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.

School photo.

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.

My spam emails.

If my spammy emails were real, my life would be fan-bloody-tastic. Here are a few examples;

• Elaina Sexkitty - Hey RosieSlark you wanna video chat with me tonight? Hello Elaina. Yes, I would absolutely love to have a video chat with you. Since having the baby I have lost touch with the majority of my friends so it would be really fab to start making some new ones. Maybe we could go to see that new film that's out at the cinema? I will see if I can get a babysitter.
• McDonalds - Claim your $100 voucher now. That's marvellous and super handy as I am a seriously disastrous cook and my children's meal are a good 75% McDonalds based. Could you please convert the voucher into pound sterling for me? 
• MillionaireDate1 - A millionaire in your area wants to meet you. *blush* Does he really want to meet ME? Oh gosh! Wow! I have never been too bothered about how much money a man has when I've dated him before but if he really wants to meet me, then who am I to stand in his way?
• Natural Cannabis - Get your free kit while its still legal. I don't smoke the reefer, or anything else for that matter. I have been very stressed out recently though but the fact that its edging on not being legal and could quite possibly be banned very soon is off putting. Sorry.
• Free TV Tickets - Could you have missed Ant & Dec & Simon Cowell? I sincerely hope so.
• PaymentPlanLoans - Get 5k & pay back in instalments. I need £5,000 but I cant pay you back at the moment because I have bought the children personalised pyjamas from the catalogue and I am still trying to pay off that debt.
• Sveltlana - Wanna hook up later? Thanks but I'm meant to be going to the cinema with Elaina SexKitty. Maybe we can do next week? I'm free anytime apart from Tuesday when I have to take my son to football training. Let me know.
• Search Diabetes - Get rid of diabetes forever. You can eradicate diabetes? Oh my goodness! That's amazing! I don't personally suffer from diabetes but I know people who do and they will be over the freaking moon when I tell them theres a cure. Good work people.
• Age Test - You are not as old as you think. Really? Because with all the trouble and strife I've been through it feels like I've lived 100 lifetimes and each year has its own special furrow on my face.
• Clairvoyant Chris - Something important will happen to you soon. OK, Chris but is it something good or something bad? If its something that's good I'd like to have a heads up so I can look forward to it. If its bad I think I'd rather wait and let fate play itself out.

 

The fox in the cemetary.

I was exceptionally naughty last Monday. The children and I bunked off for the day and we went on the train to London. My son and daughter are avid Chelsea fans and I had always wanted to take them to the stadium for a tour. I had been feeling particularly miserable and as a result the children have suffered my moodiness so I wanted to counter balance this by making some good childhood memories. They were so excited when I told them the plan for the day. All the children were well behaved on our travels and waited patiently at Clapham for the train which would take us to West Brompton. We arrived at West Brompton station and used the delightfully defaced urine scented lift to get to street level. Opposite was a small Italian pizza restaurant and I popped my head around their door and asked for directions to Stamford Bridge. The young waitress said the easiest way was to take the route she used to get to and from work, which was straight through the cemetery and turn right. I thanked her and headed towards the huge entrance to the cemetery just up the road. Now, I really do not like cemeteries. The whole concept of them makes the hairs on neck stand up and kick starts my brain into thinking about whether or not I have adequate life insurance. Usually I avoid them at all costs. I even divert my eyes if ever driving past one as if the mere sight of a headstone would make the old grim reaper come tapping on my door sooner rather than later. However, the weather wasn't pleasant and rain was due so I put on a brave face for the children and we launched off down the path, the children wide eyed and with myself feeling slightly nervous. I scuttled with my head down as fast as I could without losing a child in the process. Any onlooker, be they of this earthly plane or from the spirit world, must have wondered if there was something medically wrong with me as my head was bent at such an odd angle to avoid direct eye contact with the various tombs and headstones. After what seemed like an age, we ventured out of the cemetery and I breathed a sigh of relief. I shook off the make believe cobwebs and with my gang headed right towards the stadium. The tour was fantastic. We went round the players changing rooms and the press room. We walked through the players tunnel and sat in the dug out. My son said it was the best day of his life. I was thrilled he had such a good time. Feeling giddy from doing something right for a change I took the children to the megastore and spent far too much money on new hoodies and goalie gloves and shin pads. The children had their photographs taken with the trophies. We walked round the Chelsea Football Club museum and we all had a rather underwhelming lunch at "Frankie's". The children were happy. I had overspent. I had spent the equivalent of two weeks worth of food shopping. We would be eating beans on toast for the rest of the month. It was about half past four and I decided it was time to return home. We gathered our bags and set off toward the cemetery gates. As we plodded along with me making mental calculations regarding the financial state of ruin I was now in, I had forgotten all about my phobia of the graves. As we walked along the path I absentmindedly started looking at the crooked crosses and weather beaten angels standing guard. And it was beautiful! I put down the shopping bags and we started to look about the place. The big black crows with their sharp beaks stared right back at us, but I didn't feel uneasy. The hard fonts on the large tombs gave names of family members, when they were born and the date of their demise. It was fascinating to think that the angels standing watch at the graves for over a hundred years had held their posts for so long and were still able to tell the world the details of the people who had lived their lives and then died. There was one particular plaque, I unfortunately forgot the names involved, which proclaimed there lay a husband and his devoted wife. They both had died some time in the 1800's. Few things nowadays stand the test of time. Here were two people who had lived as a couple and were now over a hundred years later still being recognised as a devoted partnership. It was incredibly moving.
The children and I had spent a good half an hour looking around the graveyard but it had started to rain and we needed to get home. We picked up our bags and set off again. We had only been walking a few minutes when out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of colour among the ancient headstones. I turned and looking straight back at me was an enormous fox. It was twice the size of a standard one. It wasn't the usual scruffy urban fox either.This fox had the most extraordinary fur that was the colour of fire. The creature was a flame against the black and grey graveyard backdrop. The fox was confident and must have known that it stood ethereal because they was a slight air of arrogance about it. The children couldn't believe their eyes. Yes, we have foxes that come into the garden at home but unfortunately they all have varying degrees of mange and the children have renamed them "fox-rats" due their furless, rodent like tails. The garden looks like a scene from Lord Of The Rings when the fox-rats are on the prowl. We stood and watched the fox for about five minutes. I must admit, I got a bit bored of him as he just stood there staring back with attitude in his black shiny eyes. I had to resume the long trudge home so saluted the fox (who I'm sure shrugged his beautiful glossy shoulders and stuck his nose even further in the air) and dragged the children out of the cemetery and onto the train home.
The talk on the train was about the fox. The discussion over dinner was about the fox. The buzz at bath time and bedtime was about the fox. The hundred of pounds spent at the football stadium and the effort of trekking up to London (on a school day!) was totally forgotten about. With the children tucked up in bed, presumably dreaming about the bloody fox, I sat on the sofa and looked over at the bags of clothes and toys and memorabilia I had purchased which were now sitting discarded in the corner of the living room. I had been upstaged spectacularly. In retrospect, I guess it was a childhood memory made, as usual a slightly odd one but a memory nevertheless.

Out of the mouth of babes.

"You need a new boyfriend, Mum", declares my six year old daughter as we are driving along one day this week. The very thought sends shivers down my spine. I would quite happily take a very long leisurely soak in a bath of battery acid then go through another relationship breakdown. I have resigned myself to the fact that I shall grow old and die lonely, bitter and resentful. However, not wishing to pass the beacon of life failures on to the second generation I entertain my daughters preposterous idea. "Maybe, but I don't really go anywhere to meet any potential boyfriends, darling", I say smiling. "We could make leaflets and hand them out in town", says the little face in the passengers seat. "What would the leaflets say?", I ask cautiously. "They would say, Do you want to marry a beautiful lady? Please call this number if you do" she says. My heart melts a bit. Thinking this is the cutest thing that has been said to me for a long time I ask her if she really does think I am beautiful. Her answer went like this; "That's the trick you see, Mum. When you are handing out the leaflets you are wearing a mask. Nobody can see you! You would get lots of boyfriends phoning you up asking to marry you". Deflated, I enquire a tad more about the mask she recommends I should wear. Apparently its a mask with a beautiful lady's face printed on it. Great. For some reason my grip on the steering wheel tightens and I can feel my eyes starting to leak a bit. I reach out and into the glovebox to retrieve my sunglasses and put them on. Luckily for oncoming drivers these dark specs cover 75 percent of my repulsive boat race. A silence descends on the car. Both my daughter and I are thinking about the Boyfriend Plan. One more favourably than the other. I am thinking further along in the operation. If I do lure a man with this gorgeous mask and fabulous marketing material, what would happen when I meet up with him and eventually take the mask off? I tell my six year old the gaping flaw in her plan and instantly wish I hadn't. She seems upset she hasn't thought the plan through well enough. "Oh well, Mum" she says shrugging, abandoning all hopes of a boyfriend now that I have to reveal myself Scooby-doo style thus shattering the beautiful lady disguise. "Maybe you should get another cat instead?".

The Pet Rescuer.

When I was a little girl I had a penchant for rescuing animals that appeared to need my help. Be it feathered or furred when I was on the scene any creature was in safe hands. Much to my mothers disgust I would frequently hide injured baby birds in the airing cupboard and flea ridden, half squashed hedgehogs in boxes in the shed. When I happened upon the cruellest pet shop in the United Kingdom I was over the moon at the all the animal rescuing opportunities that lay before me. Now this was in a time when it was fine to pack as many rabbits as physically possible in to one cage. No one really cared about animal welfare back then. Placing five small kittens in a shop window directly in the sun with nothing but a half full, dirty bowl of water to quench their thirst whilst they baked was a perfectly acceptable practise. The pet shop was run by a middle aged, balding man who wore holey, patterned jumpers whatever the weather. He would stand behind the counter on which sat huge, smelly dried out pigs ears and other assorted dog chews. The shop was crammed to the rafters with domestic animals. Cages of budgies and finches where stacked one on top of the other. Tanks smeared with green algae brimmed with goldfish. Terrapins sat atop tiny plastic rocks and extended their necks to bite anyone who dared to stroke their softening shells with a curious finger. The animals I homed in on and who looked like they needed my help the most where the hamsters. I would spend a long time staring through the glass and watching them poke their twitchy noses out of their plastic houses and into the air to assess if it was safe to come out for a nibble. The cages weren't particularly clean. In all honesty they could have done with a good scrub but whatever state they were in it was better than what I could offer them. Did this deter me? No it jolly didn't! I was going to smuggle those hamsters into my bedroom if it was the last thing I was ever going to do. Being only ten years old I didn't think past the initial part of the rescue plan. I didn't have the funds to purchase a cage. I certainly didn't have any permission whatsoever from my mother to introduce a pet into the family. This was a highly covert, ill thought out operation. I could envisage no problem occurring. I just needed to remove the hamsters from the nasty, baldy shop keepers care and make the world a better place.
One day after school I decided to start the undercover mission. I strode boldly up to the pigs ears and asked the man how one could obtain a hamster. He eyed me suspiciously. "You want a hamster, do you?", he sneered. His teeth were stained yellow and brown much like the jumper he was sporting that day. He informed me that if I wanted to buy one of his hamsters I would need a letter from either of my parents. I was surprised at this stringent rule. I was sure it was just going to be a case of handing over the three pounds and being on my way. I only had my mother at home since my father had run off the year before with his secretary (or the "Hod-Carrier" as my mother used to call her) so my chances of getting a legitimate note were already halved. I assured the man there would be no problem and I would return the next day with the paperwork. After school the following day I was true to my word and handed him the note he had requested. The letter was written in pencil and on Rainbow Brite note paper. I would imagine it contained a fair few spelling mistakes and the signature at the bottom which read "Mrs Slark" was capitalised throughout. Rubbing his fat stomach with one hand and holding the note in the other, he read the letter. He looked at me with his squinty, piggy eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Ok. Whatever", he said. "Which one do you want?" Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather! He had been fooled! I felt elated and nervous all at once. I walked with a nonchalant air over to the tiny cages of hamsters. I chose a little orange hamster that had the most faeces piled up in his sparsely strewed sawdust. Aftercare wasn't given. Neither were enquires made into whether or not I had adequate housing for the small creature. The most customer service I received was a quick brushing off of the droppings that had matted on to the tufts of fur on the hamsters back legs, and a small cardboard box with handles and holes in which to transport the rodent to its fate. "Three quid.", said the piggy eyed jumper. I thrust the coins into his dirty hands and walked as quick as I could out of the shop. 
My heart was beating like a drum on that short walk home. Once I was in my bedroom I sat down on the floor and placed the box in front of me. There was scratching coming from inside. It was then that the enormity of what I had achieved hit me and I started to worry. I needed to quickly think of a place to keep the hamster. I crept down to the kitchen and ferreted through the cupboard. I grabbed one of the biggest mixing bowls I could find, an apple and some kitchen paper. I went upstairs and shredded the paper into the bottom of the bowl and placed the apple on top. I then tipped the hamster in. I wouldn't say he/she was pleased in the new home. There was nowhere for the poor thing to hide so it just sat there looking at me as if to say, "OK. What now?". I stared back and with troubled eyes which replied, "I don't know". I am sorry to report that is was then that I got a bit bored. Art attack was about to come on the telly and I could smell the beginnings of dinner wafting up the stairs. I pushed the bowl under my bed and went downstairs. 
By bedtime I had completely forgotten about what I had scurrying about amongst the mess in my bedroom. It was only when I heard the scratching as I was about to drift off to sleep that I remembered what I had done. I pulled the bowl out and there was the hamster. It seemed fine and had even munched a small amount of the apple. I fell asleep thinking what a wonderful animal lover I was and how I was going to cherish that hamster for years to come. The next morning I woke up from the most marvellous dream. I dreamt I had a whole house full of hamsters which I had bred and sold and had made me my fortune. I leapt over to the trusty Rainbow Brite stationary and began another permission note as I had before. After school I delivered the letter to the couldn't-care-less petshop owner and once again I was on my way home with another tiny ball of fluff. This time I improvised with a saucepan and fed both of my new little friends half a carrot each. And so I continued in this way until the end of the week. On Thursday and Friday I had bought two hamsters each day with the money I had borrowed from the pound jar in the front room so by Friday evening I had seven hamsters. I had used jugs and vases and pots to house them all under my bed. Although my bedroom had developed the faint smell of animal urine my rescue mission had gone completely undetected by my mother. It had been a complete success. I had saved the hamsters from the terrible pig in the woolly knit and I was well on my way to becoming a rich and famous hamster breeder. On Saturday morning I shunned the usual over excited kids television shows to start my hamster empire. I had a vague knowledge of how babies where made that being you needed a mummy and a daddy. The problem was I didn't know which of my hamsters were male or female. I solved this by grouping all of the hamsters into the largest saucepan and hoping for the best. I worried they might form a rodent ladder so I placed a book over the top of the pan to stop any from escaping. I thought it rude to hang about so I skipped off down the stairs to grab my breakfast and catch up with the telly.
It was lunchtime when I decided to check on the hamster party. I reached in under the bed taking note there were no scratching noises coming from the pan. I put this down to exhaustion and settled down cross-legged on the bedroom floor. I lifted the Care Bear annual from off the pan. I peered inside. Dear God! I let out an ear piercing scream. You would have heard me ten doors down. Inside the pan it looked like someone had replaced my gang of hamsters with a large handful of chicken giblets. Unfortunately, this was not what had happened. On further inspection I could see fur and hamster body parts all submerged in dark red blood. When I had encased the critters in their Tefal tomb they must have been sent into a frenzied panic and had starting eating one another. I was horrified. I started to gag and I vomited just as my mother entered the room. "Sweet baby Jesus!", exclaimed my mother when she saw the hamster hell which had now been sprayed with my sick. I don't know what happened next. I think I fainted. I remember for weeks after being called a strange girl and receiving odd looks from various family members when they came to visit.

The End.

(I would like to add that I am very, very sorry about what happened. I became a vegetarian after the horrific incident and still to this day I shun all red meat and only eat chicken if I am slightly drunk or extremely hungry and there is nothing else on the menu).