Hiatus

True to form, the first two weeks of 2016 have been horrible.

My tooth extraction happened and I think the build up to it was more awful than the actual procedure.

I also have had tests and scans and have been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease which  is why I haven't been able to write recently. Typing is very painful for my joints and by the end of the day I am exhausted so I am going to go on hiatus until the medication settles the symptoms.

I hope I don't lose too many readers whilst I am away. (Believe it or not I have people reading my posts all over the world. Hello Everyone!). As soon as I feel better and I am able I shall be back to bombard you with more horror and misery.

Until then, be happy!

Rosie x

A Happy New Year...?

Brace yourselves for a shock; I like New Years Eve. I absolutely love it. It holds more excitement than Christmas or birthdays. I always stay up to see the new year in and stick two fingers up at the old year slopping off in disgrace into the distance. After a particularly tough 2015 I was extra excited to say Adios to this year and start a lovely, bright, brand new year as soon as possible. Think of all the possibilities and opportunities that lay ahead. Its like binning your page of scribbles and getting a clean sheet of paper and starting all over again. I always make new year resolutions. My resolutions for 2016 are condensed into one point. BE HAPPY. That's it. That's all I want 2016 to yield. I don't want any nasty occurrences or startling mishaps. I don't want any drama or any capers. I don't want any major highs or major lows. I want to ride a steady course in the new year. I am just going to keep my head down and stay well and truly out of trouble. I plan to avoid making any huge life changes and just sit comfortably in my well dug rut on my own with a smile on my face. Heavenly.

If only life was like that.

Already my 2016 plans have been scuppered. I have been having seriously painful toothache recently and have been putting off going to the dentist. I will be honest and hold my hands up and say I haven't been to the dentist for about 17 years. I have never had toothache or any problems with my teeth until now. I have no fillings. I brush two or three times a day, occasionally I might use a whitener or have a swig of mouthwash but that is the extent of my oral hygiene routine. So, when I got the sensation of Satan driving his flaming pitchfork into the back of my jaw I really had never experienced pain like it. Having discovered my childhood dentist didn't accept NHS patients anymore I searched through the local directory to find a dentist who would help a common peasant like myself. I contacted dentist after dentist and got turned away each time. But then I found one called the Village Dentist in the next town. I rang their number and was told they had room for new NHS patients and they even could see me that same day to look at my tooth. I was so grateful that I nearly started crying when I was booking the appointment with the receptionist. However, when I ended the call I began to wonder why, when every other practice was full to the rafters with patients, was the Village Dentist so freely available. I began to have horror movie scenes of bloody buzzing drills being held by masked maniacs rush into my head but I had to pull myself together as the toothache was becoming unbearable and I needed to get it fixed sharpish.
I attended the appointment. I explained that I hadn't had a check up for a while. The dentist was a very small, skinny lady with jet black hair and shiny eyes. She could see I was nervous and she was kind and tolerant towards me even though she was obviously extremely busy and rushed. I had an x-ray and this showed a hole in my wisdom tooth and the dentist told me she would need to extract the tooth. "But you're going to give me sedation, aren't you?" I enquired worryingly. No, she wasn't. I was informed that I would get a local anaesthetic and I would be awake throughout the procedure. I nearly passed out then and there. I had to lie back down in the dentists chair. I asked if I could go to hospital and get it taken out under general anaesthetic. She said she could refer me but it would take up to a year and it was easier for her to do it. Ok. She seemed pretty confident in her abilities. I asked how it would be done. What type of machine did they use and how long would it take? She laughed. "Theres no machine!" she chuckled. "Its me who pulls your tooth out!". I could feel the blood drain from my head and pool into my feet and I must have turned a funny colour as she got me a glass of water and told me it was a routine procedure and not to worry. I told her she was a very small woman and that I didn't think she was strong enough to pull out my back tooth. She seemed to take offence. "Its not down to strength" she quipped, "its technique". Good God.

So there you go. That's how I am starting my lovely new year. In the first week of January I am having my tooth pulled out medieval torture style. I am hoping this very painful, traumatic start to the year will be a one off and that the universe has decided I have to get all the nastiness that 2016 holds over with quickly in order to pave the way for carefree bliss in the coming months.

Ha! Yeah!  (And so it begins, again).

Christmas

Guess what? I loathe Christmas. It comes round quicker every year. I hate the messy cards I have to display that the kids pull out of their school bags. I hate the queues in the shops when all I want is a loaf of bread and a packet of mini rolls. I hate the loving family adverts on the television and radio that you cant escape. Christmas songs make my bowels rumble with stress and anxiety and Christmas films make me involuntarily shudder. Bah humbug doesn't even cover it. You would think now I have umpteen children I would gain some pleasure from the festive season. I don't. In fact it has escalated the phobia. Now I have the added feeling of deep heavy guilt to add to the mix. I never have the foresight to save any money earlier in the year to buy them presents they are actually worthy of and want. Due to my ineptitude they have grown up thinking Father Christmas and his elves are working in partnership with Poundland. I am lucky that this year my youngest is only one year old and so has no concept of stockings and what he should expect waiting beneath the tree on Christmas morning. (He has a second-hand high chair to look forward to in case you're wondering). He has acquired a taste for waste paper recently and although this habit results in terrible constipation he can have a festive fill up on the big day and munch as much cheap wrapping paper as he likes to make up for the pauper, Dickensian gift. 

I cant cook. I tried to reserve a table at a restaurant so the kids didn't have to suffer the dried, chewy turkey I usually dish up. Of course I have left it too late. The waitress at the Harvester in town informed me gleefully as her sides shook with laughter and tears streamed down her face that there were no tables free on Christmas day. So I shall be in the kitchen boiling up vegetables and carving meat that everyone will thanklessly moan about having to eat. I hate Christmas Eve. I hate having to fill up the stockings on my own and having nobody to share being Father Christmas. I hate going to bed and not being able to sleep because of the intense dread I feel looming thinking about the following day.

Yesterday in the early evening my doorbell rang. I went to open the door. Before me stood three teenagers complete with dirty tracksuits and trainers with a muddy football tucked under on of their arms. 'Can I help?' I asked as they were staring at me blankly. 'Yeah', said the biggest boy. 'We are carol singers, innit?' I looked them up and down waiting to be surprised by angelic voices rising out of their gangly bodies and for them to  bestow Christmas cheer. They didn't start singing. I shrugged and started to close the door when the biggest boy must have decided to abort the pocket money mission and shouted at me, 'Oh, fuck you then, ugly bitch' and swaggered off down the road with his grubby posse in tow. It brought a yuletide tear to my eye. God bless you too Tiny Tim, you little shit.

I reluctantly made a window display this year. It is comprised of a rather furtive looking light up Santa whom I have dangled from the top window handle. I have  sprayed snow spray at the bottom of the window to really set the wintery scene. The children loved it. I thought it was rather good too until I tried to rub a bit of errant fake snow from the side and discovered it had set like cement. When I look at my window display now I am constantly reminded of the job that awaits. Instead of Father Christmas popping round I need Barry Scott

I hate Christmas.

So, I have come to a decision. Next year I am going abroad. Christmas 2016 will be spent with the children digging holes in the sand whilst I relax with a festive mocktail. No more Thuggy Tiny Tims at my door and no more worrying about having to cook. I simply cannot wait. Bring on next year.

A nightmare.

I am sitting on a bench in the park. I am watching my children play on the swings. Up and down. Higher and higher. Backwards and forwards. The sun is out and it is busy and noisy. He comes and sits down beside me. I can feel his shadow on me blocking the warmth of the sun and it makes me shiver. 'Hello friend', he seems to say. But he doesn't use his voice. I can feel his intention in the closeness that he has breathed into my ear. I try not to respond. I concentrate on  the children and the sun and the creaking of the swings. Up and down. Backwards and forwards. He seems miffed at my snub and he shifts nearer. He drapes a long arm of blackness casually behind my back. He brushes his long, icy fingers along my arm. It makes me anxious and I can feel the panic rising inside of me, rushing out of my bones and filling my body with adrenaline. I try and stay focused on the children in the park. The sun has gone behind a cloud now. The swings have slowed down and people seem to be leaving. It is less busy. I want to leave too but I know I cannot. I know that if I move he would jump on my back and I would drag his heaviness about with me. I am too scared to look directly at him. It would be acknowledging his existence. He tries to turn my face by stroking my cheek but I don't flinch. I let the feeling of dread settle on me like toxic ash that I  dare not brush off for fear of doing more harm than good. 'Have this', he whispers as he drapes a cloth of smokey grey over my shoulders. It clings too tightly and I feel suffocated as it moulds to my shape. It pulls me down yet I bear the weight.

The sun has disappeared from the sky. It is dark and also very cold. The park is empty. The swings are swaying gently by themselves. I look for my children but I feel groggy and slow and I cant find them. I can feel my lungs fill sharply with air and then rush to push out that breath and swallow again. As I breathe quickly I am filled with the darkness and the loneliness of the place which has consumed me. It is now a part of me. It has saturated my very being like oil and it drips out of every pore. 'I am always here now', he says. I know this. It is obviously no comfort. He makes a lonely companion.

It starts to rain and as it does I feel a realisation of acceptance fall down too. Fat drops of acquiescence pitter-patter all around me. I haven't the ability to be strong any more. I give in to him and I succumb. I can feel his large, curly smile next to me. He has won. Both players knew he would eventually. It was not a fair fight.

So I sit and I stay. I am not expectant. I am not waiting. I am just still.

Dog Walking and Periods.

I was twelve when I started menstruating. My relationship with my mother wasn't particularly good. We certainly weren't close enough for me to proudly announce the beginning of my periods and receive a warm welcome to womanhood with a hot water bottle and a hug. This new turn of events coincided with my parents divorce and my mother was pulling her hair out trying to make ends meet and so I didn't want to be bumping up the weekly shopping bill with tampons and sanitary pads. When the effort of rolling up wads of toilet paper and using those as make shift pads became too great I decided I needed to get my hands on the real deal. If I now had the body of an adult I had to behave like one. In order to fund the acquisition of Tampax I needed to find myself a job. When I was younger it was fairly easy to make a few pounds in pocket money. There was less fuss about health and safety and child labour back then. So when I strolled up to the newsagents window to take a look at the adverts I had the choice of becoming a dog-walker or undertaking a newspaper round. Thinking the less strenuous task would be to meander around with some old mutt for half an hour, I copied down the contact number into my homework diary and beetled home to make the call. When I rang the number an old man answered the phone and told me to come for an interview that afternoon to meet his dog. I thought I looked quite smart in my school uniform (I can tell you now that I did not look smart at all. I wore my scruffy, thread pulled school tie over a crumpled, biro stained shirt) and so I set off to meet my potential new employer. Mr Morris lived in a house three roads up from my street. As I sat in his front room the overpowering stench of wet, dirty dog was making it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. I understood his instructions were to pick up the dog every day after school and walk it for half an hour and in return I would get a pound per day to be paid in the form of a crisp five pound note on Fridays. I must have conveyed myself as competent as I was given the job and told to start on Monday. I was happy and as I waked down Mr Morris's garden path and out of the gate away from the dog smell I imagined the packets of shiny Bodyform which were now accessible. This month when I came on I wouldn't need the balled up toilet tissue in my drawers and I'd be able to walk normally at school without waddling like a cowboy.
After school on Monday I was punctual and arrived for my dog walking duties eager and on time. I knocked on Mr Morris's front door. The door opened and out shot a wrinkly hand with the dogs lead and the ancient spaniel, Gemini, attached at the end. Along with the dog being shoved out the door there came a rotund old lady encased in a mucky red coat. The door shut. I stood there a little bewildered. 'Hello', I said to the lady who was looking at me with big, brown watery eyes. 'My name is Joy', said Joy. 'Where are we going?', she asked. I told her I was there to walk the dog and she seemed pleased with this and we set off on the walk together each as confused as the other. The first fifteen minutes of the walk involved Joy repeatedly telling me that her Daddy was at work and he would be home soon so we should turn around and get back before she got a spanking. After I ruled out any sexual connotation in her suggestion due to the fact Joy must have been in her eighties and her father long since passed, I ascertained that Joy probably had Alzheimer's. This was confirmed in the last half of the walk when she started talking about what she had done at school that day and how she was looking forward to eating the dinner her mother had cooked whilst she was out with me. To class it as a walk would have been a falsehood. To be quite frank what with the ancient dog and older woman dragging along beside me we didn't manage to cover much ground. I returned the dog and Joy back to Mr Morris who opened the front door to let the pair in, and then promptly shut it in my face. With no explanation or enquiries as to how the first walk had gone, I wandered home slightly perplexed.
The next day the same thing happened. I was handed the dog and the lady and we all set off on a painfully slow shuffle. We spoke about how school was going for the both of us and we also had long silences where we plodded along each in our own muddled thoughts. So it continued in this way until Friday (pay day!). After the afternoon walk I knocked expectantly on the front door to return Joy and Gemini back to Mr Morris and receive my five pounds. The door opened and Joy was bustled in to the house with the dog. 'How was your first week?', asked Mr Morris suspiciously. I thought about telling him how on Wednesdays stroll Joy was wearing three pairs of huge knickers and they all fell down around her ankles whilst we waited for the green man to show at the traffic lights. I could have told him about Joy leaning on a small car park wall on Thursdays walk and how she refused to go any further until I had promised to buy her a bar of chocolate from the corner shop on the way back home. I also could have told him how she had cried because she didn't know where she was earlier and how I held her hand all the way back until she had forgotten what it was she was upset about. But I didn't. I could see the five pound note in the little old mans wrinkly hand and I badly wanted it in my pocket. So I told him I had enjoyed taking the dog out and as he handed over the money with a relieved look on his face I thanked him and told him I would see him on Monday. I stuffed the note into my coat (much like I had discreetly tucked Joys knickers into her big red coat pocket) and went home feeling quite pleased with myself. When my time of the month came around I was in absolute personal hygiene heaven. I discovered that real sanitary towels did not slip out at inappropriate times nor did they chaff or make sitting down uncomfortable.
Taking the dog and Joy out every day after school was hard work. Bearing in mind I was only twelve and had no qualifications in caring or nursing I think it was a big risk for Mr Morris to take. On reflection I wonder how desperate he must have been to give a child such huge responsibility. His life must have been tough but he truly loved Joy and this was evident in the efforts he took to keep her at home with him instead of taking an easier option. I could see why he loved her so much. On rare occasions during our walks she would look at me and give me a smile. A smile that reached her eyes and I could tell that the mental fog had lifted for a moment and she was happy. She was a good person.
I continued walking Joy and Gemini for a good few years until Joy gradually deteriorated so much she was sent to a nursing home. She didn't like living there and she died within three months of moving. Mr Morris passed away soon after his wife.
There is a bench by the river with a brass plaque which is dedicated to the couple. I often take my son in his pushchair and sit there whilst we feed the ducks. I took the job to help make growing up easier for myself at a time when my home life was unsettled. Not only did it help by allowing me to buy what I needed, it also taught me that not every couple split up and it is possible for people to stay together if they are resilient and loyal and, most of all, loved.

The revolting man in the lift.

I have pretty much told the story in the title however I shall expand a little as I have a few minutes to spare this evening.
I was in my Mecca that is Matalan feverishly searching for an autumnal gillet which wasn't constructed out of faux fur. (In case you're in the market for one too, there aren't any). Having searched the clothes rails for a good fifteen minutes I gave up and decided I would treat myself to a nice new throw instead. I had the baby who was in his pushchair with me so I headed for the lift as homeware is on the first floor. To my surprise the lift was actually working today so I pushed the button and waited for it to appear. Whilst waiting I became acutely aware of someone breathing deeply a little way behind me. I dared not look. I know it was stupid but I was a bit scared to turn around so was pleased when the lift doors opened and I hurried in and went to push the level one button. The heavy breather entered the lift. I turned his way and he looked me straight in the eye. For some reason I felt a shudder run through my whole body. The man was in his sixties, balding with a very red face. He was sporting a dirty grey mac and had ancient carrier bags that looked like they weighed a ton and contained God knows what. He had juicy, wet, fat lips that stayed apart as he breathed via his mouth. He must have recently enjoyed a croissant or perhaps a sausage roll as crumbs were evident on his chin. Now, the lift in Matalan isn't exactly spacious. It can hold probably two or three people maximum and that's if those people aren't too concerned about personal space. I felt very uncomfortable. I didn't really understand why he was using the lift. Apart from the cumbersome bags and the crumbs on the chin he seemed pretty able bodied to me. I went to press the lift button. So did he. I recoiled as our hands very nearly touched . For some reason he had pressed the open door button which meant that it was taking an absolute age to begin the ascent to homewares. All the time he was standing there, blocking the way out with his laboured breathing and scary stare. I gave him a very weak smile, and tentatively reached out to press the correct button. Bingo! I did it. Then immediately questioned why the hell I had because now I was stuck in the lift with him with no escape. I maintained eye contact with the man throughout the whole of the journey. I was aware of the keys I had in the hood of the pram which I thought I could blind him with if necessary. It was like being in close quarters with a venomous snake which could strike at any time. I could smell his stale body odour and the food on his breath. It was over powering. In the artificial light I could practically see the stink fumes rising from him. My heart was pounding. What if he had something truly awful in his bags for life? A knife. A taser. An Argos catalogue to batter my brains. PING!!! We had reached the first floor.  The doors opened. The strange man grunted which sent a fleck of spit from his lips in to the shared space in front of him. I stood there frozen to the spot. I didn't even make a move to get out. He carried on looking at me and for a split second I could tell he was considering saying something. He decided against it and he turned and walked out of the lift. I waited just a second or two, trying to compose myself and then I too walked out of the lift. I pushed the baby round the corner to look at the throws and as I did so, I noticed out of the corner of my eye the man from the lift. He was on the escalator going straight back downstairs.

I don't know if this guy had issues or I do in the form of extreme paranoia but I genuinely think I narrowly missed something really nasty today. If my angel was looking after me, then I would like to openly thank her for saving my skin. Again.

Sweet dreams everyone.

The hole.

In my back garden I have a tree. It is a beautiful weeping willow. Its trunk is covered in crinkly bark and its exposed roots creep out of the ground underneath the swaying, hanging branches. Quite often you can find one of my cats in the fork of the branches having a nap in the sun or spying on scurrying squirrels. My children like to sit on the large roots of the tree and play games together and have picnics. For me, the willow encapsulates their childhood. If I had any artistic ability whatsoever I would paint or draw a picture of my children with the tree so I could have the memory out on display and always with me.  What I would omit from the painting however would be the waist deep holes the little devils dig whenever my back is turned. On some days when the workers have been particularly productive with their pink seaside spades its like something out of  an Indiana Jones film when trying to get to the washing line. My children can spend hours and hours simply digging these huge, dangerous holes. In the summer holidays I must admit the fascination of creating all the cavities is an absolute God send as it keeps them occupied whilst I get on with housework. Ultimately its quite dangerous and I was thinking the other week that it really needs to stop. Then the neighbours children got involved. I looked out into the garden one day after school to do a quick head count and there were two extra little bodies standing round the largest hole with spades in hand and an eager look on their faces. They just couldn't wait to get cracking on making the creator even bigger. They got stuck in and the dirt was flying! Mounds and mounds of earth built up around them. It was very impressive. They had quite a good system in place. Two kiddies were in the hole beavering away and working up a sweat whilst the other two were distributing the extracted earth discreetly around the garden in the flower beds and, at one point, over the fence. For a group of under tens it was a magnificent example of team work. I left them to it. I went and did the washing up. I returned to the garden with a tray of juice and crisps for the industrious workforce. I set the tray down and admired their handiwork. The hole was quickly becoming a trench. You could quite easily have laid down in it safe in the knowledge you would never get hit from flying bullets overhead. The children guzzled the juice and sat around  the excavation crossed legged and munching up the crisps. I went back indoors and left them to their well earned break. Gradually the afternoon sloped away and dinner time came and I called my children to come in and wash their hands. They ate their meal (a nutritious feast of chicken nuggets and potato smiles) and also had a nice choc ice for dessert (eight for a £1. Bloody bargain). After a spot of telly I bathed them all and put them to bed. The day was over. The light was fading. I remembered the washing I had yet to drag in. I put on my shoes and went to grab the towels from off the line. You know what's coming next, don't you? Why, yes! I fell directly into the hole. The kids had covered the hole with leaves and sticks in true Goonies style and had made the innocent hole I had been admiring all afternoon into a deadly trap. Its been a long time since I have properly fallen over. You don't really fall over when you're in your thirties unless you're drunk or its snowing. Falling over is usually reserved for children and the elderly. It was a bit of a shock to the system. It was also a bit shameful that the neighbour who had snuck out for a crafty cigarette saw me tumble and was giggling behind her veil of smoke. My knees and my ego were both equally bruised.
I made the children fill in the hole. They didn't want to, but it had to be done. It took them twice as long to pad out the chasm because they had disposed of the earth so well. They improvised with pegs and bits of rubbish and what looked like a slat from one of their beds. So as well as a willow tree in the middle of the garden there now exists a miniature landfill. Both of which are as inspiring as the other. The tree is naturally awesome. The landfill a child-made wonder to behold.