No words...

Last weekend, I heard some painful and deeply saddening news. 

A young man who’d attended school with and become a good friend of my eldest had taken his own life.

This boy was such a sweet natured child, I recall him coming to the house as a teen. Always polite, with a shy smile. Just a nice kid! I’m ashamed to admit his presence didn’t make as much of an impact as the gobby, cocky and downright arrogant buggers who also used to semi-squat in our house when T was an adolescent.

My poor boy, devastated, shocked and also feeling guilty for the times he wasn't there for his friend. 

This tragic young man’s story is one of emotional neglect, drug abuse, psychosis triggered by drugs and deep, deep desperation. As the story developed, I heard this was his third attempt at taking his life, he was determined not to be here anymore.

The same group of friends, who’ve been together since they were about 12, are all about 25 years old now. Trying to make their own way in life, having (mostly) turned their backs on the recreational drugs and the high they all thought was liberation when teenagers. Yet this poor boy turned more and more towards that release. His friends at first trying to help him, encouraging him in a clean life, trying their best to support him but becoming desperate and angry when he continuously returned to this destructive pattern. Finally, not always being available when he wanted to “hang out” because they knew what it would lead to, they just couldn’t do it anymore. That’s where the guilt comes in. Going even deeper are the stories of verbal abuse by his career driven, single mother. In the hazy recollection of their parties some tell of abusive and destructive insults thrown at the child by his mother. He was a disappointment; he was the worst mistake in her life…so many cruel and irreversible blows. Who knows if their memories are accurate, we all know how teens are able to justify and remodel statements made in anger but also in innocence. I’ve screamed them myself, when hopelessly confronted with the train wreck that was my 16 year old, unable to comprehend what was happening and having no idea how to help him. Yet just to hear some of these insults supposedly brought by the young boy’s mother, broke my heart for the child that never grew up. As for the kids’ recollection, if they think this happened, to them it did happen and being party to that (false memory or not) must be so painful and damaging. I pray that anything I said in anger hasn’t left an emotional scar. My boy’s on the right track now, so are his friends or at least that’s what I assumed until I heard this awful news.

What I do know for sure, is that his mother must be feeling an unimaginable pain and I feel so sad for her. Whether or not she was the distant, cold parent the kids remember, she has to live with that for the rest of her life, a position I never want to experience. 

How can you explain the reasoning behind suicide, when you can’t grasp it yourself? T said one of his friends became angry when another said that at least the boy was now at peace and no more tormented by a life he could no longer tolerate. I said the same thing, it’s the truth but possibly only a truth you can accept when having reached a certain age and experienced the loss a suicide leaves in your life, unfortunately more than once. A psych nurse once told me that interview research with ‘saved” suicides, stated it was also an act of punishment, that it was a means to make the people they felt were abandoning or hurting them, pay. Some people stated it was indeed, a cry for help and hoped they would be saved in time. This boy’s final act ensured that he could not be saved, again.

Whatever the reason, it’s the final act of a distraught mind that knows no respite from its demons. The only way to stop the pain.

Go with God, young man. I hope you have found peace.

"Death may be the greatest of all human blessings". ~Socrates

The Return of a Lost Rambler.

Hello there, it’s been quite a while hasn’t it?

So much has changed since I last blogged. Almost three years, goodness me it doesn’t seem like it.

I feel quite overwhelmed trying to condense the happenings of the last few years into a few sentences. So much so, that I've been sitting here staring at a blank page for about three days. Well, not constantly you understand. I have had the odd cup of coffee.

So, where to begin?  The biggest and happiest change in our lives is (..cue fanfare..) Rhys Williams. First grandchild, apple of our eye and bundle of boundless energy.  Rhys is now two and a half and already has the vocabulary of a child much older. He isn’t afraid to tell you off and is madly in love with his Grandad. This is no exaggeration either; just ask the poor toddler at the goat farm who dared to look at Pat and smile. Rhys was having none of that as he protectively stepped in front of Pat, gabbling the toddler version of “back off girly” and as menacingly as a two year old can, told her “My Grandad”.  From the moment he could focus, he’d be scouring the room for his hero. These days, equipped with these newly developed physical and verbal tools, he’s not afraid to push you out of the way and forbid any contact with “My Grandad”. Except when he’s tired or under the weather, then Nainy gets a go with the cuddles. Our blonde haired, blue eyed, cherubic  tornado.

A few of my last blogs were somewhat cathartic. Helping me to vent some of the desperation I felt when realising the place I’d happily worked for over a decade had become a snake-pit and all the scaly, hissing bitches were aimed at me.  Eventually it became impossible to circumnavigate the venom and I had to go. I did however retain a venomous type of my own, who ensured my exit was cushioned with wads of comfort and damned smug I felt about it too. I heart lawyers.

It’s been about 3 years since I set foot in that place or seen any of the women I fondly called “the coven”. I wish I could say I missed it. Well, I could say I missed it but I’d be a big fat liar. Funnily enough those qualifications being the requirements to join said coven, as well as the ability to wield a false smile…oh, and be really ugly…really, really ugly. Okay that was unfair; the one that looked like a horse was a fine, handsome mare! Quite often I bump in ex colleagues, or people I met via this place. These occasional meetings all have one strong thing in common: the negative experiences and destructive stories. It used to be a vibrant, pleasant place to work but it seems it’s now quite the opposite.  In the meantime, it appears that the coven and various other amoebas are being picked off one by one. Fired, forced to take early retirement or frozen out. Karma is indeed, the gift that keeps on giving.

''The name of the slough was Despond.'' – A Pilgrim’s Progress. John Bunyan.

 I’m currently working for a new company that does innovative, experimental and downright scary things in the field of life science. To say I love it wouldn’t be truthful but it pays three times as much as the old place and I do love that.

Then there's me and the Mr.
Luckily, we’re still married.  Hubs has been a huge support during all the histrionic and unexpected wendings. Although he says he’s listened to everything I’ve moaned and dramatized over.  I’m still a bit suspicious that the reason he’s stayed so calm and stoic is more to do with his ability to switch my voice off in his head, watch mental re-runs of “Match of the Day” and pretend he’s paying attention.

Hubs turned 50 last summer.  So not only am I sleeping with a Grandad, I’m sleeping with a 50 year old.  It's my turn to be  mercilessly teased soon, I just hope they don’t find my stash of sanatogen and sterident before I can use age an excuse.

I'm independent again. Gary moved out but it seems like he’s home more since he re-located than he was when he lived here. He’s following a degree in Event Management. This of course means he can justify all the partying as research.  Based on the amount of time he spends partying, he seems to be a great student. I look forward to high marks and an honours degree. If he keeps partying with such fervour, possibly even an early graduation. Proud isn’t the word.

I still have some of the loveliest friends ever.   Thanks for all your encouragement and support in everything.

“Go where you are celebrated – not tolerated. If they can’t see the real value of you, it’s time for a new start.” – Unknown

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow...

In Flanders fields where Poppies blow….It’s not the season for poppies at the moment but we did see a few planted blooms. On Graves. Miles and miles of white marble, all standing to attention in correct and rigid columns.

Pat and I have visited military remembrance sites before, yet I have never felt the devastating sadness which overwhelmed me in Ypres, in Flanders. We stood on a hill in the glorious afternoon sunshine. Admiring the green meadows, well tended fields, quirky Belgian farmhouses and from every angle we spied commonwealth burial grounds. Green dotted with white, jolting the traditional farming community with the regimented conformity of a military graveyard. It looked so beautiful and felt so desperately heartbreaking. 

Our first visit was to the “Essex Farm” memorial, where John Macrae wrote the now infamous “In Flanders’Fields”. Such a beautiful place, well they’re all beautiful, now.

John Macrae’s dug out, the medic post where he attempted to give succour to the wounded and make the last moments of the terminally injured, bearable, is now just a concrete bunker. Inside the bunkers people had placed wreaths and poppies. Leaning in rows, the poppy red a sharp bloodstain against the dank and dark interior. Outside above the entrances to the structure, the shockingly violent spatter of bullet holes still visible and a bizarre contrast to the now decades peaceful site. 

Pat had decided to place a poppy on the first RWF grave he found, as a mark of respect to his regiment’s fallen. Watching him from the corner of my trembling eye, I saw him stop at a grave, bend down, place the poppy and say a small word.

Walking in between the ranks of soldiers, silently apologizing for treading on their graves. Boys as young as 18 lay alongside their mates and between them, lay much older comrades, as though they were being watched over and cared for by "older blokes". My throat became tight and I felt the serious threat of much more tears behind my already wet eyes. Feeling a little embarrassed by my once again, brittle emotion I looked up to find Pat.

He was brushing gravestones free of leaves and dust. Talking to himself and busily cleaning up, curiously I walked closer to hear “Come on now Jones 60, your grave’s a disgrace, clean it up man”..and similar sentiments as he brushed up from grave to grave. Pat had found rows and rows of Royal Welchmen and in his own special way, was paying his respects to his comrades.

I do so love this man!

We drove by some of the sites, the overwhelming emotion too great to visit each one. There are so many it’s too, too difficult to take it in. The scale of loss of lives and the sheer enormity of the frontline is surreal, especially when we’ve never experienced war. It weighs heavily on your heart.

We carried on to Hill62.

Hill62 is now a museum. A former farm slap in the middle of the Frontline. The farmer’s son decided not to restore his farmlands and keep the damaged land as a piece of history. To show people how it was and that it should not happen again.

They rely on donations and entrance fees for the survival of the site.

He also has a herd of really stinky cats…but we won’t go there, yet!

Cases of (for want of a better word) memorabilia. Artifacts found on the destroyed site include helmets, cap badges, mortar shells, backpacks, guns, uniforms...a tremendous amount of war-detritus and personal items left abandoned by poor soldiers who gave their lives at that bleak place. Again, walking into the open-air part of this museum, the contrast between the surrounding fields and the ravaged land of Hill62, is incomprehensible. Rusty corrugated iron lines flooded, rathole trenches, vast and deep mortar holes pepper the ground.

Nearly a hundred years on and these scars of war are still clearly visible. Wear and tear and  nature’s progression have only made a slight impact on the man-made destruction. I can’t begin to imagine how it must have been, how deeply the mortar bombing penetrated the earth and the unavoidable fate of those caught in its path.
So this was Hill62, sixty two?  The same scene would have stretched for miles and miles. How many hills were there? How long must it have taken to nurture the land back to the fertile fields and valleys that is now the norm in Ypres. So many visitors stop here to pay their respects, we even met a group of English schoolchildren on a school history trip to learn about the consequences of this monumental war. Fancifully I imagined that some may even have been great grandchildren of the men who lay under the soil.

As we passed through the last cemetery, the wind whipped up and the trees began to whisper. I whimsically wondered if that was laughter I heard on the breeze.

Does the spirit of Tommy Atkins lounge under the Oak Tree planted in his memory and laughingly, shake his head at the hordes of people placing flowers at his grave.

Does he casually stroll along, having a bit of a flirt with the pretty young girls who stop and say thankyou for his sacrifice?

I like to think he does.

"We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
         In Flanders fields."

John Macrae. 

Jobs and Jogs and Barking Dogs.

"Expect the unexpected", who said that? The original author being the Greek, Heraclitus in 1500 BC. Then it seems, blatantly nicked by the incorrigible Oscar Wilde in 1895.

I’ve never really followed this rule; it’s far too vague a sentiment for my sometimes latent, yet often flagrant control freak. I thrive on the regular and regimented. Most of you are aware of my ongoing struggle to find a new job, to finally free myself of this snakepit of inefficiency, backstabbiness and excuses and well, just leave, really. I was beginning to despair. Having tweaked and dumbed down my cv, given it a modern new format and even added a picture (perhaps not the best of decisions) ..I was still not getting any significant bites.  Sending off a slew of “open” applications to English speaking companies here in Leiden. Still reacting to vacancies on the online sites, receiving replies like “We’ve filled the vacancy internally” left me flabbergasted and demoralised. Why on earth advertise then?

Slowly becoming resigned to disappointment, imagine my surprise last Thursday to receive a phone call about a job possibility. Especially one I’d applied for 2 months ago. I’d already written this off, with much regret because I really wanted this job and my qualifications and experience seemed designed for their criteria. It was my day off, deciding on a bit of a pamper, I’d just put dye in my ever greying hair. Amidst the shock and surprise, I nearly forgot to rinse it off. Possibly not the interview look I’d be going for. 40+ year old Goths might not fit their expectations.

I’m thrilled, whoo hooo - I have an interview soon.

Already mentally wording my resignation letter, I hope I get it. Please keep everything crossed and if you’re passing a church…well, it can’t do any harm can it ??

Weight watchers is going quite well, I think. I’ve dropped a whopping 4 kilos in six weeks. That’s about 9 pounds. Maybe not the kilo a week target I’d set myself but if it means I can still enjoy a glass of wine in the weekend..well, who cares. Anyway, it’s dead hard . Although, the lack of crisps is still the absolute worst. I’m craving baked and salty goodness akin to an addiction. When will this poison leave my system, when will I be able to walk past the crisps aisle without drooling and wailing…when?…*sigh* listeing to other people’s difficulties helps. Some of them are just desperate…*snigger*. Mind you, I’ve started to notice a behavioral pattern amongst the longer standing members of WW. Some of them can be a bit mean to newcomers. Especially if you’re not a ginormous newcomer (<--- requisite bitchy comment there). I find myself quite surprised by how some members behave; I had thought there’d be solidarity amongst us dieters. Well, looking at the bigger picture (no pun intended) there’s a sort of group mentality amongst some members that shuts out the rest of us. You’d think it’d be the younger members who behave so childishly, but no, there are a couple of sexagenarians in there too and a few very flirty 30 and forty somethings, which is just a bit wrong..you know? Last night our coach was sick, her replacement was a lovely young woman in her 30’s who had herself lost a shedload of weight. She passed around the photos of her former self and told everyone how she’d done it..twice! Within minutes the murmurs started and the atmosphere became charged with challenge. Something this clique seems to have in common is a defeatist attitude and a lot of them proudly stage whispered that it wasn't that easy and they needed to lose loads more than she had. One by one they started bombarding her with questions like “why is salmon more points than white fish”…”Why is avocado more points than a carrot”….all this from people who’ve been going to WW longer than I’ve had grey hairs (read: ages). Really people, really? This might go some way to explaining why you’re not actually losing weight, you fatheads …hehe…um, sorry.  She laughingly dismissed my query that crisps actually being of potato origin should mean I can eat as many under the “free points” veggies rule.

 I was blydi serious too!!

Cheek!

Anyway, once again I digress.. this pint sized and feisty young lady had obviously dealt with fatties of a much higher bitch caliber than this lot. She effectively parried every witless comment, in the manner of a primary school teacher taking control of an unruly class. Breaking off her intro monologue to sternly stare at the two older ladies obliviously chatting away, until blushing, they stopped. Following this she loudly clicked her fingers at the student branche of the group, who seemed to be in their own private meeting. When a younger chap in the group boastingly stated he’d learned to drink Bacardi neat, to avoid coca cola points, she told him this was WW not AA.

I think I might love her!

I have however, decided it’s not coming off fast enough and it’s time to up the tempo. Yeah, I’m stupid like that. So I’ve started to jog and do some sit-ups in the mornings. Just about 10-15 minutes a day but hopefully if I do it every day I’ll see a result soon. Yesterday I kind of overdid it, I’m not bragging at all…no really, purely because it only happened while I was running away from an unruly dog. It was rampaging in the park and decided I was breakfast. Well, that was my interpretation of the barking and drooling, so I ran and ran as fast as I can…and almost gave myself a stroke in the process. This morning’s run went better, mostly because I avoided the park. Of course, the teenage critic sitting on the couch eating his breakie had a comment about the length of my run. It went something like “eh, you back already?” accompanied by smirking and “yeah yeahs” as I attempted to explain my methods. Apparently, according to Gareth, I should jog for 30 minutes every morning, even if it means getting up 30 minutes earlier “easy peasy, Mam”.

This from the child I’m considering testing for narcolepsy.

Ah well, onwards, upwards and hopefully straight into my bikini by July.

“I have to exercise in the morning

before my brain figures out what I'm doing.”

-Marsha Doble

Weight, Wine and A Bit Of A Whine

I’m such a big baby.

I was recently told that if my body didn’t start to behave, an operation was necessary. More detail?

**Lady Problem Alert..Men – look away now.**

I suffer from a condition that affects my uterus and at certain times of the month, it can get very uncomfortable. This operation is supposed to alleviate the discomfort. Basically, they send in a probe…* pending nausea warning* ….and it radiates a kind of heat which will then “burn” away the lining of my womb. Having had all sorts of medication to help this problem, it seems, bar a complete hysterectomy, this is my last chance. I’ve been putting it off for as long as possible due to an unreasonable and hysterical fear of going under the knife and just “going under” really. The plus points are: I can have it done with an epidural and there is not actual cutting up of human flesh involved. A lot of women who have had this procedure report only good things afterwards. I really must bite the bullet and make the appointment. 

Soon. 

Maybe.

-- Safe Zone --

The last lot of meds – you know the ones which my Doc assured me would help enormously and which didn’t! – caused me to gain quite a lot of weight around my waist area. 10 kilos in total.  I waited for it to go of its own accord. It didn’t. Finally, my jellybelly became too much to bear and I decided to do something about this. Well, by joining weightwatchers of course. Oh how the men in my life have laughed. The weekly shop has become a mirth filled excursion, peppered with catcalls of “you can eat dust” related comments. They seem to be under the impression that our weekly meetings are on the same scale as the Little Britain "Fat Busters" sketches and Pat has adapted the Marjorie Dawes persona. The bugger!

The only thing I just can’t give up, is the wine on Friday nights. I deserve that wine after living with the real life cast of the aforementioned comedy show. I did however, give up the crisps. Doritos Begone! God, it’s hard. I love a crisp or 60 with a glass of wine. I’m a bit of a crisp connoisseur you see, from doritos to Lays to Balsamic vinegar “light” (who are they trying to kid) crisps. Having decided that the root of my spare tyre lies in the evil of the salted snack, I changed my weekend nibbles to veg with yoghurt dip. Very low cal and very wholesome. Very blydi boring too. So last week I managed to actually drink a couple of glasses of white, without any snackage at all.  The first weigh-in was great, Rockyesque I stood on the scales, raising my fist in victory (well in my imagination I was) as Natalie (the coach) announced 1.5 kilo down. How great was that for a beginner. The second week I think I must have believed my own press and didn’t quite keep to the regime. No crisps but I did succumb to a veggie pita from the Greek up the road – lots of lovely feta and salty dolmakia, followed by more white and some crackers. Perhaps I should have realized that I had weightwatchers the next day and curbed my appetites somewhat…a lot…more. Off I went feeling oddly full, possibly the result of the pasta I caved to at lunch, and stepped on the scales. 300 grammes….”not as much today, Sharon”. 

*Deflated Gasp*

How could this happen? There must be some mistake?..Nooooo! Apparently salty foods retain fluid in your body and cause heaviness. Frankly, I blame the Greek for not informing his customers of the danger.

The thing is, I’m kind of competitive and can’t quite accept the fact that 60 yr old Florrie, who eats shedloads more than me and doesn’t exercise at all, lost more weight. Okay, she doesn’t drink anything stronger than water and tea, but really…This is war. Weight War and I will be victorious.

In your face sexagenarian! I really should stop with the “In your face” shouldn’t I :)

Tell you what though, that’s just the way I am.

Tell you what again though, I’m desperate for a bowl of nachos.

“Our character is what we do when we think no one is looking"
H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Crashed, crushed and just plain crazy Ice.

A winter’s Friday saw Pat, Gary and me pile into the car for a weekend in the Limburger town of Valkenburg. Tony was already there. Along with about 5 of his friends in their late teens and early twenties they’d all qualified for the Red Bull Crashed Ice, World Championships. Ice hockey players from all over the globe had withstood a number of qualifying heats to participate in this internationally infamous event. Luckily they’re all padded up in their hockey armour and helmets. Sounds easy enough though,  doesn’t it? Until of course, one gets a glimpse of the “piste”. A man made downhill slalom course. The start line was at 150 foot high, the first part of this being a horrendously steep hill, with wave like bumps at the bottom, then a very sharp curve to the right, an uphill u-turn, more waves and on it went for what seemed like miles until the last few meters when a nasty looking obstacle called ‘the teeth” saw the end of this ice-covered danger.

 At least that’s what I saw. Tony and his team mates saw the challenge of a lifetime and prepared themselves thoroughly, by partying all night and every night of the event.

Tony and His buddy, Tommy were knocked out in the first qualifier but his other pals were through to the second heats. We all waited by the side barriers of this impressive structure, the freezing and damp  air penetrating our clothes and assailing our tear ducts as the atmosphere gradually increased to a frenzy of excited gasps. The first 4 contestants were in place. Craning our necks we strained to see if “our” boys were in the first group. Slowly the news filtered through. they had been allocated heats 21 and 52. Good grief, how many heats were there and how long did we have to stand here in this invisible ice-bath. Suddenly a collective and excited whooping began as gates opened and the first of these ice-hockeyers flew past in a flash of colour and a spray of ice. They fell, the stumbled, they landed on their knees and jumped straight back up. they somersaulted, they slammed against the boards and then they all got up again. Amazing! We waited with trepidation for Jordy, Sander and Erwin, T’s mates to pass. Barely glimpsing them, as they too whizzed down this slope, sometimes stumbling and falling but determined to make it to the end. Jordy and Erwin qualified for the following day. Hot Damn and huge grins all round –  as realization that two of our own Leiden Lions were though to the final, sank in. They’re both about 19, slight of build, dwarfed by giant athletes of international status but wow, did they make an impact.

Excitement over, we popped back to the athletes village and crashed for a while in the boys’ cabin. Passing the cabin windows, a steady stream of athletes made their way back to their digs for the same. Our company looking outside, were flabbergasted by the amount of limping and sling bedecked young men who passed by. One lad had lost his helmet on his way down. He was thrilled that we had a film of it happening. In fact it seemed to be his cherry on the icing on the cake! Bless him.

Saturday and a definite buzz in the air. Tony and his friends had been partying the night before and had very kindly taken Gareth with them. It’s great to see these kids interact. They’re all varying ages and absolutely different characters yet it all works somehow. A team indeed. Gareth opted to spend the day with his peers, so Pat and I took a stroll in the busy little town centre. Very few shops and an awful lot of bars – Heaven’s above, it was Holyhead with a Dutch accent!

And then, it was evening.

We didn’t see Erwin before the event but we saw his Mum, Ellie. She was probably more nervous than her son and the pride was palpable.

The boys had organized tickets for the VIP area for all us parents. Unlimited red-bull products and lots of snackage provided the base for distraction from the pending two hour interval.

We waited for May, Jordy’s mum, who had stayed with her young athlete, providing support and calming his nerves and when she arrived we delved into the free buffet. It’s a good life being the parent of an athlete, indeed it is. May and the boys had made a banner for Jordy, it looked great and stood out wonderfully against the crowd. Unfortunately some over-zealous jobsworth made them take it down because it was distracting. Obviously having no knowledge of the focus required to make it up, down and over that course. Perhaps he assumed the banner would cause Jordy to take notice, stop dead and want his photo taken on the downward turn as his competition flew by? <-- sarcasm alert.

I’m no hero and it got too cold for me, not to mention the very tall people all around impeding my view, I went inside and took full advantage of the wide screen, ginormous tv’s showing the race from start to finish.

Boy did those kids do well. Erwin and Jordy still teenagers and flying the flag for Holland. The crowd went wild as the compere announced their names – this Welsh Mam had a bit of a yell too. Both boys did very well but unfortunately didn’t get into the finals. The finishing athletes were all of the Russian, Canadian, Polish and Czech nationality and all a lot older and more experienced than our young Dutchmen. Everyone realized what a massive achievement they had made and you know what, they all want to go back next year.

I’m always so proud of my boys and Tony is such a warrior to get as far as he did. I’m also so very proud of "our” boys – Jordy and Sander Boulnouar, Tommy van Beek, Erwin Knoester and all the wonderful, brave young men who faced the overwhelming challenge of Crashed Ice, completed the course and left there with a smile on their faces.

After the after party, of course. And the After, after party. And the After, after, after party.

Long Live Adrenalin.

“The reward of a thing well done is to have done it.” 
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Locked out, Loved up and Living it large.

Wow, the last time I blogged was November. How can this be? There isn’t even a feasible excuse for this tardiness, bar character and the winter blues.

In the meantime we’ve had Christmas, 2011, my 46^th birthday and an ever frustrating job search.

Where on earth do I begin?  The current addiction to facebook might be a start. I seem to be on this site constantly, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing – the day starts with a browse of my profile page. The excitement of possible comments on your status and a barely contained competitive streak whilst repeatedly playing Tetris, or Zuma, quite frankly, make me a tad embarrassed.
I’m a woman in her 40’s with a house to clean, a teenager to control and a job to hold down, yet can easily while away an hour doing absolutely nothing except cursing my opponent and inappropriately gloating when a win is announced.  “In your face” and “Ha – beat that” have been heard to echo from the cubby hole we call a pc room.

Not that I’d ever admit this, of course.

Christmas was pleasant. That’s it really.  Gifts were exchanged and too much food eaten. A skirmish broke out over the quality street. A heated discussion about whether or not the youngest was responsible for the depleting levels of Baileys and Amaretto, was laid to rest with beers all round.

New Year’s Eve. Having successfully lied to and hidden from the boring neighbours who’d suddenly decided they were coming to our house for the evening, we settled down to an evening of decadent tv watching and wine drinking. Of course the kids had other ideas and taking pity on their aged ‘rents decided to pop in and out all evening
. …sigh…
After midnight we took a stroll to watch the city erupt in a passing imitation of Beirut and Hell. All mixed up in one explosive, sulphurous cloud. Of course I assumed that my (by now) very drunk husband had keys on him or had locked the door. He hadn’t, on both counts. 

Gary had though. Bless his conscientious little heart.

We arrived home in the freezing drizzle to a locked house and no means of breaking in. Naturally, that’s a good thing but not at 1.30am on New Year’s Morn when the world and his Auntie are celebrating. Luckily the car wasn’t locked – Pat again? I refused to move  from the passenger seat. Because of course, it was all his fault and  left him to wander alone in the search for a friendly, relatively sober and awake neighbor with a phone.  He finally called Tony who, partying just around the corner, was still functioning to some degree of normalcy. Laughing heartily, T turned up with our friend the housekey, let us in and lectured me about not being too harsh on his Drinky Aul’ Daddy. Cute isn’t he !

My 46^th birthday…..46?  Nuff said aye.  Although I did have a small party with some wonderful people who spoiled me, helped me through this traumatic event by drinking and laughing the night away and shamed me into shrugging off my hormonally imbalanced sulks. 

Why am I unable to find another job?   I wish I knew. The applications, whereas not exactly fast and furious are steady and true.

 Unfortunately, without success. 

After a recent meeting with an employment agency, my cv was fine-tuned and modernized. Having nicked the super-dooper template of son nr1, added a photo and removed a lot of detail, I felt very good about the job application that seemed made for me.  My new, prospective employers didn’t agree and I never made the cut.

Although, I’m on the hold pile.The hold pile?

For the first time in my life, I phoned to ask if they’d received my application and what the status of the position was?

 Now, I was miffed to hear the bad news but her reaction to my accent puzzled me slightly. Or lack of accent. I should explain that having lived in Holland for 20 odd years, I speak very good Dutch. Accentless – if that’s even a word – fluent enunciation by a person with a decidedly British name and nationality seemed not to compute and Ms. Vlek asked me to repeat my name, twice.  This might clarify why I’ve been rejected so often lately. A lot of ex-pats, whilst bragging about speaking “fluent” Dutch, actually sound dreadful and are difficult to follow. I suppose everyone can say they speak a foreign language, yet it needs to be proven to be believed. I intend to phone after submitting my CV in future. 

Ha - in your face selection committee. 

This morning however, my world took on the warm glow of Valentine Surprise. Pat’s had to go to Paris for work and although we don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day to the expected hyped degree (He says he loves me all year round and prefers to show it for more than one day … Awww) we are usually together. When, feeling slightly dejected I went to my bicycle bags this morning and found a lovely heart shaped box of chocolates, I felt all girly and happy again. He has a box of red velvet cupcakes, made with love and buttercream to brighten the advent of the gloomy “Peripherique”.

Gosh, what a lot of reading I’ve given you. I haven’t even mentioned the "Red Bull Crashed Ice" World Championships or my pending operation.

Probably,  because I’m trying to ignore the pending operation.

Watch this space.  Although, not too closely – I’m notorious for being a fair-weather blogger and it is only February after all.

"Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony". ~ Mahatma Gandhi. 

Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony. ~ Mahatma Gandhi