At last

As I have been booted unceremoniously out of semi-retirement by Swearing Mother, I am here. I've just been to her blog and she sounds as though she's in a foul mood, so I daren't disobey.

However, the simple fact is I'm not sure I should be here.

I'm a few weeks into a new job (which is going great), non-relationship tripping along very nicely (best not to ask) and my computer is dying on its arse.

So I keep wondering, why am I here. Not in a sort of existentialist what am I on this planet for, but because I seem to have run out of things to say.

I've lost my funny.

And my misery.

All gone.

Just me left.

So I'm going to disappear for a bit.

Take care everyone, you've been fab.

Tina
xxx

Cold Truth

So, 2 weeks ago, it's my last day at work. I've been there almost 17 years, so it's really hard to leave everyone behind. That said, some of the people? Wish I'd left them years ago.

We all went out in the evening. Well, I'd been out at lunchtime too, so it promised to be a good night. And it was. Loads of people came out, some people I didn't expect to come out, which was fab, because the drinking thing, it's not for everyone. Specially, because when I do go out on a night like this, there's not really much of an opportunity for food, unless chips happen to fall in your mouth from a plague of raining chips as you walk from one pub to another. Which I've always sort of hoped for, but it's yet to happen.

One pub led to another. It always does. There were tears, not mine. There are always girls who cry for no reason. Why does that happen? Are we still in school? Good grief.

We ended up in an 80s bar, which is always kind of an end of night thing with us. You know, at the beginning of the night, it's the worst place that you could think of ending up, and you wouldn't be seen dead in it. Halfway through the evening, you start to think about where's a good place that you can all stay late, and some people can have a dance. Come half eleven, it's all "Oh God! Wham! I love this one!" and you're away. We danced me and him, messing around, having a laugh. We may have shared a quick kiss, no big deal, hardly anyone left that had started out with us, and nothing more than a peck anyway.

Fast forward, if you will, two weeks later. One of my friends from the old office leaving to start a new life in Dublin. I went to say goodbye to her. Same old faces, but already I felt like I didn't belong, that I've moved on, I have a different road to take now. He was there and someone commented to him that now his girlfriend had turned up. We were a couple, weren't we? We had, apparently, been the talk of the office in those two weeks, not that he knew anything about it of course. Men don't really enter into that sort of gossip (well, if they do, they don't often admit to it), and anyway I guess that people knew that he'd give them short shrift if they asked him anything about us.

I watched him when he was asked the question. He laughed and said no, we weren't a couple.

And that's the cold truth.

The Flip Side of Mothering

Or Why I Need a New Coat.

Is it just me? Or do you only realise when you're at the bus stop on the way to the childminder, that you haven't examined your offspring's face? I mean, don't get me wrong, you look at them all the time. But really examine? I mean, they know the routine, right? Make sure your face is clean before you leave the house. And clean your teeth. And at least wave something over your hair. So you don't need really to examine their faces, do you?

Of course you do.

Even for minor things, like sleepy eyes. (Although it is not unheard of for me to spot toothpaste, jam, chocolate or a combination of all 3 which dates back days). I have a real issue about those bits of sleep that get into the corner of your eyes. I prod at my own eyes with the fervour of an archaeologist and am amazed that this is one of the habits my son hasn't inherited. (Lord have mercy on him, he got my laugh. Which means that he will spend the rest of his life being recognised at a hundred yards every time someone says something even remotely amusing.)

So it's really only when I get to the bus stop that I have time to examine his eyes. And sadly he is past the age where he allows me to stick random digits in his eyes. (ah, those were the days). I am therefore left with the highly unsatisfactory resolution of pointing out that he has sleep in his eyes. When I first started doing this he would perform nicely, like a good boy. Lately, things have taken a sinister turn. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes, and then wiped his finger on my sleeve. I stared at him.

'What are you doing?'

'Wiping my finger.'

'What was on it?'

'Eyeball jelly.'

Eeeeeeewwwwwwww. I mean, just eeeeeewwwwwwww.

He has now stepped up the campaign of horror. Recently, I took the brave decision to point out the sleep in his eyes again. Then turned away to look for the bus, affecting nonchalance. The next thing I feel is his fingers.

Entwined lovingly in my hair.

I turn to stare at him.

'Have you just wiped sleep in my hair?'

He bursts out laughing at the look of disgust on my face, and chortles merrily.

'Of course I haven't, mummy.'

I breathe a sigh of relief, and turn back to look for the bus.

'I wiped it on your coat first.'

Why I Love Being a Mother - #1 in an Infinite Series

Mother's Day.

A Special Day. For Mothers. Because We Are Special.

It's good, isn't it?

It's one of the things that I like about being a mother. As my son is not with me permanently, there is inevitably a scuffle just before Mother's Day (or Mothering Sunday, as my own mum will insist), whilst said son tries to smuggle in random assorted gifts through the front door, under his dad's supervision.

'Mum, will you go & stand in the kitchen?'

I do. Strategically positioned, so that I can see the antics reflected in the kitchen window. There is rustling, whispering, a bit more rustling, and then thundering footsteps up the stairs. Son returns.

'You know the place where the shower switch is? Where the suitcases are?'

I do indeed. It is the place that I'm going to rent to a vertically & financially challenged person when I fall on hard times.

'Don't go in there'.

I wouldn't dream of it.

I was lucky enough to be woken with breakfast in bed. By a nine year old. This had taken quite a lot of preparation, on both our parts. I thought long & hard about it yesterday. Did I trust him with the toaster? Did I buggery. Could I trust him to get up the stairs with cereal, and more importantly, milk? No, I could not. So what then would be easily managed?

Pain au chocolat would, and stuff the diet. I gave brief instructions last night about how to use the microwave.

'Open the door. Put them in. On a plate. Close the door. Turn the timer thingy to in between 1 and 2 mins. Don't stand in front of it. (Old superstitions die hard) When the timer dings, take them out. Bring to lovely mummy.'

Child's play, you'd think.

I was greeted with his little smiling face, clutching a plate.

'Did you hear that bang?'

No. I did not hear a bang. I felt an earthquake in the week, but I did not hear a bang when my son was unsupervised in the kitchen. Dear God, the house is in ruins. I will need to call the fire brigade. I wonder if the cat has exploded too.

'I think it was when they got so hot that the cellophane exploded.'

Did I remember to tell him to take them out of the cellophane? Apparently not. I'm slightly perturbed that there wasn't molten plastic on them. At least none that I could taste.

Ah well.

Mother's Day. What's not to love?

Road to Nowhere

I keep being gone too long, I know I do. And I sometimes miss having the time to come here as often as I used to. Lots of you with site meters will find that I still come to see you, even if I don't always have time to leave a comment, and I do still love hearing about what you're all up to. But these days, I just seem so busy, and there's always somewhere else I need to be.

Like Thursday evening for instance. Some work do, where one of our clients took quite a lot of us out for a meal and a drink. They've been doing this for about 5 years now, and always just after Christmas, so we were a bit later this year. These events are now the stuff of office legend. One year someone got so drunk that they fell asleep in their own garden on their way home, and lost one of their contact lenses. (Not me, don't wear lenses). One year we went to a club, and someone threw up, incredibly violently, in the toilets. (Not me, I rarely throw up now from drink). One year, someone drank 5 sambuccas straight down, after lighting them, and then thought they'd gone blind. (OK, that one was me). If you have the stamina for them, they regularly go on until about 5 the next morning.

I do not have the stamina for that.

This year, we left at about half 12 (just 1 sambucca, but quite a lot of vodka & a little bit of wine), and as we sat in the taxi I thought a little bit about the fact that it would be the last one that I went to, because of my new job. Lots of things will come to an end now. And as Manic Mother was astute enough to point out, the new job means that I won't be working with him any more. Are we still doing what we're doing out of habit, because we're there? Is it just because we see each other nearly every day? Will this just become a Christmas and birthday card sort of friendship?

No one knows, not even me, although I don't think it will.

When we got to his house, he gave me my birthday present, which had been ordered and had taken a long while to get here. It was this.

I love this painting. I know there is much snobbery in the art world about Jack Vettriano, but I simply do not care. Is it wrong to like a painting because you can see what it is? Is it wrong to like something traditional, because it is not made out of earwax and toenail clippings?

It's called 'Road to Nowhere'. He chose it because he loved the painting, the fact that the couple looked so damn cool, and that even if it's a road to nowhere, you kind of want to go where they're going.

He also chose it because it's the title of one of his favourite songs (by Talking Heads, if you're not sure).

The lyrics make me smile.

'Well we know where we're goin'

But we don't know where we've been

And we know what we're knowin'

But we can't say what we've seen

And we're not little children

And we know what we want

And the future is certain

Give us time to work it out

We're on a road to nowhere

Come on inside

Takin' that ride to nowhere

We'll take that ride

I'm feelin' okay this mornin'

And you know,

We're on the road to paradise

Here we go, here we go.'

I like the idea of being on that road, even if it is going nowhere.

Working for Peanuts

Goodness. I have split the blogger community asunder. And I'm glad.

I like the fact that you'll be honest with me. Not for me the namby pamby 'Oh, but it's lovely. You're lovely. Have you lost weight?' I'd rather you tell me what you think. And so you do. With bells on. And that way I know you're reading it too. But just to give you all a little break from the controversy, I've decided to stick with 2 less controversial topics that I've also promised to write about (Crystal, I promise I'll come back to holiday). Today, pay attention, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to discuss weight and work.

You may remember that I've promised to shed 10% of my weight within 6 months. This campaign, within our office is affectionately entitled, 'Axe The Flab'. I may well yet have to resort to an axe. Lola, you've given me excellent advice on how best to do this, and I can see that I was clearly along the wrong lines with chopping off a leg. As you very kindly point out this is 18.5%, and therefore that is too much. A head is 7%, and therefore not enough (although it would help in the long term, as I would no longer have a mouth to put food in, and I'm not sure you can put weight on by cramming cake straight into your neck stump.) Also there is the dead related problem. Although I will await for Lola's properly scientific advice, I'm pretty much convinced at the moment, that if the worst comes to the worst, I can do without 1 arm, 1 foot, and a generous shaving off each buttock.

All is not going well at the moment with the weight loss. I was off to a flying start, and lost 2.5 pounds the 1st week. I felt like I had too. I commented that I felt like a waif. I felt like a bag of crisps or 12 would set me back on the right track. But I stuck to it and lost another pound the week after. Then, my birthday week, I put a pound on (goodness, doesn't pizza & vodka weigh heavy when it's in skin?), and I think this week I've stayed the same, although I was technically wearing lighter clothes, so may in fact have put weight on again. Tricky damn business. But at least I'm going in the right direction, and at least, technically and theoretically, I know how to lose weight.

A colleague of mine who's doing the same thing put 2 pounds on the 1st week, then lost 1, then put another 2 on. She's lost the will to live now, and can't remember if she's lost or gained this week, as she now has no idea how much she weighed in the 1st place. She was listening in to a convesration I was having with a friend when I explained how I'd been really good, eating chicken, fish, vegetables, lots of fruit (this was early on & I wasn't counting lemon in my vodka as fruit). She asked if I'd changed what I normally ate. I said of course I had. She looked at me in astonishment.

'God,' she said. 'I don't think I could do that.'

She appears to be under the mistaken apprehension that by signing up for the campaign, she has effectively guaranteed that she will lose weight. And cannot understand that if in 1 week, you have fish & chips (twice), pizza & chips, a family size lemon sponge cake, and 2 Danish pastries (with vanilla custardy stuff) per day, then you will not automatically lose weight. Beats me how she lost any weight in that second week.

It is only my competitive streak that keeps me going, and soon I'm going to lose that. Well, not lose it, but just not have access to it. Bacuse you see (cue drumroll & fanfare), I have a new job. I've signed on with an agency, been for an interview, been offered the job and handed my notice in. All in the space of 2 weeks. It has taken my breath away, and I'm fairly sure that when the adrenalin wears off I will be in shock. But for now, I'm very content, and delighted with the fact that I gave a figure for the salary I was looking for, and left myself enough room to negotiate, because I was at the top end of their salary band. I'm even more delighted with the fact that they clearly realised I was a catch & no mistake, and offered me more than I asked for. I'm even more delighted than that, that this equates to a salary increase of approximately 17%. (so my mathematically minded friends tell me). And to that person who told me that the grass isn't always greener? No you're right, it isn't. But the grass is dead on this side & I'll thank you to keep your miserable face & opinion to yourself. So there.

I had a bit of trouble with writing my resignation letter. I've not written one for years. In the end, I wrote a very pleasant one, thanking them for the opportunities they'd given me.

But I'm still quite fond of my first draft.

'Dear (insert name),
I would like to tender my resignation from the company forthwith. This is because I hate my job, and (insert other name) is really mean, and I hate her too. Also, I think you have the potential to be mean, and in fact a mini-me clone of (other name). I would rather eat my own feet than continue working here.'

And I would too.

But I'm trying to lose weight.

When is a Relationship not a Relationship?

First of all, I'd just like to say a massive thank you to readers new & old who left such lovely comments on my birthday post. I did feel quite brave coming out with a photo, and I promise it's never likely to be repeated! I had a great birthday, thanks all.

Secondly, as promised, there's some things I need to get back to, because I've not posted here as regularly as I would have liked. I've been busy with all sorts, but I'll try to get you up to speed.

Right. Where to start. Right. Erm. Well.

Crikey.

You'll remember that I walked away, right? And you'll remember also how that went, right? That despite my promises and oaths, I walked right back, about half a nano-second later? Right.

Well, after Christmas, we had a bit of a talk. Or at least I did. Because by now, I was so certain as to how things went, that despite his presence, I decided to hold both sides of the conversation. I am nothing if not helpful.

Me: I know what you're going to say. You're going to say that you never meant for any of this to happen. You don't regret it happening, but you don't want to hurt me. You would never do anything to hurt me, and that's why it can't happen again. But you're not sorry and you enjoyed it. But you don't want to hurt me. And you just don't see me in that way.

He at least had the grace to laugh.

But, in an extremely sly move, and most unexpectedly, he had changed the script (although he told me it was a damn good effort.) You see, I've been here before with him, and I said that unless we did something about it, then I didn't think I could rule it out that it might happen again.And he said that he didn't think he could, either.

Then he said he didn't want to rule it out.

Now readers, if you are paying attention, you will note that this is something unexpected (To me at least. But you are probably quicker on the uptake, and decidedly more realistic). You see, although he doesn't want to rule out the possibility of us spending the odd night together here and there, he doesn't want anything else. At least, not from me.

This is not where I expected my life to be. At some point, I was meant to have moonlight and roses, champagne and dancing. I think I maybe need to check my Amazon order again, because something has gone awry.

So I did the only sensible thing. I told him that I wasn't interested in half measures. That I deserved better than that. That I deserved someone who wanted all of me, as a person. And I told him to stop being so damn cheeky. Did he think I was some cheap bit of skirt?

Did I fuck.

I laughed, and told him OK, that we'd see how it goes. Then I giggled a lot, because frankly, this is so out of character from my usual self that it is like an alien invasion.

And it's going really well. I think I'm more surprised than anyone.

But when I was talking to Belle about it, she doesn't seem to get the crux of the matter. God bless her, she's had a lot on her mind of late, so I can understand her confusion. You see, WE ARE NOT DATING. At all. We are not in a relationship. But she's not getting it.

You might be able to settle this for us.

This is how it goes. We talk to each other, and then we suggest a time that we might like to go out. We work together, so it's usually after work. So we make an arrangement in advance. He asks me if I'd like to stay over, and if I would, then I take an overnight bag, which is infinitely easier than before when things just 'happened', and I had to borrow shower gel, shampoo, toothbrushes etc, and wear the same clothes to work 2 days running. Not a good look, if I'm honest.

Anyway.

Then we go out for a drink in town, have a laugh, like always, chat about rubbish, like always. Have a meal, then go back to his home town (far posher than mine, in a very nice part of Birmingham). Have a couple of drinks there. If we haven't had a meal in town, we'll pick up a takeaway, then go back & watch ER. Then, well. You don't need all the details.

He was disappointed, I think, that I couldn't stay over the night before my birthday, so I'd wake up with him. But I had other plans. On Monday, I had some exciting news, so we went for a drink after work. Then I stayed over in an impromptu fashion. On Thursday, we'd planned to go out for my birthday, which we did & it was lovely. Had a meal, went to the cinema, went back to his house (with my overnight bag this time). Friday, we went out for a drink with loads of people from work.

I had approximately 12 vodkas too many, on top of the 6 or so that were OK, and was feeling a little bit the worse for wear. He didn't ask me if I wanted to stay at his house.

He told me that I had to.

Because he was worried about me getting home by myself. It's a long way, for goodness sake, I'm a woman on my own, and IT'S NOT SAFE, YOU ARE STAYING. (I might have taken a swear word or 20 out).

When I have had a little drink, I've been known to let the feisty side of me come out. This was one of those occasions. I was really stroppy with him. Did he not trust me to get home? Did he think I was some pathetic woman? He'd let me go home like this before, what's changed? Did he think that now, especially now, that I wasn't so damn careful of the boundaries that we'd set up, that I was looking for him to rescue me?

And do you know what he did then? He agreed. But he still said it wasn't safe. But that he was just being protective. Maybe a bit over-protective, he said. When we got to his house, I sat on the sofa & sulked. Then I cried. Then I went to bed, to stop the room spinning. I don't think we spoke until the morning.

Surely to god, none of the above is how couples go on with each other? Where is the moonlight & roses? Where is the champagne? No candles?

Belle told me that it sounds very much like a relationship to her.

But then I played my trump card.

We're not going out with each other. Because he hasn't asked me out.

So there.