Sew Silly

There was a hole in my jumper

I sewed it, I sewed it

There was a hole in my jumper

I sewed it with thread

My kids can’t do sewing

I showed them, I showed them

My kids don’t do sewing

They throw out instead

So I do it for them

And moan while I do it

So I do it for them

There’s a hole in my head


Pick Your No’s

So, this past week, the weather here has been dire. Headlights on at three o’clock. All sorts of shit plummeting from skies the colour of mink. Kids in all day in the classroom in case they keel over from water exposure. Add in a full moon. High winds. Mental. Truly, it’s a thing. Kids and weather. And full moons.

My own youngest came into my sanctuary a few minutes ago – now gone 8p.m.- begging to go outside with the girl across the road. To play! Ffs!

I said yes.

It’s dark o’clock, thunder just rumbled, I can hear them squealing. Having a ball, apparently.

Nope. I don’t get it either.

But kids and weather. It’s really a thing.

I know. Been teaching for nigh on thirty years. Seven of my own. And, guaranteed, if it’s a sunny day, they want to shelter from the heat, play Minecraft and get on your mammaries. Underfoot for the hell of it.

Snow. Wind. Rain. Let me at it!

She’s just come back in – this second – ruddy-cheeked, happy as a pig in the proverbial, high as a kite. But not nearly as high as if I’d said no.

Sometimes no is the wrong word. I know. Take it from me. Pick your no moments.




Traffic Jam

I keep missing comments and fond familiar voices,

Apologies to all concerned,

In time-restricted choices.

Another week of trafficking in all their dirty tricks

Should see me back to normal,

Far removed from politics,

At least on board to reading other stuff but guff,

Honest to god, now passed my chin,

Nearly had enough.

Some light romance, some music, a video or two,

Some photographs, a few more jokes,

Anything would do.

One more week, well, less in fact, then, bugger, I’ve reports,

Twenty-six, my darling kids,

Progress, tricks, endeavour for six-year old cohort.

Pretty soon, as time will tell, I’ll get to browse again,

Until then, apologies

For bypassing bloggy friends.


Sneak away to cotton wool of quiet

Where verbiage is visual, thickened slurp

Upon a screen, (or paper’s always preferable),

It’s stealing time between each gulp and blurt,

Like weaning from the waifs that all are gathered,

No kidding, it’s like twisting with the crew that Ollie kept

(before he joined the rogues and Fagin’s chorus)

And held his plate for seconds (though unmet). 

I figure at this rate that I’ll be plastered,

(with drink or effort or the two combined),

It’s early days for falling on the flooring

(but as long as fridge is full, they’ll step over, they won’t mind).

I wonder where they put it all, these grubbers,

(like orphaned foragers who’ve starved till I stepped in)

I really should be charging for this workhouse

(or at least for all the hangers-on they bring).

But, bugger it, they’re young and I’m an old fart,

(Moaning for the fun of moaning’s sake),

We do that you know, (while pushing zimmers),

It’s called prerogative (or some such take). 

I really can’t complain, (they made the dinner,

But buggered up the menus I had planned),

See it, want it, eat it, (no questions),

It was delicious with the French bread (full of garlic, heavy hand).

It’s gone quiet now, (they’re off to their own rooms)

(At least, I think that’s where they’ve sneakily disappeared),

I’ve been excused for good behaviour (by hubby,

who’s now got his feet up in a chair)

Though very soon it’s pick-up for another,

He’s on that (cause I had Cabernet, a lovely wine)

Daughter back with cat, (no longer tiny kitten),

Poor dug will have a seizure (or maybe fine).

It’s the unexpected nature of the season

(Well, it feckin’ is, if you live here!)

Beds unrolled, (some couches unfold)

And counting heads, (maintaining all good cheer, sic).

Did you know that some wines are labelled 14%! (I didn’t.)

Swear to god and all his wee buddhas and helpers

(no offence to all wee buddhas and helpers)

I am such a light weight at times.

Two glasses is what I call a cheap date.

I blame all the work.

And then suddenly stopping.

Confuses the body.

And the mind. (Spirit still intact).

It’s not really Christmas Eve tomorrow,

is it?

I’ll probably do my damndest to escape to wordville over the season ( I call it maintaining sanity) but if I don’t (or even if I do) I hope you all have a lovely Christmas, Happy Holidays, Seasonal Fest.

Thank you all for reading over the year and all the lovely comments. It’s still such a pleasure to glimpse all your worlds. May the New Year be good to you. And all your dreams be blessed.

Anne-Marie x

Bastard Child!

What to do, what to do.

Totally out of – what is it family across the pond call it- left field?

Taking it, from my movie going experience, that means somewhat unexpected. A long shot as it were.

Busy wee day here. Shopping. Groceries. Crap. Crap. And then a side order of shit for good measure. You know, typical weekend. Catch up on what work prevents you from doing sort of crap.

So I figured a wee while round at my sister’s – seven doors away- lucky me, was the order of the day. Some r&r. Bit of a chat. A few giggles. Well, lots usually. Guffawing is more like it and quite a few snorts at life and love and lewdity. You know. Sisters.

I left my trusted 18 year old with the pans and knew that after a day of not eating – I do that a lot – I could come home to one of my favourite meals. Spaghetti bolognaise. I know. It seems boring. But I’ve trained my crew well. Some of them. David now has it off pat. Although, watch out for the garlic and his consumption of my red wine. I’ve nearly been pissed a few times after eating David’s offerings.

So, I thought, a bit of a chin wag, share a couple of glasses of red, home for dinner.

I thought.

Twenty-four year old son not to be reckoned with.

He ate my fucking dinner. He never eats what we are eating! He’s one of these high protein-no carbs-shall-pass-my-lips sort of freaks. Ask him if he’s eating with us and the answer over the last couple of years has been, ‘No way. I’m hitting the gym and my body is a temple’, kind of garbage. Because I know he lets loose and orders in chicken chasni pizza when he has company. What a gross combination I always think. Whose bright idea was it to merge pizza with Indian cuisine?

He ate my dinner. I can still smell it. What I missed. Bastard child.

I’d been salivating at my sister’s. Red wine cultivating an appetite too often absent. Juices flowing thinking of the prospect of just the right amount of red wine added, pasta cooked to a T, parmesan grated lovingly, garlic wafting deliciously from seven doors away.

And Joe ate it!

And I can’t even give him a row! He’s off out with the current girlfriend.

And I settled for a few bacon sarnies with brown sauce. Very nice, it was. But not when you were expecting spag bol. I’m feeling quite gutted. And a little pissed. Might get a bit more pissed now.

Sometimes I hate weans.