My inner old lady…

Tonight I was stood in the chippy, minding my own business (for once), when I could feel to the left of me, someone staring at me.

Actually, staring was an understatement.

So I turned and looked and there with absolutely zero fucks and even less shame, was a chap old enough to be my Grandad, eyeing me up.

Was I dolled up like I was yesterday, in a frock as my Dad would comment & a bit of lippy.. no, I was looking like I’d just crawled out of bed a la scrubber styleeee.

“Want to come and have a butty with me?” Grandad quipped, “I’ll tell the wife to set another at the table love!”

Either I look like I need fattening up (which my hips, if they could speak would say, absolutely not fatty) or I’d just been hit on.  I laughed, the chippy guys laughed and I graciously flicked my hair, shone my brightest smile and said “I’d love to, but two’s company and we know three’s a crowd” before skipping out and leaving the little old chap with a smile on his face, out of the chippy.

As I drove home, it got me thinking, at what age do you think fuck it, I’m gonna do as I please, eye people up and be as surprised as the next person as to what drivel spills from my mouth…?

Because I think I’m there already. About 40 years too early in this instance.

A few months ago I was enjoying dinner with my two bestest friends. Friends who’ve known me since I was 11 and who’ve been there through thick and thin for me and who, on this occasion, shuck their heads dismayed.

Cut a long story short, we’d headed for dinner, I complimented the waiter on his lovely curls, he went red and thought I was flirting,  at which point, I exclaimed that although I loved his hair, it wasn’t a come on and I most certainly didn’t want to shag him… Q my mates shaking their heads, but not altogether surprised with my verbal diarrhoea… After 27 years of friendship, they know anything could slip out.

I genuinely think I’m an elderly person stuck in a younger person’s body. I won’t be that loud old lady in the nursing home, christ i’m not yet 40 and the poor guy I ended up dancing around the Sainsbury’s aisle with in Leeds at lunchtime yesterday, as I tried to grab a sarnie and he desperately attempted to re- stock his shelves, whilst I heckled the poor bugger, would probably tell you himself that I’m already there.

A long time ago, having dinner with my dear old Grandad, he told me that no shadow was ever dark enough to dim my flame.

Well Grandad, that flame is shining brightly, a bit too brightly for some, but still it’s shining and I’m laughing as my inner old lady escapes me!

*I’ve learnt my lesson: no more complimenting waiters young enough to be my son!


When Harry Met Fucking Sally and blew my mind..

On a long flight recently, vodka and coke in hand, belly hurting from laughing so hard and tears streaming down my face from crying like a little bambino, I watched ‘When Harry Met Sally.’ They say in life you encounter thunderbolt moments (Wayne says he had one when he saw me at a wedding and realised he really liked me. Nowt to do with the LBD I was rocking like..) anyway, I recently had one. A huge one. One that almost metaphorically speaking, threw me from the plane. What a bloody film.

Genuinely blew my mind. I literally don’t know where to begin spilling my ink: my mind is racing as I write this. It’s one of those films, that I think everyone should be forced to watch (ok well maybe not forced but you catch my drift.) Remember shitty PSE at school (do kids still have that?), well that’s where it should be shown. Disney romance is all fair and well, but let’s be brutal. It’s BS innit? Girl thinks she’ll meet boy and live happily ever after.. until boy gets cold feet and dumps girl – hey it’s worked out ok, we ended up getting married, so I guess I forgive him. But seriously, come on, this is so the shit that kids need to watch. Maybe just minus the sex bit.

This bloody masterpiece clearly demonstrates the line between love and hate, that appearances can be deceptive and how love can be very clearly staring you smack bang in the face, for years and you never really notice it..

Not to mention that platonic relationships can form the most amazing romantic relationships and how true love, is almost always worth the wait.

I laughed, I cried, I wanted to lean into my screen and punch Harry in the head for being such a dick and shake Sally for being an utter little bitch. And still, after sharing the highs and lows, they still get it on. Real life grit, that shit.

I’m always late the party, always. But this one, this was worth waiting for, even for a die hard romantic like me who loves all the Disney BS, I wish my 30 year-old-recently-dumped- down-on-herself-being had watched this.

It’s all about being patient.. and good things come, to those, that wait…………………………….like When Met Sally… watch it!


I’ll fucking deck you.

“I’ll fucking deck you”

Honest to God, these are words I never thought I’d hear myself utter, never mind to a complete stranger in the city of London, on a tube.

But I did.

And I would’ve decked the dickhead I uttered these words to, had a young Scouse giant not intervened and saved me from losing my child, my husband, home, job and my life as I know and been thrown in prison. Not one to be dramatic me, but that’s would’ve probably happened had I decked him.

I should re-wind a little here. I love but I hate but I love but I hate London. I like it but I like to leave it, if you catch my drift.

Everyone just looks so unhappy and bloody miserable and in a bloody rush, that I end up having palpations over complete strangers and their lives, which is total bullshit really: but I’m a nice person, and God will surely let me into Heaven for giving a shit right?

So anyway, I was on the tube yesterday. In rush hour in 875 degree heat at 5pm, wishing that the people around me had applied deodorant, when the unthinkable happened.

I got fucking shoved.

Not a little jostle, not a nudge, but a full on move bitch fucking shove.

Woah, woah knob head. You picked the wrong girl to shove. Surely you can tell I’m from Dirty Donny mate? Surely you know I’ve been brought up well, mate? Surely you know IT’S FUCKING WRONG TO SHOVE PEOPLE?

No, it would seem this wanker knew none of the above.

Said wanker tried to cram onto the tube: there was no fucking room. I’m not petite and I’ve issues with people being in my personal space as it is, not to mention I’m claustrophobic in restricted spaces too, so of course, I lost my shit.

“Mate, come on, there’s no room” I said, politely as said knob jockey barged into the carriage, forcing me to almost cuddle aforementioned Scouser stood behind me.

Said dickhead proceeds to get off the tube.. ah I think, someone whose actually listened, there is a God…. waiting a minute for the next fucking train would be all too inconvenient, wouldn’t it. I mean, a whole bastarding minute. Come the fuck on..

What happened next, made me see red.

Like blood red when you cut yourself. Said knob grabs his rucksack from his back and rams it with his entire body weight, as if he were shoving himself into a door to knock it over, to push me back into the carriage, thereby making room for said knob. Well, I ended up head butting the Scouser after literally being rammed back into the carriage.

“Oi dickhead. Touch me again, I bloody dare you and I’ll fucking deck you.”

I have zero idea, why, in the stab capital of the world, I dared to utter this, but I bloody well did. That clarity went straight out of the window and had it not been for the Scouser who spun me out the way and threw the bloke out of the carriage, telling how, where he comes from, you don’t shove women, I honestly think I’d have decked him. Full on, decked him. Which is stupid.

Now this is a tale of two halves really. One don’t go shoving people, male or female, because frankly it’s wrong and it’s bloody painful: my chest is sore today. And two, don’t go threatening to deck people. I mean, in all seriousness, he could’ve have a gun or a knife and what if Scouser bloke hadn’t been there?

In future, I won’t go threatening people. What I will do is wait until the 5 seconds before the doors shut, and shove them back out. Job done. Threatening to deck people?

Nah I’ll keep my gob shut in future. But a word to the wise, don’t go messing with girls from Donny…

*This story ended well with me enjoying my tea with said Scouser and his mates (who missed the whole cercuffle), who thought I may have some scouse blood in me for being so gobby which made me laugh and restored my nature in human beings.

Thanks Joe, you Scouse bloody legend.

I’m divorcing my husband.

I’m divorcing my husband, he just doesn’t know it yet.

When we got together he promised the day I stop laughing, is the day he leaves. I, in turn, promised that I’d shave my legs daily (listen up you feminists, before you go cray cray on me, this was something I promised, Wayne frankly couldn’t give a hoot if I shaved them or not).

Last night, I crawled into bed. And realised for the first time in 7 years, That i’d neglected to shave my legs.

Now to you, this may not seem a big deal: Christ, I’ve friends who go whole seasons without shaving their legs, but for me, this was a rather earth shattering moment.

The night I was in labour, before heading to hospital, crippled with a far more advanced labour than the nurses anticipated (thanks to my oddly calm demeanour whilst talking to them at home, I know, me, calm?!), I was sat in the bath, shaving my legs. I know what’re you thinking, more pressing things to think about, but a promise is a promise, and there was no way I was letting Wayne see me with unshaven legs. Uh uh: hell would quite simply freeze over first. Between contractions, I achieved smooth as chuff legs.

So, you can understand the alarm last night, can’t you. Shaving my legs whilst trying to eject a huge baby from my noo noo and then there’s getting in to bed on a random spring evening minus shaved legs – it should never have happened. Ever.

So why did it? People say you get fat when you’re happy; you become complacent and happy in your little chubby rolls. I won’t lie, I’ve got fatt-er since meeting Wayne, this doesn’t bother me too much as I was a little on the chunky but funky side when we met, so a bit more isn’t exactly going to make him run for the hills. Hairy legs, no sir-e: I hate not having smooth legs, so I’m not going to inflict that on anyone’s eyes, never mind the love of my life.

I was weary last night: I worked late, didn’t have my usual wind down time (god I sound about 4) had a shower and crawled into bed. Didn’t even give my damn legs (which have always been my pride and joy as they’ve always been devoid of fat), a second thought.

There I said it: I didn’t think of my legs or my husband. Game over. It’s all downhill from here surely? Once you start letting yourself go, and not even noticing, surely it’s time to a get a quickie divorce petitioned isn’t it??

I don’t know, I’m confused. I’m tired, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic – aside from my best mate Em, I know myself more than anyone and maybe I am being dramatic (Em, correct me if I’m wrong) but it’s a slippery slope. No shaved legs today, tomorrow it’s full on grey hair, boobs at your ankles and droppy , saggy knees.

I mean, is this why Brad dropped Jen and ran off with that harlot, Angelina? Does Amal ever think fuck it with George, I’m gonna have 3 cheeseburgers, XXL fries and sod it, a full fat Coke whilst I’m at it? Has the Queen always gone au natural in a bid to keep that fruit loop Phil away from her?

Is this what we promised one another, for better for worse? May we continue to grow old: him making me laugh and me shaving my legs. Even when i’m grey and old and 87 with I’ve my saggy knees… and freshly shaved legs..

*Rips up divorce papers*


Time. You think you’ve got loads of it, don’t you….

Remember the summer holidays as a child, when you didn’t know what day it was, you only knew it was lunch time because you were called in by your Mum and came home only when the street lights popped on.

I miss that feeling of being unaware that a clock is ticking.

Sunday’s used to drag. Church at 11 (don’t strike me God, but that was boring as), we’d walk through the door home after, Mum I guarantee you was peeling potatoes for lunch and The Land of the Giants would be belting out of the tv in the living room, in full flow. No need to look at the clock, you knew the time.

Last night, Wayne and I went to a party, to celebrate Big Tone’s 40th. I know I arrived at the pub at 7, and the time that followed, simply flew.

Catching up with friends old and new, yakking about the arrival of baby Jack and how Harry and children of our friends, Freya, Martha, Lola and Lily are all fast becoming beautiful and independent people in their own right, led me to think just how quickly time flies. It doesn’t feel like 2 minutes since my darling Harry was a baby in my arms. Time really does fly when you’re having fun.

And then all of a sudden, the band had stopped playing, our conversations around life and death and how we all walk a very fine line between the two had to wrap up and it was time for last orders before the short walk home…

As I pulled my coat on, I didn’t want the evening to end: I’d lost track of time and was having too much fun.

Time is precious. As much as your health really, for along with health, you never never quite know when it’s going to give up on you. I’m not morbid, or depressed or a pessimist, but I’m acutely aware the egg timer that’s been flipped, how time is slipping away and each and every moment has to be accounted for in this life – life and time are both too precious to waste.

So back to the party, I turned around last night and the lead singer of the band playing had stripped his top off… Giggling like a bunch of school girls at this half naked chap, my friend Sarah informed me that the chap in question, has been banned for stripping off completely when performing!

Sod it I thought, if it make him happy, let him remove every last piece of clothing! You only live once and if it makes him happy, then what’s a bit of willy waving around going to harm? Nothing, a willy is a willy after all and he’d have probs made a few of the ladies in the Main smile last night. You only live once!

You can’t buy time, just as you can’t buy the best of health, but it’s up to us how we spend it and whom we spend it with.

Tick tock, tick tock… that clock is ticking, spend your time wisely..

This is worse than coming off crack.

Ok so just to clear things up, I’ve never been a crack head. The strongest drug I’ve ever popped is a co-codamol (excluding whatever I threw down my neck during childbirth that is) but this is what I feel like a crack head feels, when they’re coming off the hard stuff.

Thanks to Leah Betts back in the 90s dying after taking an E (and much to the relief of my parents as a youngster), I never dabbled beyond getting utterly shit faced.

I’ve given Coke up….

… And I’m climbing the walls, I’m having palpitations: I swear I’ve had a heart attack like 4 times today and I’m shaking.

What the hell was I thinking going straight for withdrawal without thinking this through?

I drink about 2 litres of the black stuff a day. I can take a glass to bed with me, wake at 2am, take a swig and fall immediately back to sleep: caffeine has zero effect.

Hello, my name is Jenny and I am an addict.

I actually blame my parents for my addiction: Pete don’t be hard on yourself, you were doing what you thought was right in the 80s, keeping us away from the Alpine pop man hoping to save you some pennies. I’m with you bro now I’m a parent. But you fuelled my addiction Petey.

The thing is, you crave what you can’t have.

In my case, sugar. Mummy limited the amount of sugar we had (besides barring cherryade from the family home due to the 6 of us going mental after so many E numbers) she didn’t want us having shit teeth. So of course reached 18, left home and was literally a kid in a sweet shop. Hello sugar.

Fast forward and I here I am, a complete and unashamed sugar junkie. Except one day I’ll keel over and die from heart attack – that is, of course, if diabetes doesn’t reach me first.

I want to quit drinking it, I do, but I love it. Switch to diet I’m told. Tastes like shit. Switch to zero they said, tastes like old shit. God why it have to be so bad for you, when it tastes so delicious?

I’ve been good this week, I cut my intake down Monday and went cold turkey Tuesday. Today has been a shitty day, coupled with the shakes and I nearly fell off the wagon and headed to the shop at 11am – had I not been hosting a conference call, I would’ve. Thank you work for keeping me on the straight and narrow!

Headaches have kicked in and I swear I’ve had like 7 heart attacks today. 2 in the time I’ve been spilling my words all over the page. But I must quit. I must.

I can do this, I think. I just need to apply myself, get through the physical withdrawal symptoms and then baby steps to keep me from smashing a bottle in.

I’ve given birth to a near 9lb baby, pushing my body physically and mentally to the point of exhaustion – I will not be defeated by fizzy bloody pop.

If I’m not back online in a day, please check on me: I may just have died weak hearted and broken spirited.

Wish me luck, I’m already sick to death of lemon juice and I’m going to end up a right fat bastard at this rate if I turn to booze as a substitution.

2 days – check on on me bitches and let me know you care.

Zero shits given.

I come from a long line of women where zero shits have been given (excluding my Mother: not that she craved social acceptance, but she was defo one of those who wondered what the neighbours would say as I rolled in at 4am as a 17 year old on a Friday morning, hearing me saying morning to the milkman as me and my best mate Emma casually strode into the house for a shower before heading for school and out of the door at 8.30).

Zero shits were given.

Genuinely, I’m the nicest person in the world… until you cross me and then that’s it, we’re done, you’ve wronged me – zero shits given, we’re not going back.

I’ve never lived my life seeking approval.

“Do you think you should be wearing that Jenny, you’re looking a bit porky?” Zero fucks given: I’m happy and I’m comfortable, I’m wearing it.

“Hmmm think that colour isn’t really for you Jenny, I mean not people can carry bright orange lippie off” Fuck it, I think I look the bomb, I’ll slap another layer on for good measure. Zero fucks given mate.

Why should you conform because other people aren’t happy?

Why do people have to force their opinion upon you? Ask me my opinion and I’ll be brutally honest – that’s me, but I won’t go offering it, unless you ask me. People get so bloody arsey though when they ask you for your opinion and then take offence.. I mean seriously? What did you expect, really? You know I’ll give me honest thought if asked, so why behave like your 5 and fall out with me?

Zero fucks given to be honest, I’ve not the time to be getting hung on feelings when you’ve asked me for my own thoughts…

Sometimes, I think the world has gone mad. Doesn’t matter what generation you are, there’s oodles of people becoming offended, offended over stuff that is irrelevant- if you’re going to get upset, make it over something worthwhile for God’s sake.

This is why, I’m taking a zero shits given approach in future.

It’s 8 years …

It’s 8 years today, since I last heard Mummy’s voice.

The 1st of March 2011: I remember every single last detail of that day as if it were yesterday. The saddest day, followed by the 2nd which would be the worst day of my family’s life.

The day started badly and ended horrifically, ironically it started with me being involved in a car crash when someone drove into us on our way to work. Then of course, as always, a shit storm was already brewing around a product launch and I ran into the office in a fluster, late at 7.30am.

The day couldn’t quite get any worse I thought. How wrong one could be? I got up that morning not knowing that when I’d finally next crawl into bed, our lives would have changed forever, a gaping hole would be left behind, Dad would be left wifeless and us 6 children (though all adults ranging at the time from 18 to 29) without our beloved Mother.

A number of hushed calls from my one of my brothers and sisters followed throughout the day, a Monday. In the days leading up, Mum had had an infection (always dangerous on chemo), and hadn’t been well, but somehow had managed to cook a roast dinner the day before. Very quickly, Mummy became very poorly and Dad had to force her into hospital.

Pete, don’t force me, if I go in, I’ll never come out.”

Jesus, did Mummy know then?

Of course, Dad forced Mum in and true to Mummy’s prophecy, she’d never return home..

After a number of tearful phone calls, I realised I needed to be with my family (I had no idea at this point just how poorly Mummy was) and I’d arranged with my boss Mark, to take some time off that day. The plan was to work the week out, tie loose ends up, complete a handover and take some compassionate leave – take as long as you need, Mark had said….

Why didn’t I leave there and then? I should’ve just left: Christ I don’t save lives for a living, it could have waited. It should’ve waited. But I didn’t.

I stayed.

Something that’ll haunt me forever. Little did I know that the egg timer had been flipped over, time was running out and Mummy was ebbing away.

I got the call at 10.45pm that night (I’d not headed home as I had a terrible cold and didn’t want to pass to Mummy who was already vulnerable) and was told to come home to Doncaster immediately. The worst drive of my life.

Upon getting to hospital, I was ushered into a room where Mummy was “being made comfortable.” You never want to hear those words.

“Jen, darling, what’re you doing here? You’ve work tomorrow.”

These would be the last words Mummy would ever say to me: her journey had began from this life to the next, in pain and likely knowing what was coming, my darling Mother’s final thoughts weren’t about herself, but about her children.

I can’t even begin to comprehend what must’ve been going through her mind.

Mummy was an amazing individual; everyone I met growing up would comment on her – she’d light up a room with her flame red hair and her laugh, well she was quite literally, the life and soul.

Mummy was patient, thoughtful and most of all, kind. I remember as a child, she’d be pushing the push chair with one of “the little ones” (as she affectionately referred to my siblings), it’d be bitterly freezing and me being me, would’ve lost a glove, “Here you go love, take mine” she’d say and then end up with severely chapped and bleeding hands.

Even though Mummy was only 51 upon passing, she’d been brought up with a very traditional outlook. Gosh, you’d never see Mummy ordering a drink at the bar, good god, ladies didn’t do that!

And whilst Mummy had always been a housewife and had the least bit of interest entering into the world of work, she was so proud of us all and what we were beginning to achieve in the world of work.

Mummy saw working for a bank and flying to Ireland every week as glamorous and exciting, “Oh Mother” I’d sigh, “It really isn’t. It’s rather dull discussing the launch of the latest current account to be be honest”. And she’d laugh, mega proud that as the next generation, her daughters were making their small, but indeed a mark nevertheless, in the world.

You never know how much time you have.

How much you have, or how little of it you have. I wish desperately Mummy could’ve met my husband and my son. I wish I’d told her I loved her more, I wish I could sit and discuss the latest beauty line with her: she was forever buying me and my sisters the latest lotions and potions in a quest to keep us forever young.

When we were sorting Mummy’s stuff out afterwards, my sisters and I found thousands of pounds worth of boxed up beauty products – Elemis, Estée Lauder, Clarins, you name it, Mummy had bought it. The thing was, was that she’d brought 3 of everything. One of everything for my two sisters and I … again, stockpiling for us … almost like she knew and this was her way of reminding us that she was always there and of course, not to abandon our much taught beauty regimes!

It’s 8 years tomorrow since I last heard Mummy’s voice. 8 years since I heard her singing along to Tina Turner and 8 bloody long years since I heard her laugh.

I always find today harder than tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe the anniversary of her passing, but today, well, today marks the last time we were a ‘full’ family. And that’s the heartbreaking part. Mummy very desperately didn’t want to leave us.

Each year, on my birthday, she’d playfully remind me that so many years ago today, I nearly killed her giving her birth. I used to hate that. Now I’d do anything to hear her playfully remind me (now my best friend Em does instead – what a girl).

People mean well when you lose a loved one. “You’re only young, you’ll get over it” … Hmmm get over your Mother? I don’t think so. You learn to live with that gaping hole that you never knew just how much your Mother filled.

Suddenly you’re on your own. Really on your own. I’ve never been depressed so I don’t know what that feels like: but I can tell you what loneliness feels like. That awful empty feeling, you feel neither sad or angry – you feel nothing. That’s the worst feeling in the world.

The early days when family and friends would stay away. Not out of malice, but because they didn’t know what to say. It’s the saying nothing that hits the hardest. Keeping Mummy’s memory alive is important and a part of her lives on in 6 very different children and 4 very differing (and charming!) grandchildren.

People deal with death and grief in very differing ways. Some believe there’s life after death, some that once you’re gone, you’re gone and some don’t know what to think. None of its wrong – none of us know after all, but the thing that keeps me going is hope. Hope that one day, I’ll hear my Mother’s voice again and feel her warm embrace.

A number of people have commented how as a family, we’re so positive. Don’t be fooled, we all have our moments – it took me 18 months for my grief to hit and then when it did, it hit me like a freight train. However, Mummy was always optimistic and happy. A glass type full type of person if you will. And that’s why we live our lives to the full, try and look at life the way Mummy did – “You’ve one life Jenny Lou, go and live it” she’d say. And whilst I may not be sunning myself up on a yacht in the Bahamas with my sugar daddy, I’m living my “best life” – hopefully a life that Mummy is looking down on, a darling husband and a little ray of sunshine that’s Harry (who she’d adored) proudly beaming “that’s my girl.”

Today, we’ve learnt to live without our shining star, the bedrock to our family. The sensible voice of reason. Still an empty place at the dinner table, absent from the many family photos but Ive always the feeling Mummy is close by. I always feel like she’s stood outside the window, looking in on us all.

No longer do I wait. I get a call about Dad and I’m off. I’m still ultra conscious when it comes to work, however, family comes first. I stupidly made a decision that I can never ever reverse but remember, that clock is always ticking…

Life may end, but love, nah, that my friend, that shit lasts forever.

Until we meet again at those pearly gates Mummy, love Jenny Lou ❤️

Did you do ‘Movement’ at school?

“Did you do ‘Movement’ at school?” I casually asked my husband laid in bed last night watching Pink’s performance at the Shits.

“Jenny, you know where I went to school. No, I didn’t do ‘Movement’. What’s ‘Movement’ anyway?”

Good question and one I actually don’t know how to answer properly.

You see Wayne and I grew up 5 miles apart, but when we enjoy discussions around schooling, it appears that i may have gone to school on Jupiter and Wayne on Mars – we couldn’t have enjoyed more differing schooling. All I can say, is that at my school as a child, we did some weird shit as part of our education!

For some reason, my parents thought that by sending us kiddie winkles to Catholic schools, we’d turn out well adjusted. Ah ah. They couldn’t be more wrong. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m from a working class family, however, I enjoyed an education that was somewhat middle class ish I’d say.

I’m surprised I’ve not been beaten up to be honest: when I say stuff out loud, my schooling does seem somewhat fanny-like if one can describe schooling in such a way.

Movement. How does one explain ‘Movement’? I remember being 6/7, and in the school hall we were undertaking ‘Movement.’ “Imagine yourself as an oak tree… let your body fall into being a tree” – well for those of you who didn’t do ‘Movement’, this is the shit we did at school. No wonder I’ve such a vivid imagination, when I had to go from being Jenny from the block to being a bloody oak tree. Ffs Kaz and Peter – were you two off your head in the 80s sending us to St Peters? A bloody oak tree one minute and then Mrs Filby yelling at me over lunch to eat my mashed tatties the next: no wonder I’m bloody Jekyll and Hyde according to my Dad.

We had a library at school, yup most schools have them. Ours was stuffed with dead animals, fashioned into various stances – again, little wonder I’m at ease with death and seeing dead people (don’t be asking me to arrange your hair or paint your face if you’re off to the next life, I’m not that at ease). Don’t even get me start on the barn dancing we’d do too.. honestly it was like being in a cult sometimes, like we were being set up to join a commune with fellow partner later in life (St Peter if you’re reading, don’t strike me down, you totes know I’m a fan of all thinks linked to you and Christianity and Catholicism and all that, I’m just saying my school made shit weird times).

Then there was mediation at secondary school. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I know, I’m from Donny and yet, we meditated. Not in a yoga environment, good god no. In the chapel. Fuck my life. I can still remember my RE teacher telling us to get comfy (on this occasion I was laid down) and it being Friday afternoon, I was a bit papped. Don’t remember much else apart from my best mate Em (literally my salvation since 1992 this one), prodding me to wake up. I’d only fallen asleep and my teacher hadn’t even noticed. The same would happen years later at A level in Histoy on Friday ams. After being out all night and rolling in to shower and take off our Spice girl inspired club wear, we’d head into school (again Kaz & Pete, what were you thinking allowing us out on a school night? I should’ve rang Esther).

I’d sit in front of Emma and upon seeing my head loll back, she’d kick my chair and jerk me awake before nodding off. If you knew Mrs Parry, then you know I’d have been kicked out of school for that (same woman who managed to lose my coursework and blame me for her misdemeanour). She may have been diddy, and I may have towered over her, but Jesus Christ, she scared the living shit out of me. I think if I saw her now, 21 years since leaving school, I’d still pap myself.

“So, what did you do at school?” I asked Wayne. “We played murder ball Jenny. Basically fuck all rules and you lobbed the ball at each other. And it hurt. Like fuck.”

Jesus, thank god I didn’t go the Hatfield High, I wouldn’t have lasted 2 minutes under those conditions. Thank the sweet Lord I went to McAuley’s with our on site Convent.. We played hockey with the boys a few times at school and Mrs Saul had to put a stop to it. I don’t know if that’s because they were too rough or girls and boys were in too close promixity, but you get that we were a bit pampered to compared to Wayne’s school.

I guess in light of all the namby pamby-ing at my school and tough love that Wayne received at his school, we’ve both turned out just ok. I mean neither of us are serial killers or owt but if I hear Harry’s school ever encouraging ‘Movement’ I may just flip out! 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

Ps. If you did ‘Movement’ at school, please do share your experience – I’d be intrigued to know if it was as shit as mine!

I’m raging.

I’m raging. Literally raging. And that’s not good – 1) because it’s Valentine’s Day and 2) one of these days I’m going to keel over, have heart attack and die. And that’s not good. At all.

I’m raging because people are moaning. Moaning about other people being happy. I know, mental. Like seriously, how can you hate on some else’s happiness? For fucks sake, who made you King god damn glum?? Lighten up will you or else I’ll chuck a light at you to lighten you up.. god almighty it winds me up.

If people aren’t moaning about it being too cold, they’re moaning it’s too hot. “Urgh Sandra, its too bloody hot, I mean roll on winter.” Oh do piss off Sandra will you: no one in their right mind enjoys shitty dark days, zero daylight and a fuck ton of rain, surely?

Then there’s those moaning about immigrants stealing their jobs. Yes, Susan, Sanjay with his degree in neurosurgery stole your bleeding job. Ffs Susan, god help you should you need brain surgery one of these days love. Let Sanjay do his job will you and be happy there’s someone to improve your brain capacity if it’s ever needed.

Don’t even get me started on those moaning about those wanting to put Christmas trees up in November (October is way too early, but hey, if that floats your boat, who am I to judge). You wanna put your tree up on 1 November, crack on. It’s those that leave their bloody Christmas lights up all year round you want to be hating on: the lazy bastards that can’t be arsed. Go hate on them and not those embracing the fun shit in life.

And then today, it’s Valentine’s Day and I’ve almost been pushed over the edge. “It’s just a money racket.” “Oh another commercial money making machine: we don’t need it to tell each other love each other”. Oh do fuck off will you. No, of course we don’t need a commercial day to tell us to tell old Jamie poos we love him, but you know what, with all the starvation, famine, war and natural disasters occurring, I think it’s kind of bloody nice to tell your loved ones you bloody well love and appreciate them. Go live in a cave, you miserable swine I say. And on that note Audrey, let’s ban Christmas and birthday shall we? Oh no I thought not, because it’s now all about you.

Today my son made a Valentine’s card for our dog, because he was the only one in this house that didn’t receive a card today. My son then proceeded to pop the card up next to Rocky’s food bowl “so he can see it”. Someone, somewhere is hating on that. They’re hating on a child doing something nice because he’s a dog. The world has gone made I say. Fuck it, let’s dedicate a day to our dogs – let’s get this movement going and piss even more of the haters off.

Life’s too short to be miserable. Life’s too short not to do what makes you happy, and yes I am judging right now. I’m judging all those miserable fucks that need to turn those frowns upside down and bloody live a little.

And off I trot to eat my Easter eggs and put my bloody Christmas tree back up.