I've made an appointment to see the Deputy Head of my son's school for she may know of a family support service that will mediate between me and the foca, given that I do NOT wish to talk to him AT ALL but know that I must.
The school called me back yesterday.
"She can see you Thursday morning, or Friday morning. Which would you prefer?"
"Friday. I'm going to a self defence class on Thursday to channel my anger!"
I still have not been into my inbox, for I do not want to see his name, never mind read his email. I don't want to get angry.
Boot Camp is for housing but I may as well sock the Foca one too, while I'm there....present myself to the school as in, erm, control!
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
A warning about Medicine Balls
Last week I pledged to let go of my housing problems.
At the weekend I was thrown an Access problem.
A couple of weeks ago in Bazza's Boot Camp we Mistresses stood in a circle and were throwing two medicine balls to one another.
I lost focus and one of them hit me in the jaw.
They are heavy.
It hurt.
Alot.
When you let go of one problem just be aware that there may be another coming straight for you.
That's all, have a nice day!
At the weekend I was thrown an Access problem.
A couple of weeks ago in Bazza's Boot Camp we Mistresses stood in a circle and were throwing two medicine balls to one another.
I lost focus and one of them hit me in the jaw.
They are heavy.
It hurt.
Alot.
When you let go of one problem just be aware that there may be another coming straight for you.
That's all, have a nice day!
Shrink assessment No 3
I missed the last appointment because I forgot about it, just like I forgot my doctor's appointment which wasn't last week but tomorrow which I've changed so I can go to Bazza's Boot Camp which I've written down. I used to credit my short term memory but now, if I don't write things down....
What timing though ey? She reminds me of what we talked about the last time, we still have to figure out exactly what I need.
Let's talk about sex baby
Let's talk about me me me
Let's talk about all the good things
And the bad things
Done to me
Let's talk about sex (Stigmum rocking with Salt 'n' Pepa while I pick at my fingernails really embarrassed then fly into a fury at the mere mention of the Foca's email I won't look at)
I need something long term, she says, because it all needs "careful unpicking." I don't want long term, I want to be free! I want to be free now!
She recognises I've had bad experiences with shrinks in the past, says perhaps Women and Health will be able to offer me something.
She says I would have to pay for that, maybe just £5. Would I consider it?
£5. Is it worth it? It will be hard and painful and there's no promise of resolution.
Am I worth it? I mean this is something potentially 'good'.
Boundaries.. I'm chained by my own fecking boundaries... Do I want to remain bound forever?
The final frontier.. mySelf.. quite funny really.
What timing though ey? She reminds me of what we talked about the last time, we still have to figure out exactly what I need.
Let's talk about sex baby
Let's talk about me me me
Let's talk about all the good things
And the bad things
Done to me
Let's talk about sex (Stigmum rocking with Salt 'n' Pepa while I pick at my fingernails really embarrassed then fly into a fury at the mere mention of the Foca's email I won't look at)
I need something long term, she says, because it all needs "careful unpicking." I don't want long term, I want to be free! I want to be free now!
She recognises I've had bad experiences with shrinks in the past, says perhaps Women and Health will be able to offer me something.
She says I would have to pay for that, maybe just £5. Would I consider it?
£5. Is it worth it? It will be hard and painful and there's no promise of resolution.
Am I worth it? I mean this is something potentially 'good'.
Boundaries.. I'm chained by my own fecking boundaries... Do I want to remain bound forever?
The final frontier.. mySelf.. quite funny really.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Washed Out
I wake up yesterday morning and I feel an ache fused with frustration, fury and absolute exhaustion. I feel totally and utterly washed out.
My son will be in school in a minute. My baby. My sweet, sweet boy.
I cannot sit at home and wait for him. I will go out of my mind with the frustration and the fury that is bubbling beneath the surface of my skin.
Gossip Stop. Go to Gossip Stop. That is where you always go when you are having an existential breakdown and you know you will not eat. Go there. It is a refuge where gossip doesn't start, it stops. You can just be. No-one will bother you.
Having penned the latter part of my weekend on Sunday, I should pen the beginning. Washed out dear? Hang out your dirty washing.
It is quite possibly the best thing I could have done. The early part of my weekend was fun, positive. My challenge is to write myself into this frame of mind.
"Two eggs on toast and a cup of tea please."
Write, write, write. Go for a cigarette, order another tea.
Write, write, write. Go for a cigarette, order another tea.
The woman who works there (runs it?) comes over and asks if she can tell me a story about her brother. He was having a roll up not far from a bus stop the other day and when he stubbed it out, under foot, on pavement, two men grabbed him by the arm and fined him £50. No warning.
I tell her I heard that on the news the other day and because I write a blog, was going to try and fit it in amongst some smoking things I wanted to write.
Smokers are so penalised, she tells me, the government wants to make so much money out of them.
This gets me going and I say that this country is rich thanks to poor people. Rich bankers put their money overseas so they do not have to pay tax. Meanwhile the poor are bled for everything.
She agrees with me. I tell her in the Square Mile they are giving people portable ashtrays - fag bags. She says her brother was given one, but should have been given a warning first.
It is a nice break for me. The service, the people is why I like this caf so much.
I write and write and smoke and write until it closes at 2.30. I go home and finish a post I started which makes me late to pick up my son from school.
I run and when I get there the classroom is dark. Where is he??? I go to the after school club. Is he here? It's not his day I'm told, he might be in the mentor room. Guilt. On top of everything else I'm feeling, guilt guilt guilt.
I see my son, sat next to his friend K, crying his eyes out. I kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss him. I tell him I'm sorry. He tells me he wanted to come back yesterday.
I see his teacher to ask about the family mentoring. She says to speak to the Deputy Head.
My son was late to school this morning. That is good for me. That is something I can use.
My son is too tired to go swimming so I say just this once we will miss it. We put up our anorexic christmas tree then dance to a lounge music cd. He is delirious but funny in his delirium, stuffing blankets under his vest and dancing with a 'big baby belly mummy!'
I give him a bath. His dad didn't do a nit check on him and some eggs have hatched.
I read him A Christmas Carol and tell him we'll go see the film at the weekend.
I kiss him goodnight and he hugs me tight.
I switch on the computer and transpose my weekend. I don't think it will take me long because it is already written. At 4am, I give up with two more posts to write this morning, and go to sleep. It doesn't come easily.
I am wired now but at least I am 'up to speed' in blogland. I still haven't gone into my inbox. I will wait until I speak to the school before I open it.
No more long posts. "My weekend" is a one off. I may go and edit later, but then again I may read something and cringe at how badly written it is and just leave it. One day I will write a short novella, take pains over every sentence to make it the best thing I have ever written.
My blog is not for this. It is to write the pain so that it might remind me, and maybe someone else, that as long as you are doing something, you can acknowledge somewhere within you that you are stronger than you think.
Right, I am going back to Gossip Stop for two eggs on toast. No pen. No paper. Then I must buy chocolate cereal for my son. He was a right grumpy teenager this morning, telling me off for not buying any. I didn't lose my own rag, I merely said: "Are you tired?" and he nodded and said "Yes."
My son will be in school in a minute. My baby. My sweet, sweet boy.
I cannot sit at home and wait for him. I will go out of my mind with the frustration and the fury that is bubbling beneath the surface of my skin.
Gossip Stop. Go to Gossip Stop. That is where you always go when you are having an existential breakdown and you know you will not eat. Go there. It is a refuge where gossip doesn't start, it stops. You can just be. No-one will bother you.
Having penned the latter part of my weekend on Sunday, I should pen the beginning. Washed out dear? Hang out your dirty washing.
It is quite possibly the best thing I could have done. The early part of my weekend was fun, positive. My challenge is to write myself into this frame of mind.
"Two eggs on toast and a cup of tea please."
Write, write, write. Go for a cigarette, order another tea.
Write, write, write. Go for a cigarette, order another tea.
The woman who works there (runs it?) comes over and asks if she can tell me a story about her brother. He was having a roll up not far from a bus stop the other day and when he stubbed it out, under foot, on pavement, two men grabbed him by the arm and fined him £50. No warning.
I tell her I heard that on the news the other day and because I write a blog, was going to try and fit it in amongst some smoking things I wanted to write.
Smokers are so penalised, she tells me, the government wants to make so much money out of them.
This gets me going and I say that this country is rich thanks to poor people. Rich bankers put their money overseas so they do not have to pay tax. Meanwhile the poor are bled for everything.
She agrees with me. I tell her in the Square Mile they are giving people portable ashtrays - fag bags. She says her brother was given one, but should have been given a warning first.
It is a nice break for me. The service, the people is why I like this caf so much.
I write and write and smoke and write until it closes at 2.30. I go home and finish a post I started which makes me late to pick up my son from school.
I run and when I get there the classroom is dark. Where is he??? I go to the after school club. Is he here? It's not his day I'm told, he might be in the mentor room. Guilt. On top of everything else I'm feeling, guilt guilt guilt.
I see my son, sat next to his friend K, crying his eyes out. I kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss him. I tell him I'm sorry. He tells me he wanted to come back yesterday.
I see his teacher to ask about the family mentoring. She says to speak to the Deputy Head.
My son was late to school this morning. That is good for me. That is something I can use.
My son is too tired to go swimming so I say just this once we will miss it. We put up our anorexic christmas tree then dance to a lounge music cd. He is delirious but funny in his delirium, stuffing blankets under his vest and dancing with a 'big baby belly mummy!'
I give him a bath. His dad didn't do a nit check on him and some eggs have hatched.
I read him A Christmas Carol and tell him we'll go see the film at the weekend.
I kiss him goodnight and he hugs me tight.
I switch on the computer and transpose my weekend. I don't think it will take me long because it is already written. At 4am, I give up with two more posts to write this morning, and go to sleep. It doesn't come easily.
I am wired now but at least I am 'up to speed' in blogland. I still haven't gone into my inbox. I will wait until I speak to the school before I open it.
No more long posts. "My weekend" is a one off. I may go and edit later, but then again I may read something and cringe at how badly written it is and just leave it. One day I will write a short novella, take pains over every sentence to make it the best thing I have ever written.
My blog is not for this. It is to write the pain so that it might remind me, and maybe someone else, that as long as you are doing something, you can acknowledge somewhere within you that you are stronger than you think.
Right, I am going back to Gossip Stop for two eggs on toast. No pen. No paper. Then I must buy chocolate cereal for my son. He was a right grumpy teenager this morning, telling me off for not buying any. I didn't lose my own rag, I merely said: "Are you tired?" and he nodded and said "Yes."
Monday, 7 December 2009
Can I have a gift subscription?
Saturday morning, bored and somewhat restless. The Bazza Boot Camp demo isn't until later, I don't want to start tidying up, the very thought makes me feel tired.
I switch on my laptop, see what's lurking in my inbox besides my daily horoscopes.
Ooh, I have a 'new fan'.
A while ago my old online dating provider sent me an email saying if I don't visit the site, my profile would be automatically deleted. However, if I went into the site, it would push it back towards the top. OK, delete me then!
A few weeks later I receive a message saying I have a 'new fan' and curiosity gets the better of me and I hit the link.
In my absence I have received quite a few messages. Their names remain but not the messages; it's been months and months and months since my subscription expired. Way before I even visited Old Shit School Acquaintance back in April. I never deleted myself, even set up a profile on a new free site which I never bothered visiting either.
I've had the odd 'new fan' recently but ignore it. Today though, I am restless. Who are you?
MakeHay.
"Loved the profile and pictures," he writes. "I am an inch under your price range but if you can barter it would be great to hear from you."
I read his profile and it's quite tongue in cheek. His picture looks ok but you never can tell. MakeHay sounds interesting!
I look at my one liner options:
I'd love to chat but I don't have a subscription yet. Hmmm, I'd love to chat but I am not going to subscribe.
How about a gift subscription? Oh tis very cheeky! In the past I have often asked the interesting sounding ones to buy me a subscription but I don't enjoy it because it doesn't say 'please'. They so rarely buy me a subscription though that I think 'what the hell?', send the one liner, then go and have a bath.
I must also wash the de-nitting chemicals out of my hair.
Oh mercy, if there is anything I hate more than de-nitting my son, it's de-nitting myself. It may come out clear, it often does, but what a SHITTY job what with my long, long hair.
With no shower, I have a shallow bath then afterwards hang my head over the side and shampoo.
Wearing my dressing gown, I take my de-nitting equipment over to the laptop and decide to "surf and comb!"
"Your subscription has been activated."
MakeHay! I hope you turn out alright!
First things first, I thank him. He is online and returns a message saying he admires my profile and do I have a long list of men emailing me.
I say no, only two or three, which is true (who I sent one liners to not asking for subscriptions).
He sends me a link to a PJ Harvey song, "We Float" and asks if I stole my siblings sweets as a child. I answer then listen to the song which I find a bit heavy for a first 'chat' but nice of him to send it.
We email back and forth but he must be chatting to lots of women because he takes ages to answer.
Not a problem for me, I've just combed out a fecking dead nit. AAARGH. BASTARDS.
I consider my situation. MakeHay has no idea what I am doing in between emails. He is possibly assuming that I am emailing other men.
Do I tell him I'm de-nitting myself? I most certainly do not! My god, if my blog was my dating profile, I would remain single forever! For ever and ever after! Quelle tragedie!
I finally complete my denitting process, MakeHay has not responded for a while so I log out and pack my bag for the Boot Camp demo. I'll just watch, I won't take part but I take my uniform just incase the Master needs me.
I make a mental note to blog this episode later even though I don't want to admit to the whole wide world that I get nits. But then surely it's an occupational hazard isn't it? I'm not the only mother in the whole wide world to get them, am I?
I switch on my laptop, see what's lurking in my inbox besides my daily horoscopes.
Ooh, I have a 'new fan'.
A while ago my old online dating provider sent me an email saying if I don't visit the site, my profile would be automatically deleted. However, if I went into the site, it would push it back towards the top. OK, delete me then!
A few weeks later I receive a message saying I have a 'new fan' and curiosity gets the better of me and I hit the link.
In my absence I have received quite a few messages. Their names remain but not the messages; it's been months and months and months since my subscription expired. Way before I even visited Old Shit School Acquaintance back in April. I never deleted myself, even set up a profile on a new free site which I never bothered visiting either.
I've had the odd 'new fan' recently but ignore it. Today though, I am restless. Who are you?
MakeHay.
"Loved the profile and pictures," he writes. "I am an inch under your price range but if you can barter it would be great to hear from you."
I read his profile and it's quite tongue in cheek. His picture looks ok but you never can tell. MakeHay sounds interesting!
I look at my one liner options:
I'd love to chat but I don't have a subscription yet. Hmmm, I'd love to chat but I am not going to subscribe.
How about a gift subscription? Oh tis very cheeky! In the past I have often asked the interesting sounding ones to buy me a subscription but I don't enjoy it because it doesn't say 'please'. They so rarely buy me a subscription though that I think 'what the hell?', send the one liner, then go and have a bath.
I must also wash the de-nitting chemicals out of my hair.
Oh mercy, if there is anything I hate more than de-nitting my son, it's de-nitting myself. It may come out clear, it often does, but what a SHITTY job what with my long, long hair.
With no shower, I have a shallow bath then afterwards hang my head over the side and shampoo.
Wearing my dressing gown, I take my de-nitting equipment over to the laptop and decide to "surf and comb!"
"Your subscription has been activated."
MakeHay! I hope you turn out alright!
First things first, I thank him. He is online and returns a message saying he admires my profile and do I have a long list of men emailing me.
I say no, only two or three, which is true (who I sent one liners to not asking for subscriptions).
He sends me a link to a PJ Harvey song, "We Float" and asks if I stole my siblings sweets as a child. I answer then listen to the song which I find a bit heavy for a first 'chat' but nice of him to send it.
We email back and forth but he must be chatting to lots of women because he takes ages to answer.
Not a problem for me, I've just combed out a fecking dead nit. AAARGH. BASTARDS.
I consider my situation. MakeHay has no idea what I am doing in between emails. He is possibly assuming that I am emailing other men.
Do I tell him I'm de-nitting myself? I most certainly do not! My god, if my blog was my dating profile, I would remain single forever! For ever and ever after! Quelle tragedie!
I finally complete my denitting process, MakeHay has not responded for a while so I log out and pack my bag for the Boot Camp demo. I'll just watch, I won't take part but I take my uniform just incase the Master needs me.
I make a mental note to blog this episode later even though I don't want to admit to the whole wide world that I get nits. But then surely it's an occupational hazard isn't it? I'm not the only mother in the whole wide world to get them, am I?
Women's Self Defence Demo
Up at the community centre PhyzBiz, my mate Charlie's brainchild, is running a Youth Empowerment Day.The Women's Self Defence Team are going to do a demo. Mistress in the playground reminded me about it on Friday and I thought I would go along and lend my support.
I arrive and in the main hall the music is pounding. Young boys are queueing to jump a vault and I think of my son.
I can't see the mistresses anywhere but see Charlie who takes me to them in another smaller hall. They are practicing and I notice they are an odd number; seven. Ah man, I'm not up for this.
Master Bazza comes up to me. "Do you have your uniform?"
"Yes, but I wasn't in the class on Thursday because I had flu and I can't remember all the techniques anyway and if I join in I'll just let the group down."
"Don't worry about it, just go and get dressed."
The cheerleaders are practicing their set next to us. The Master picks out two mistresses to do the techniques which they practice very quickly before Charlie comes in and tell's us we're on.
The mats are set out infront of the music decks. People are seated on benches and chairs around it. Why didn't I just do this; sit on a bench and watch?
The Master tells us to walk on in order of height. Mistress Psychic is the same height as me, Mistress Dancer a little taller. I sandwich between the two.
Two pairs do the kicking sequences. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE roundhouse kicks with the left leg. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE with the right. We do twenty in class. It's a killer I tell you.....Forward kicks to the groin ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE - change legs. Knee kicks to the groin ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE - change legs - change partners. Feel these women's power!!
Two pairs do the punching techniques. Even in my 'glory' days I'd lose focus and get hit in the face so it's not as easy as these Mistresses make it look. The Master partners Mistress Psychic for the "Beginners' Demo'.
I can only stand very still and pretend that nobody has noticed that I haven't done anything yet and I won't be doing anything later either.
The focus shifts to techniques.A pair demonstrate the SLAP SMASH WOLLOP - slap the assailant with your palm then bring your elbow round to smash them in the cheek and on your arm's return, wollop them on the other cheek with your fist.
Another pair do the Pukey Pukey.
"There are three soft parts of the body that you can use to defend yourself," explains the Master. "The eyes, the soft area at the base of the neck and the reproductive organs."
The last pair throw one another to the ground. "Oooooooooooooooh," murmur the crowds.
"You can even defend yourself when you are on the ground," says the Master. "Being on the ground is not a defenceless position."
The Mistresses demonstrate. It involves destabilising their leg so you can push them over and in a real life situation run like hell. We were doing this two weeks ago in class.We all get in line, extend our arms infront of us and put our fist to our palm. Show's over.
The Mistresses head down to the pub but I have plans to go out in Putney. Putney! Miles away! I go home to eat and to figure out how I'm going to get there.At the time, I was not going to post this because I was abit embarrassed that I didn't 'do' anything. The weekend took such unexpected turns though that I thought at some point to tell it all.
Writing this, I realise I shouldn't be embarrassed. I'm part of that Self Defence group. I may not be any good now but that doesn't mean I never will be. The Mistresses proved that to me.
I arrive and in the main hall the music is pounding. Young boys are queueing to jump a vault and I think of my son.
I can't see the mistresses anywhere but see Charlie who takes me to them in another smaller hall. They are practicing and I notice they are an odd number; seven. Ah man, I'm not up for this.
Master Bazza comes up to me. "Do you have your uniform?"
"Yes, but I wasn't in the class on Thursday because I had flu and I can't remember all the techniques anyway and if I join in I'll just let the group down."
"Don't worry about it, just go and get dressed."
The cheerleaders are practicing their set next to us. The Master picks out two mistresses to do the techniques which they practice very quickly before Charlie comes in and tell's us we're on.
The mats are set out infront of the music decks. People are seated on benches and chairs around it. Why didn't I just do this; sit on a bench and watch?
The Master tells us to walk on in order of height. Mistress Psychic is the same height as me, Mistress Dancer a little taller. I sandwich between the two.
Two pairs do the kicking sequences. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE roundhouse kicks with the left leg. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE with the right. We do twenty in class. It's a killer I tell you.....Forward kicks to the groin ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE - change legs. Knee kicks to the groin ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE - change legs - change partners. Feel these women's power!!
Two pairs do the punching techniques. Even in my 'glory' days I'd lose focus and get hit in the face so it's not as easy as these Mistresses make it look. The Master partners Mistress Psychic for the "Beginners' Demo'.
I can only stand very still and pretend that nobody has noticed that I haven't done anything yet and I won't be doing anything later either.
The focus shifts to techniques.A pair demonstrate the SLAP SMASH WOLLOP - slap the assailant with your palm then bring your elbow round to smash them in the cheek and on your arm's return, wollop them on the other cheek with your fist.
Another pair do the Pukey Pukey.
"There are three soft parts of the body that you can use to defend yourself," explains the Master. "The eyes, the soft area at the base of the neck and the reproductive organs."
The last pair throw one another to the ground. "Oooooooooooooooh," murmur the crowds.
"You can even defend yourself when you are on the ground," says the Master. "Being on the ground is not a defenceless position."
The Mistresses demonstrate. It involves destabilising their leg so you can push them over and in a real life situation run like hell. We were doing this two weeks ago in class.We all get in line, extend our arms infront of us and put our fist to our palm. Show's over.
The Mistresses head down to the pub but I have plans to go out in Putney. Putney! Miles away! I go home to eat and to figure out how I'm going to get there.At the time, I was not going to post this because I was abit embarrassed that I didn't 'do' anything. The weekend took such unexpected turns though that I thought at some point to tell it all.
Writing this, I realise I shouldn't be embarrassed. I'm part of that Self Defence group. I may not be any good now but that doesn't mean I never will be. The Mistresses proved that to me.
Thai Square
I thought it might be a restaurant but no, it's a swanky bar in a narrow space with a dancefloor at the end, cordoned off for a private party. There's a nice atmosphere, a party atmosphere. It's nice to be out!
"Let's have a cocktail," says Phil. "My treat."
"No mine, it's your birthday celebration, let me!"
"You can get one later."
Ash is on antibiotics and can't drink. Phil and I have champagne cocktails with pomegranites. Yummy yummy lovely yum!
Ash find her two friends, Bec and Bec - the three of them met on a yoga holiday having never met one another before. The way they get on, you'd think they met at uni years ago!
Me and one of the Bec's pull a chair out so the five of us aren't sitting in a line. The group divides into natural chatter with me and Phil talking about the economy then Medjugorje in Croatia where the Virgin Mary is said to have appeared to children. Phil, my mum, a woman I met on the tran siberian have all been and all come back with amazing experiences. I tell her I want to go, I've heard so much about it, maybe next year, take my son as part of my Sunday School Teachings ha ha.
Time for another drink! Ash on another soda and cranberry, Phil on a vodka cranberry, both of which look identical so I have to remember which is which hand! I just can't decide then spy the 'martinis'. Lychee Martini - Vodka and lychee liquer. Perfect! It came with a lychee in the bottom of the glass so healthy too! I bought two rounds that evening, £15 each.
The three of us chat away, the music putting us in a dancy mood. People have been turned away from the dancefloor though apparantly, due to private party.A track comes on that the girls recognise but I don't but me and Phil get up and take our chances in the private party area. The party goers are all in a circle playing catch with a balloom. In our little corner, we are the only ones dancing so we head back.
The bar's filling up. Two guys are looking at our group. One looks quite debonair while his friend looks very English, the type you'd introduce to your mother. Or maybe the type I could introduce to mine.
The next thing, Debonair's chatting to the Becs. I'm talking to Ash about kids; mine and she points out that May I Introduce You To My Mother, pushed back from the crowds, has practically got his arse in my face.
He turns round and ask if he can share a corner of my seat. We start talking; about a beach he went to in South Wales, then somehow the Afghan war, the economy, crime. He asks where I think it's all heading. "To riots I imagine," not telling him the teensy weeny thing about my life. I find this man, who is physically so not my type, growing on me. He tells me he was on Newsnight recently, that's he'll be on Gordon Ramsey's F Word this Christmas.
"What do you do?" I ask
"I have an internet business."
"What do you sell?"
"What do you do?
"No you!"
"I don't want to say." oh booorrrrrrrrrrring.
"What's your job?" he asks me.
"I'm a mother."
"Is that all? What else?"
"What do you mean 'is that all'? It's alot!"
"My sister has two kids and she works."
"Does she have a cleaner?"
"No, she shares that with her husband."
"There you go, I don't have a husband, for me it's a job."
I quizz him again on his job. "Are you in politics? In the media?" He says no then changes the subject. "What are your plans tomorrow?"
"Ah, no plans! Sleep! My son's coming back in the afternoon. You?"
"I'm having lunch with a Japanese friend."
"Ah Japanese food, sashiburi!"
"I like the food; sushi..."
"I don't like that but excuse me, I really need the loo!"
I come back and Phil's chatting to him, Ash is chatting to Bec, and the other Bec to Debonair. I sit down but everyone's deep in their conversations. I don't feel like a gooseberry, so stuffed am I on lychees but figure it's an optimum time to go for a fag.
The bar is heaving when I get back. It's been so long since I've been to a place like this. Everyone's drunk and enjoying themselves. Some are wearing masks, other guys are wearing viking outfits. I have to push and weave past people to get back to my seat.
We girls had planned to go onto a club called Fez or something but when Ash and one of the Becs say they are going home, me, Phil and Becs decide to stay.
I go and make a request for Video Killed The Radio Star then realise they are very unlikely to play this and go back and ask for Lady GaGa's Bad Romance.
They're playing The Black Eyed Peas, Michael Jackson, all kinds of stuff so we all head onto the dance floor. Phil can be quite wild when she has drink down her and dances around May I Introduce You To My Mother who can't believe his luck but doesn't know what to do with it which is very funny. We're all laughing, we're all dancing and suddenly boof, the lights go on.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Me, never wanting an evening to end suggests we go for a coffee. May I Introduce You To My Mother is up for it, so's Phil, so's Becs but Debonair isn't. Chatting earlier it transpired he lives in St John's Wood. North like me. He'd said we should share a cab. I was up for that of course, Phil wouldn't have to pay a cab for me, I could go halves.
So that was it. The party broke up. A great fun, fab night, finito.
"Let's have a cocktail," says Phil. "My treat."
"No mine, it's your birthday celebration, let me!"
"You can get one later."
Ash is on antibiotics and can't drink. Phil and I have champagne cocktails with pomegranites. Yummy yummy lovely yum!
Ash find her two friends, Bec and Bec - the three of them met on a yoga holiday having never met one another before. The way they get on, you'd think they met at uni years ago!
Me and one of the Bec's pull a chair out so the five of us aren't sitting in a line. The group divides into natural chatter with me and Phil talking about the economy then Medjugorje in Croatia where the Virgin Mary is said to have appeared to children. Phil, my mum, a woman I met on the tran siberian have all been and all come back with amazing experiences. I tell her I want to go, I've heard so much about it, maybe next year, take my son as part of my Sunday School Teachings ha ha.
Time for another drink! Ash on another soda and cranberry, Phil on a vodka cranberry, both of which look identical so I have to remember which is which hand! I just can't decide then spy the 'martinis'. Lychee Martini - Vodka and lychee liquer. Perfect! It came with a lychee in the bottom of the glass so healthy too! I bought two rounds that evening, £15 each.
The three of us chat away, the music putting us in a dancy mood. People have been turned away from the dancefloor though apparantly, due to private party.A track comes on that the girls recognise but I don't but me and Phil get up and take our chances in the private party area. The party goers are all in a circle playing catch with a balloom. In our little corner, we are the only ones dancing so we head back.
The bar's filling up. Two guys are looking at our group. One looks quite debonair while his friend looks very English, the type you'd introduce to your mother. Or maybe the type I could introduce to mine.
The next thing, Debonair's chatting to the Becs. I'm talking to Ash about kids; mine and she points out that May I Introduce You To My Mother, pushed back from the crowds, has practically got his arse in my face.
He turns round and ask if he can share a corner of my seat. We start talking; about a beach he went to in South Wales, then somehow the Afghan war, the economy, crime. He asks where I think it's all heading. "To riots I imagine," not telling him the teensy weeny thing about my life. I find this man, who is physically so not my type, growing on me. He tells me he was on Newsnight recently, that's he'll be on Gordon Ramsey's F Word this Christmas.
"What do you do?" I ask
"I have an internet business."
"What do you sell?"
"What do you do?
"No you!"
"I don't want to say." oh booorrrrrrrrrrring.
"What's your job?" he asks me.
"I'm a mother."
"Is that all? What else?"
"What do you mean 'is that all'? It's alot!"
"My sister has two kids and she works."
"Does she have a cleaner?"
"No, she shares that with her husband."
"There you go, I don't have a husband, for me it's a job."
I quizz him again on his job. "Are you in politics? In the media?" He says no then changes the subject. "What are your plans tomorrow?"
"Ah, no plans! Sleep! My son's coming back in the afternoon. You?"
"I'm having lunch with a Japanese friend."
"Ah Japanese food, sashiburi!"
"I like the food; sushi..."
"I don't like that but excuse me, I really need the loo!"
I come back and Phil's chatting to him, Ash is chatting to Bec, and the other Bec to Debonair. I sit down but everyone's deep in their conversations. I don't feel like a gooseberry, so stuffed am I on lychees but figure it's an optimum time to go for a fag.
The bar is heaving when I get back. It's been so long since I've been to a place like this. Everyone's drunk and enjoying themselves. Some are wearing masks, other guys are wearing viking outfits. I have to push and weave past people to get back to my seat.
We girls had planned to go onto a club called Fez or something but when Ash and one of the Becs say they are going home, me, Phil and Becs decide to stay.
I go and make a request for Video Killed The Radio Star then realise they are very unlikely to play this and go back and ask for Lady GaGa's Bad Romance.
They're playing The Black Eyed Peas, Michael Jackson, all kinds of stuff so we all head onto the dance floor. Phil can be quite wild when she has drink down her and dances around May I Introduce You To My Mother who can't believe his luck but doesn't know what to do with it which is very funny. We're all laughing, we're all dancing and suddenly boof, the lights go on.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Me, never wanting an evening to end suggests we go for a coffee. May I Introduce You To My Mother is up for it, so's Phil, so's Becs but Debonair isn't. Chatting earlier it transpired he lives in St John's Wood. North like me. He'd said we should share a cab. I was up for that of course, Phil wouldn't have to pay a cab for me, I could go halves.
So that was it. The party broke up. A great fun, fab night, finito.
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