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.
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.
This week my daughter had her school photograph taken. Let me tell you something that will make you doubt my skills as a parent: I have never bought one. Not one. Not a single shot. The reason? They are all hideous. No matter how early on in the day the photo is taken my daughter always looks like she has been dragged through a hedge backwards, and then left there for a week. I don't know how she does it. I remember one particularly awful year the sample photo came back and she had what looked like a glass eye. It was not a glass eye, obviously. I think the sheer effort of trying to follow the photographers instructions (judging by the manic, strained grin) caused her left eye to wander independently and her neck to elongate an extra 5 inches. I am assuming the people taking the snaps have so many small faces to capture that one little soul trying her hardest to look normal but coming off anything but is just part of the daily grind and not something to worry themselves about. However, I worry. I worry that I have never bought any of the damn photos at £30 a pop to produce when Daughter is older and wants to reminisce about her school days. So this week, I was determined to make the school photo purchasable. The night before the big day I washed and dried her hair and rubbed cream into her face for her dry skin. I ironed her clothes and sorted out lovely hair clips. I was determined this was the year of the School Photo. I had in mind to also get the matching keyrings and possibly a mug with my little darlings face emblazed upon the side. I am sadden to inform you that I went to bed quite excited about the prospect of a framed school photo sitting on the sideboard.
The next day I woke up. I stretched. I jumped out of bed. I pulled on my dressing gown. I went into the children's bedroom to wake the kids for their breakfast. And what did I spy? Sitting bolt upright in bed was my daughter. Her eyes were still shut. Wondering what on earth was going on, I said her name in a hushed whisper as I approached her bed cautiously. "I cant open my eyes, mum", she said. "Don't be ridiculous", I scolded. On further inspection, I could see she was in fact correct. She couldn't open her eyes because they were crusted over with gunk. Overnight she had contracted an infection in BOTH of her eyes. I hastily got a warm, wet flannel and wiped her eyes clear to reveal eyeballs that looked like they belonged to a rabbit in a L'Oreal lab. "Sorry, mum", said my daughter in a pitiful voice. I looked down at her. It was then that I realised she was missing a front tooth. "Where's your front tooth, love?" , I enquired casually. "Must have swallowed it", she shrugged. Great.
In a strange way I am looking forward to this years school photo. Whilst they are not perfect I have realised these pictures capture a true representation of school days in our household. Although, I shan't be buying a mug. I think the conjunctivitis would put me off my tea.
