mean to people.

I tried to write about mine but I can't yet.

I read Looking for blue sky and that really touched me

And then I read Adventures in Reality and that completely reduced me to floods of tears.

So to both of these bloggy friends, from the bottom of my heart I send my love and prayers and thoughts to you and your families. I hope I can manage to face my dads illness with a fraction of your grace.

Sunday 4 September 2011

Sleepless in suburbia

I am a woman of few talents, I can't cook knit or sew, my house isn't filled with things I've made (excepting offspring and mess) and the only thing I can play is the lottery. Oh please don't feel sorry for me, I am decidedly happy with my humble lot.

I have been utterly blessed in what I feel is my best talent. I am ace at sleeping, if there were sleep Olympics I would be up there with the gold and the "God save the Queen" The only time I have had sleepless nights have been when the children were babies and truth be told I was a teeny tiny bit cranky then. Then I sleep trained them and all was well in the world. I am not too shabby at sleep training either, 100% success rate at teaching babies to sleep through. Nothing makes me happier than getting into my jammies and going to bed. My metier is sleep.

In fact, I am sooo good, no matter what is going on in my life, death, divorce, teenagers or lack of gin - I will take myself off to bed, usually accompanied by a humungous mug of fully caffeinated coffee and pop myself between the White Company's finest and nod off. Sometimes just before I drift off I remember the mug of fully caffeinated and rouse myself enough to gulp it down like a student with a Jaegerbomb and then snuggle down for a full 8 hours. I am not showing off here, I'm just explaining. I never feel too hot or cold, or uncomfortable or restless, strange beds or having someone with me do not gee my ginger. I am grand. Nothing wakes me up either, I could sleep through anything, I expect I have slept through all of the childrens parties and there are several photos of assorted weido friends of the children on my good silk throw accessorised with beer bottles and pointy foam fingers. I set my children curfews but I have no clue if they keep to them as I am always asleep.

Which is just as well as I am crap without sleep, really really useless, so God in his infinite wisdom has given me the gift of sleeping, so I don't hurt people on a daily basis.

Except something has gone wrong, my forte has fecked off.

I am not a happy auntie, on Friday I just couldn't get comfortable, I wriggled and jiggled, I changed my jammies before removing them completely (sorry for the TMI - I'm just trying to give you the full picture, well not the full picture, that's on a pay per click at, shut up I've got to pay for a new kitchen somehow)
Where was I? oh yeah Friday, I fidgeted and agitated and then I eventually fell asleep. Only to be woken by The Beautiful Son coming in at 2am dressed in a ladies Primark black and white zebra striped onesie. yes I agree, it is slightly peculiar but I didn't want to waste brain power trying to figure it out as I was tired.

Readers, the rest of the night didn't go well and I was working on Saturday so suffice to say I wasn't the cheeriest of aunties yesterday, until around 9pm when I realised I could put my jammies on and go back to bed. That was a moment of mere bliss in my day. So armed with the coffee I go to my happy place And I go to sleep.

To be woken up by someone else's sons at 4.30 am, giving me the full benefit of their alcohol fuelled opinions on the world. And that was it for the night, sure I had a doze on and off but that's a bit like being on a diet, you don't want carrot sticks you want cake, thank you very much. When you've had the good stuff you don't want to go back.

So, I am now rantie auntie, I have been robbed of 2 good nights sleep and I get a teeny tiny bit cranky without it. I might have mentioned that. I imagine that's why everyone is giving me a wide berth today.