Crap, Crap, Crap!

I’ve turned it on

And I can’t turn it off

It’s doing my head right in.

If I don’t stop writing this nonsense

I’ll have to throw it all

In the bin.

It’s a pity the plug has a problem

I really tried pulling it out

So the verbal flow had somewhere to go

But I can’t force the wee bugger out.

One blogger said it was whimsical

It is or maybe it’s not.

The problem you see, if it was just down to me

I don’t mind garbling pots  full of rot.

The trouble now is

With this blogging,

I post everything that I write

It could be a poem or a message list.

It could be a whole lot of shite.

Unless I’m removed from this laptop

I can’t really see what to do.

So, if you would bear with this problem

I’ll attempt not to write too much poo.

After the Horse has Bolted

Brain buzz,

French fried,

Sizzling, scorching, sear.    

Unaccustomed to the sun

Mind addled?

Yes, I fear.     

I was not one

To speak in rhyme

At the dropping of a hat   

But sunshine

Has affected me

I feel like such a prat.    

I really must

Retire indoors

Before it is too late.

Oh, damn and blast!

The horse has gone,

I didn’t close the gate

Bliss

I’ve kindled and googled.

I’ve blogged till I’m oodled.

My brain is a sea of sun.

I’ve washed and I’ve hung.

My day’s work all done,

So now the real fun has begun.

I’m paddling without wellies.

Making ice-cream and jellies.

And tickling my kids so they laugh.

With all this here sunshine

And paddling pool

There’s really no need for their bath.

When play is exhausted

And children all posted

And tucked up in bed for the night.

Dear hubby and I will

Savour the calm

And enjoy such blissful delight.

Piddle, Puddle, Sunshine

Piddle, puddle,

Drips and drops,

We fill the paddle pool.

Sunny haze

These holidays

Break the raining rule.

Beds all stripped,

And washing hung

The laundry line is full.

Thank you, God,

For Summer days

That please the wisest fool.

Barbecues,

A burger roll,

A sausage too well-done.

Brown the meat

Now turn it round.

Well, burning’s half the fun.

Laughing kids

A happy mum

And a cheerful spouse

These golden moments

Are so rare.

Too often in the house.

Dear God, please,

If you please,

A really pretty please!

Send us more!

I’m begging you!

See me on my knees.

A mother’s work is never done

I sometimes

Scream and shout.

But when your glory

Is revealed in sun

Your love shines all about.

A smile for you

A smile for me

Our world is full of cheer.

And all because

You chose

To show

Summertime this year.

Well, Stuff My Bra

I have little need of criss-cross, halter-backed, pad them out, hold-them-up (ok maybe, that one) bras. I don’t vary style enough in my clothing to keep a drawerful of multi-faceted lingerie. I do have……well, I’ll not go there. Suffice to say, there is a more than adequate amount and variety for my needs. (And his).

I hang bras out on the washing line and wonder if anyone else wonders, as they gaze at the array, ‘What the hell gives in that house?’

Pinks, purples, blacks, yellows, multi-coloureds, whites, push-up, hold-in, spread-them-out, cross-your-heart, fuller-figured, bust-diminishing wonders of the brassiere (what a horrible word!) world.

And not one bloody cup or back size the same.

Any daring attempt on my part to sport a new look necessitates a visit to measure and mount merchandises inc.. Or, the local Asda, if I’m honest. Wear it once.

Maybe twice, if I got away with it the first time.

You’d think, with so many dames, there would be no need to stuff your bra or squeeze them in.

Don’t get me started on the assortment of knickers! 

A Debt or Two

I owe a debt of gratitude to the following blogger. Image

http://mythoughtsonapage.com/2013/07/07/ireland-if-only-you-knew-what-my-family-has-done-for-you/

Without her, I would be having a whole other summer experience.

By booking her summer holiday in a land of assured sunshine, she has inadvertently blessed the British Isles with what is currently promising to be (touch wood) a lovely summer.

Without her, I would not be able to hang outside the multitude of washing that is usually draped indoors.

Without her, I would not be able to replenish my seriously-depleted levels of Vitamin D. (I’m even taking high-dose tablets for that.)

Without her, I would be a pasty white colour instead of acquiring a golden glow.

Without the selfless measures of this woman, I would be unable to take my gang on a camping trip that was cancelled last year because of constant precipitation. (Yes, it pissed down for the whole summer.)

It is because of the generous act of this fellow blogger, and her adventures in sunnier climes, that our part of the globe is sizzling in sunshine, perspiring in puddles and feverish with fun.

I foolishly commented on her post that had I known that sending her off on a jet would have ensured clement weather, I would have paid for it myself.

I have already assured WI at http://tracesofthesoul.wordpress.com/category/whispering-reflections/    

that she will have a share in any lottery win once I convert Canadian dollars to real money. It would now appear that I am obliged, as per my word, to make a Euro or Irish punt calculation at the same time.

 I will gladly buy a winning lottery ticket, if anyone can lend me a pound, ‘cos all this sunshine is costing me a fortune in ice-creams and lollies.

But, I can live with that.

P.S. Could you give me exact dates of your holiday please, tric, so’s I know how much sun cream to stock up on?!                              

Image

Two Pet-Hates

I stood in dog shit the other day. Well, slid, more like. Fortunately, there were no deep treads on my shoes so I didn’t have to do the whole ‘scraping-it-out-with-a-stick’ kind of thing.

But, what is it with some dog owners?

If I can go armed with my poop bags, why can’t they? It’s so inconsiderate.

Your dog. Your dog’s shit. CLEAN IT UP.

Have you ever tried removing dog kack from the wheels of a pram. Totally, boak-worthy. Gag reflex goes into overdrive. I’m gagging just thinking about it. So, I’ll move on. Boak!

Litter louts. That’s another crowd who get on my wick.

Parents who stand around and blab while their kids drop sweetie wrappers at their feet. Don’t the parents notice? Or care?

Patrons – adults and children alike –  from chip shops and takeaways who drop greasy papers and cartons on the ground.

Do they live here? If so, don’t muck up your own home ground.

And, if you don’t live here, don’t shit in my kennel!

Self-taught, Well-taught

Is it the case, do you think, that those things we teach ourselves are often more important to us, and therefore more easily learned, than those lessons we learn elsewhere?

I have read 140 report cards from my own kids’ school lives so far. Only forty-four more to go.

They have varied in degrees of wonderfulness and, sometimes, I’ve shaken my head or my fist!

In those areas where they have real aptitude as well as a ‘good’ teacher, they have applied themselves and done well. In other areas, their responses to negative comments have been, ‘Well, he/she is a crap teacher,’ or ‘I hate that subject. Why do we have to take it?’ or ‘Mr./Mrs. So-and-So was off a lot and we hardly got taught anything, so it’s not really my fault.’

Ahem. Excuses, excuses.

Ok, sometimes, those things are true.

What amazes me, though, is the fact that, when they are interested in something – really interested – nothing prevents them from learning.

So, I have five children who are self-taught in guitar.

Six children who play chess well.

Six children who love dancing and will do so at the drop of a hat.

Seven children who are all adept at making home movies and editing the results to ensure maximum laughter.

Two children who can conjure up and proudly produce family meals that equal mine. (The others can cook but with varying results!)

Seven children who can paint and draw wondrous images.

Three children who compete with themselves for fitness and exercise.

One child who can tell you director, producer, actors and settings of every movie she analyses for fun.

Seven children who can find their way around every games console or computer programme they encounter.

The list goes on.

I don’t have 44 children, however the above reads.

I have seven and the range of their abilities astounds me at times. The most astonishing thing, however, is that those areas where they are self-taught are the ones in which they are really well-taught. Even if there has been some initial instruction. Their desire to do something well in an area they are fascinated by has been the pivotal drive in their successes.

Exam results not withstanding (and they have done well), I wonder what would occur in schools where more child-led learning occurred.

We’re making progress in some ways but I don’t think we’ve gone far enough yet to ensure that motivational learning leads the way.

No-No’s

I wasn’t an authentic hippy so I’ve never really said, ‘Hey, man,’ without it being tongue-in-cheek. Born in the sixties, I was really a child of the seventies, the teenage years marking each person’s era. I just liked the seventies’ clothing. Some of it’s still in my wardrobe.

Abba, 10CC, Fleetwood Mac, Genesis, ELO, Sailor, Queen, Sweet, Slade, Thin Lizzy, Nazareth, too many musical memories to mention. And quite an eclectic mix. Memories of doing the diva at disco dancing while ultra-violet lights showed every white speck and rendered teeth Osmondesque. Village People heralding the death-knell of disco. I was young once and must have had a language known only to my generation.

With Glee covering every song known to man, my tastes in music are deemed quite ‘cool’ by my children because husband and I have many of the originals on LP. (That’s a big dod of plastic with grooves and a hole in the middle, to those too young to know.)

But, beware.

Just because you may be considered acceptable in your musical tastes, if not your clothes, does not mean that you can casually use teen-speak and get away with it without shame and a rosy red flush on your fizzog.

Words I am not to use in the presence of my children or their friends include, ‘Sound’, ‘Sorted’, ‘Random’, ‘Cool’, plus any acronyms identified in text-speak. So, LOL is out, too.

When I got my first ‘brick’, a hand-me-down mobile phone from my eldest because she was upgrading (me paying for it, of course), I was humiliated to learn that, ‘C U l8ter’ was no longer regarded as appropriate by those in the know.

Now, I hadn’t taken a course on what was conventional but I understood that shorter texts were meant to be better. I gave in and reverted to proper English in my texting life. The downside is, it takes so long for me to text a message, I would be quicker phoning.

I thought it was part of my remit, as mother, to ensure I adequately embarrassed my children in the presence of friends by recounting stories from childhood and showing foolish photographs.

Apparently, that’s nowhere near as cringe-worthy as speaking out of turn in a language fit only for them.

Which is cool, as long as they don’t mind me, occasionally, recounting some totally random LOL moments that tell how sound and sorted my day has been.

Hey, got to move with the times, man.