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

Beautiful Blessings and My Big Boys.

Gosh, I have to get used to this regular blogging. I keep forgetting to document the insanity that follows my every step. I know, I’m a bit dramatic but we’ve already discussed that.

I’ll start this new blog by telling you about my kids. I have two sons, aged 22 and 17. One intellectual and one realist.
Both gorgeous, both bright and empathic, both ADHD.
Our eldest son is currently studying for his Bachelors in Commerce. Literally one of the people gifted with the gab, he could sell sand to the Arabs and make it seem like he’d done them a favor.
For three years he was in a relationship with a very pretty and extraordinarily gifted manipulator.
All of a sudden out of the blue, she finished it.
The boy was devastated. His Dad and I were thrilled and had the hardest time not showing it. Having observed how this girl functioned within her little web of manipulation, I suspected that more was to come. This “dumping” was an exercise in control as opposed to a genuine intent on being single. Bingo, before two weeks had passed she was texting him with all sorts of minutiae, culminating in confessions of fooling around with another guy. Of course he reacted badly and called her a rather unacceptable name. Bless his heart, he then texted back and said sorry.
Now, I’m a bit too direct for some people’s tastes and this emotional interlude in my child’s life was one of the times when I had to bite my tongue, sit on my hands and any other relevant cliché. What to do, when your 22 year old so depressed that you can hear the loud snap as his heart breaks? You give him to his Dad.

“Son, she’s your ex. She’ll be doing more than kissing. You know what though, that means so will you”

Click, click went the wheels of hormones.

“Oh Yeah. There’s a new contingent of freshmen girls in our Student Org too.”

A few more words of borderline sexist wisdom from Pat and our lad was all set for a Friday night of womanizing. Amazing. Wonderful. Um….a tad disturbing 

Currently we’re 6 weeks further and you know what, my boy’s back.
That carefree, happy young man, who enjoyed every new experience and made friends so easily, was just hiding. Only temporarily cowed by criticism and the judgmental, closed opinions of his ex. I’m so relieved and so happy to see this re-emergence and look forward with curiosity at the choices he makes from here on.

Next we’ll approach the human conundrum that is my 17yr old. He’s a beautiful boy. It lifts your heart to look at those bright blue eyes ringed with dark and long lashes. A gorgeous, wicked smile and a dry mischievous sense of humor. Constantly involved in some scrape or another, he always gets caught. Possessing certain cockiness, he will literally strut into a room and heads always turn to look at him. Yet contrary to this outer display of nonchalance, he has trouble with shyness. I must admit he does a sterling job of hiding it but sometimes, he’ll say or do something that makes it obvious. These are the moments I realize that for all the bravado and “whatever” moments, he’s still an uncertain, 6 foot tall, little boy.

Having gained his scooter license at the age of 16, the current choice of after school job is delivering take-away food for local restaurants. We’re fond of telling people that G is on a culinary tour of Leiden because he’s worked for so many different “countries”. At the moment he’s flavor of the month (pardon the pun) at a popular Greek take-away in the city centre. Before this he worked for a Chinese restaurant and whereas he sometimes found it tedious, he didn’t really complain. One rainy night, having left an hour or so previously, he came home battered, bruised and bleeding.

“I’ve had a bit of an accident”

Immediately morphing into overprotective parent mode, I patched him up whilst giving him the consecutive third degree. The moped he’d been sent out on should have been fixed the previous week. The boss, ensuring him that it was now roadworthy sent him on a delivery. Driving along a narrow street (bear in mind it’s peeing down) he spots a woman step onto a zebra crossing. He brakes…..He screams “get out of the way, my brakes have failed” as he careers forward. Trying to avoid her, he veers to the left and of course, skids dramatically onto the wet road. Luckily the woman was fine, apart from an achy arm. My boy was cut up and shocked. The police removed the moped for inspection. It’s been returned, deemed a danger and provided the Chinese Rest with a few hundred euro fine. Our boy may also be fined for the accident because by Dutch law, once he stepped onto the moped he became responsible for it. Beggar’s belief doesn’t it!
His Boss at the time told him to take some time off and call when he was going back. “Err, you’re not going back darling” …”Fair enough, Mam”. The easy capitulation was enough indication that he was scared to venture out on their ramshackle bikes again. The following (voluntary) kiss and hug proves that sometimes, even big boys are grateful for bossy Welsh Mams.

As I mentioned earlier, both our boys have ADHD. From an early age they’ve faced criticism from different sources. Some primary school teachers have even gone as far as public humiliation. Can you imagine how difficult and damaging it must be for such small kids, who already know they’re different, to be ridiculed in front of their peers? When I hear about kids with this condition being unmanageable, I’m not surprised. I am however, often saddened.
As a result of some obvious and some obscure goings on in their lives, our lads set some stressful challenges for us to meet. Eventually, we discovered that the only way to deal with these trials was to keep the lines of communication open…. and oil them with a good dose of humor.

Now, we sit back and reap the benefits. The challenges are still there, they’re just different and more obvious. Our boys have wonderful communication skills and are such empathic young men; I often feel my heart will burst with delight and pride. In hindsight, this condition has been a curse but without it maybe they wouldn’t be the people they are today.
They still have to deal with ADHD and the accompanying stigma, but they do just that – They Deal With It.

You know what? It’s made me a better person too.

Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant.
- Horace

Wrexham - reunions, raves and reverie.

I’ve just been to Wrexham. Where? It’s a city in Wales which was home to the army regiment The Royal Welch Fusiliers. A few years ago and to the disgust of many ex-comrades, the regiment was amalgamated with another welsh regiment to become to Royal Welsh. For the last few decades, every September without fail, Wrexham hosts the largest military reunion in Europe. Ex Royal Welchmen of all ages don their regimental ties and proudly set off to participate in the many activities provided by the Comrades Association for their amusement.

As well as getting banjaxed on the unavoidable wave of beer.

Why was I there? Well, you all remember my husband Pat? He actually had a life before me and when he was a tender teen, set off for a military career and joined the Royal Welch. Pat had a wonderful 7 years in this regiment and during his time ”in” made some of the best friends ever. It’s an experience indeed to be a spectator to this camaraderie. Men who haven’t seen each other for many, many years, greet each other heartily amidst the banter and friendly insults. Some have changed beyond recognition, some have slightly aged but are easily identifiable as the young lads they were. It’s a special time, a time that keeps you laughing until the tears of hilarity flow unrestrained but also instills an innate respect for these men. They’ve lost colleagues as the years pass, some have been through personal trauma and are currently experiencing some harsh and sad realities, yet they support each other. They hold each other up and even though they’re not on any muddy and bloody battlefield, they’re in the middle of life’s combat zone and it’s easy to see how much they value the presence of their “mates”, even if only for a short time. To know that kind of friendship and trust is a gift a lot of us will never experience. To see it manifest in this comical yet significant force, is a gift to the layman.

Having set off for the A company reunion, Pat and I got no further than the door of the local hotel before he was beset with greetings and catcalls. Mostly, relating to his still naturally brown hair color. The grey’s there though, it’s just not as easy to spot. Pat’s also still quite trim and I will never tell if he spends weeks at the gym or enhances his locks with anything artificial…so stop asking…or buy me copious amounts of booze. I’m ashamed to say I kept getting everyone’s name mixed up. So many people who still identify each other by their military numbers and nickames – well that’s easy for them to do but for the civvy, who incidentally feels a bit daft referring to someone as “43” or “47” ..or even calling a 40 something man “Shagger”, takes some practice. Finally the ladies present (yes, I am included in that) opted to use christian names. Wouldn’t it be great if I could have actually got their names right. Sorry “lads”.

The one name I will never forget and believe me, I was determined to find him; my wonderful friend Richard Donovan. I met “the Hon Don” many years ago when we were members of the original Royal Welch forum and used to enjoy meeting up with many others in the chat rooms. These days the chatrooms aren’t as popular, but my mate Hon Don is still one of the (new) forum stalwarts. We were at the pub aptly named after the regiment and I was just about to demand Pat take me to the memorial hall so that I could find RBD, when…he walked around the corner. Talk about perfect timing. Having informed Pat that I’d “pulled”, Don and I had a quick catch-up. For me, seeing him again was the icing on the reunion cake…or the froth on the reunion pint? Arrderchog.

Far too quickly it was suddenly Sunday. Having set a cell phone alarm for an uncivilized 08.30 am, I proceeded to kick and drag a still slightly drunk Pat out of bed. Making coffee and getting the bacon on for a hangover curing breakfast, I was horrified to look at the wall clock and discover it was actually 07.30 am. Ooops, which silly Sharon hadn’t changed her phone to British time? Pat never said a word, just turned around and crawled straight back into bed.
The lack of wordage felt a tad surreal, although my consequent giggling didn’t seem as funny to him as it did to me.

Eventually, we set off for the memorial hall and the preparation for the march into Wrexham town, ending in a memorial service at St. Giles’ church.

I must admit to having a lump in my throat at the sight of so many ex comrades and veterans, suited, booted and proud in their flash and hackle. Bryn Davies was the first person we saw as we approached the hall. Bryn was in the band with and is a great friend of Pat’s dad. He actually used to babysit Patrick... all those moons ago. Always turned out meticulously, Bryn looked fabulous in his military regalia and Pat, as always was thrilled to see his “old mate” looking so well. Slowly but surely, the company grew and finally they fell in, facing the war memorial.

This has to be one of the most moving sights for a “civvy”. Old men, young men and middle aged men, standing side by side as they paid their respects to the fallen. Marching to the church, age and infirmity forgotten, they lifted their chins, squared their shoulders and stepped out.

The church service over, they fell in once more. This time marching back to the memorial hall, for well earned relaxation, catching up time and the yearned for “pint”.

It will probably be a few years before I go to Wrexham again but I hold these memories dear. Even now, eager for the next time I can be a spectator to one of the most impressive displays of camaraderie a layman can experience.

Coughing into the Caucasus

Well Hello Blog, it's been a while.

I seem to have bypassed August somehow. Not surprising though, August was a rough and busy month. It started with a bout of the common cold which eventually developed into sinusitis and lost me three weeks of life, sanity and breathing without effort. Then, after all the congestion and heavy breathing, I rediscovered the wondrous and addictive attraction of nose spray.
Oh Dear!
A few years ago I was prone to frequent bouts of sinus infections and eventually caved to the relief provided by said nose spray. After a few months of prolific use, I had to admit that yes, I was addicted. I knew it. I would look at my reflection and speak the words out loud and yet, was unable to stop sticking that little tube up my nose and inhaling the chemical mix that eased my beleaguered breath. I’m ashamed to admit that it went on for months, possibly more than a year. Finally I felt able to stand up to the evil that lives in the tiny bottle, and stop. It was quite easy to be honest. After that I swore I would never become its victim again. I convinced my mind; unfortunately my body follows its own path in life. Aaah, dreaded nose spray, I may have become your temporary victim once again but I assure you, it’s not for long.
I hope.
August also gifted us with a lovely family holiday. Packing up our sunscreen, swimsuits (nose spray) and flip-flops, we jetted off to Turkey for lovely, relaxing week in the blazing sun. This was our fourth time in Turkey; we always go “All-in”, mostly due to the fact that we’re a lazy lot and usually hang around the pool enjoying the 30 plus heat and refreshments. This time we chose Kusadasi, in the shade of the Turkish mountains. Much fun was had by all and we made friends with two young Dutch girls staying in our hotel. Unfortunately, these two stunningly attractive girls appeared to be a magnet for unwanted attention from the waiting staff. One day, the girls asked our advice with a dilemma. A man claiming to be reception staff had phoned their room, he proceeded to insist that the girls accompany him and a friend to the local night clubs that evening. Full of shock they declined, he continued to insist; eventually they hung up on him. Advice? Well, that’s a no-brainer isn’t it? Call the manager and inform her that her staff are pestering her guests and infringing their privacy.
Enter Manageress. Those of you with kids will know the series “Rug Rats” or for the Dutch amongst us “Ratjetoe”. I kid you not, this woman was the image of Tommy Pickles' Mama, complete with bright red curly hair and thick rimmed specs. Having got over the initial shock of being confronted with a real life cartoon character, we helped the girls explain in English what had happened. Initially shocked, the manageress seemed disinclined to believe the girls’ story and explained that her receptionist was recently married and she found it difficult to believe he would do this. “Well somebody did” …. Eventually she agreed to look into it and get back to us. By this time I was pretending to be the girls Aunt as a means to protect them fro unwanted attention and interfere to my hearts content within the sensation eruption. An hour or so later, she returned and said nobody on her staff had admitted to calling the room. Erm....No kidding, Sherlock? She did however tell us to contact her should anything untoward happen again.
Guess what, it did!
During lunch one day (and after numerous catcalls in Turkish with accompanying wolf whistles by the pool) the girls were presented with a napkin by a waiter. Written on this, in a bad mix of English, Dutch and German was a request for a date….surprise surprise!
They refused. The waiter(s) kept insisting and aggressively trying to persuade them. Eventually, the girls just walked away. We’d been for a morning out and when we got back they asked for our help to speak with Mrs.Pickles. Pat said he’d rather speak to the boys himself and warn them off but the girls felt they’d feel safer and happier reporting it. Which they did. That evening, during dinner they pointed out the offending waiter, who was then fired on the spot.
Ooops.
Mrs. Manageress informed us she’s run her hotel with a rod of iron and this behavior would not be tolerated by her staff. Yes dear, this would be the same “staff” who denied all knowledge when you first confronted them, would it? Is someone’s nose out of joint here perchance? Whereas I felt the punishment a tad harsh to fit the crime, there was nothing to be done apart from get on with our sunshiney retreat.
The girls joined us for a game of “who am I” one evening. You know the one where a post-it is stuck on your head and you try to guess who’s on it. All was going quite well, apart from Gareth’s repeated protestations about the “stupid game” and the constant interruptions as we all popped to the bar for (much needed) alcoholic refills…then someone picked “Nelson Mandela” - the girls were a tad confused. Who’s that then?…I know the name but...
Realizing that Nelson was a bit beyond them, Pat chose Barack Obama. Repeating…"Who’s that then?" and both looking a tad blank. I kid you not, they really were, Gary explained in his permanently disdainful tone “Are you serous, the President of America?” …”Oooh, I know”, one of them yelled excitedly “It’s George Bush” …big grin...silence...a little less confidently “Isn’t it?”.
Game Over!
Later on, after the girls had made their fragrant way back to their (now safe from unwanted attentions) room, we asked Gareth whether he was as still enamored of these blonde beauties as he'd first seemed. Again with the disdain, coupled with some bemusement “ Yeah Right” shake of gelled quiff ”Barack Obama, seriously?“
On a mischief roll I said “Yes, but they are lovely girls”
“Fair enough” shrugs Gar “but dead thick outweighs beauty you know, Mam”

Gotta love Gareth’s “Holyhead” turn of phrase, as well as his wonderfully deep insight. I was very proud of Gar that evening.

Next blog – “Wrexham – the Reunion Report”

Too much work, and no vacation,
Deserves at least a small libation.
So hail! my friends, and raise your glasses,
Work's the curse of the drinking classes.
~Oscar Wilde

Strap yourself in, we're going on a Summer Adventure.

"I don't suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it" - Edgar Allan Poe

I have a great life and I love the things that happen, although sometimes I do wonder if I was born with an invisible idiot magnet. I'm just one of those people that "things happen to" ...and revel in life's quirky gifts. 

Sultry summer evenings, chilled wine of any shade, year or bouquet, the occasional post bbq cigarette and hours of befuddled chattage. Don't you just adore those nights? Pat and I have had some of our deepest, nonsensical conversation under the influence of sun and zinfandel. As you may have read previously, I've been under some strain at work due to the poisonous influence of certain colleagues. ( Hey, it's my blog - I can be as martyrish as I like ) Of course one of our highly cerebral discussions eventually turned to one of these people and her behaviour. "She's an absolute enigma" I commented. Quick as a flash, Pat returned with "No darling, she's an absolute enema" ...you see why I love him.

We've had some remarkable moments in our summer garden. For instance, when decided to light the terracotta garden stove for the first time one summer. We didn't realise that our youngest son, Gareth, had been using it as a bin, depositing anything and everything he'd used to clean his motor scooter. Chuck a few logs in, add some lighter fuel for good measure.....and stand back... aghast, whilst the resulting pyre whooshed with concentrated petrol and oil strength to melt a massive black hole in the plastic roofing of the carport. Combine the thick, intense flame with the black smoke from the melted roof and we had a blaze to rival any Viking funeral. We don't do things by halves you know. Even arson. 

Leiden is a beautiful city; it's also full of life in the summer. The cafes open up their boat terraces and crowds of international locals enjoy the multi cultural atmosphere whilst sipping a beer on the waterside. The odd exuberant student will partake in a refreshing dip in one of the many canals, laughing nonchalantly in the face of a resulting visit to ER for a seasonal stomach pumping. July is Leiden's "Lakenfeest" celebrations. The wonderful boat parade "peurbakkentocht" opens the annual 4 day party. As far as I can gather, the celebrations traditionally honour the merchants season here in Holland, when the linen merchants, fishermen and other tradesmen made their ceremonial entrance via the waterways of our lovely city. These days it's a 4 day drinkfest - but  I'm not complaining, especially when the sun shines. This year we joined the crowds to watch the "Miss Transvestite of the year" awards. Lots of raddled, over made up and inappropriately dressed girls in figure hugging ensembles.
Thank heavens the Drag Queens are more tasteful.
What fun we had, inhibitions to the wind as we belted out and bopped to “The Supremes” (Tribute act …I think). Yelled encouragement at beauties with names like “Lady Charisma” and “ Deena Diamond” (bearing a close resemblance to the aforementioned colleague,  Deena is much more girly). There was even a streaker, actually it might have been the student who dived in the canal, already showing symptoms of neural poisoning. The mad fool. Funnily enough, the Trannies were very, very irate at this unexpected flashing of the flaccid flesh and “Christine Carrington” (Host-ess) proceeded to give him a damn good telling off, He stood there drooping with shame and glowing with canal radiation, although it was a 37degree sunny day so in fairness that might have been sunburn – hehe.
Finally making our unsteady way home we decided to take a short cut through a narrow passage next to an old turret called the “Burcht” . Happily weaving my way, I noticed that an old lady leaning against a wall wasn’t actually a nasty old drunk but was having some trouble breathing. Of course I helped…well, I say helped…
It was dusk, a dark alley, my only protection my merry husband and my handbag. Not being famous for my caution, I took the old girl by the arms and helped her to form a breathing pattern. She had an inhaler and while I calmed her down she took a couple of slugs of steroid. All in all it did the trick. Then from nowhere, out of the gloaming loomed a huge, midnight blue midi dressed, platform soled, black Morticia Adamsesque bewigged figure with blue lips and a determined, murderous expression.
Aaarggghh (gasped Pat)
Gulp (I gulped)
It/he/she then leaned over me as cowering, I bravely tried to protect the old dear in my care. “Mama” he/she said “what’s wrong?”
Aha, however much my senses were dulled by the copious amounts of beer, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was her son/daughter/hermaphrodite progeny. I’m nobody’s fool. Having established that Mama was okay and all she needed was a slow walk and some foetid canal breeze, we all walked amicably on together, with the promise of a drink to say thanks for the help should we ever meet again.

To be honest, I’m not sure I’d recognize them.

Sneakers and Screechers and a little bit of sun.

Ah what weather we've been enjoying here in the Netherlands. We had two days of sun you know. That's right two whole days of blissful and hectic garden preparing, greek salad buying, barbeque cleaning and slapping on factor 20 activity. All this jubilant, swimsuited celebration as we prepared for the sweet promise of summer. Then it rained again. And again...

Today, I appear to have woken up inside "Hurricane Swamp Monster", lush, wet, mushy and cold. Although, to be fair it does look lovely and green everywhere. Even if the flowers in my pots aren't blooming yet, I live in hope that whenever the the next two days of sunny abandon are gifted to us, they'll overcome their fear of the typhoonesque conditions and show me their booty.
Or I'll just chop them down.

Admirably, a lot of the population seem to be baring their all and donning tiny little sundresses, spaghetti tops and shorts. Sometimes you can't even spot the goose pimples. Last Saturday for example, my men and I had been on a shoppage expedition to Amsterdam, Giant G being in need of new shoes, jeans and a few more t-shirts with catchy slogans like "The Devil Made me do it", to flaunt in the face of the teachers who have no concept of ADHD. That, however is another issue that I won't even start upon for fear of droning...but....although....NO.
Huhum..Sorry, where was I?
Ah yes, Amsterdam, Dam Square and a tropical 10 degrees, slight drizzle and lots of fractious tourists. Having spent a wonderfully entertaining 20 minutes in some super "sick" sports shop, where impressively trendy, earpiece equipped and betattoed sales assistants fitted G for exorbitantly priced sneakers, we paid and ran.
Making our escape, we headed onto Dam square, where a large crowd, some music and the odd beach ball floating high over the spectators, titillated our collective anticipation gene.
“Ooooh, what’s going on here then?”
Gareth’s height has its advantages over his Dad’s and my welsh stature, he peered over peoples heads. As his normally “unimpressed by anything” teenage expression took on a gleam of hedonistic excitement, I elbowed my way through to the front.
Girls in bikinis.
Lots of them.
A lingerie chain had recreated a beach scene complete with sand, deckchairs and pretty little, well endowed young ladies throwing inflatables into the suddenly energized audience. I had two thoughts. Poor things, it’s so cold and what was that tied to the beach ball? Could it be, yes it was, a giftcard for the lingerie chain. Once again, Gareth’s height was extremely useful as he effortlessly grabbed a passing beachball from the sky. The accompanying “euw, it’s got a bra on it” cheered my mood no end “Yes, so do those girls” I answered but he knew that already, his hypnotised, slightly lecherous glare was already turned their way. Bless him.
All fun and games, just some female students dressed in beachwear earning a few bob to subsidize their study. Admirable, really. Then I heard it. Droning, yelling, chanting, screeching. Rubbernecking like a mad woman I located the source of this cacophony. The Godbods, female division, out in force with tambourines and closed minds. They stood at the front of the crowd, bible in one hand and tambo’s in another, verbally abusing these young girls. They called them whores, sluts, tools of satan and much more. I was horrified, these women seemed to be drooling in their fervour for the Lord’s work, and the level of insults was rising as they peppered their abuse with “Hallelujahs”. Grabbing my arm and gently moving me away, Pat tried to calm me down as I yelled at the nearest one “How Christian is your behaviour?” to no avail as they synchronised their screams and finger pointing. Gareth, enjoying the scene even more since the God Squad arrived and the girls defiantly pepped up their performance, was laughing so much he forgot to be embarrassed by me. Phew! It’s all go in Amsterdam.

“In Christianity neither morality nor religion come into contact with reality at any point.” Nietzche

Never stick your finger in a socket....or anyone elses for that matter...

Shocks: Electric, emotional, physical, they all leave a metaphoric scar, don't they? If you'd once pulled out a plug and your body lit up in the manner of a cartoon character, wouldn't you approach said plug with anxiety for ever more? At least until the memory fades.
Physical shocks. Haven't we all had a paper cut, a whack from a cupboard door left open or walked into a lamppost? (well that lamppost thing might just be me, I do have a tendency to not look where I'm going *blush*) Eventually you start to check that it can't happen again. Basically, you ensure that your surroundings can't hurt you. So why do we allow people to hurt us on a regular basis, why do we give nasty toxic trolls the opportunity to poison our lives?

The Dutch have a saying "drie keer raak" which means third time lucky, without the "luck" bit. You get three chances and that's it. Somebody I gave credit to for being a grown up, well rounded person, quite frankly, isn't. I think I'm a relatively strong person, I'm not afraid of confrontation, I don't like it but will not hide from it. Yet, other bit of me, the one that's scared to approach someone who I know is going to deal badly with anything that resembles criticism, usually tries another approach to deal with a situation that may turn uncomfortable.
Silly Sharon.
What I didn't bargain for is this person taking my clumsy attempt to be neutral, blabbing it to half my colleagues whilst painting herself as the victim...and then, said colleagues making nasty, insidious complaints about me to the boss. Not to my supervisor, who would have told me because she's pretty cool like that - not afraid of confrontation either - but the big boss, the head honcho, the dude in the leather chair.

How did I discover this? After being called into a meeting to discuss the fact that this colleague had made some damaging and self serving complaints to my supervisor - my supervisor decided enough was enough and it needed discussion (there ya go, see - I sad she wasn't afraid to confront) for which I was grateful. Being bad-mouthed to all and sundry and having no idea is not a pleasant thing. After this meeting, the complainer accepted my apology for being clumsy and not dealing with the issues in a manner that was beneficial to her - which basically I gather, is ignoring them - she pulled me into a hug...A HUG? As you can imagine, this left me mightily confused. The next day after a lot of heart searching and some unusually strong profanity, I asked the Boss if I could have a chat and avail myself of his open door policy. This is when I discovered that some colleagues had also popped in for a poisonous chat. I’m also being held accountable for noxious gossip, it seems. Well, to be honest the gossip bit might be true :) – but never noxious and you know, if I've heard it, somebody told me and usually it was the person who says I’m being cruel to her. Who, then, responsible for gossip? Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I've been called to account during my time at this company and although the other times I was completely vindicated, the nasty, nauseous feeling stuck. Whereas the previous Director seemed to thrive on the old "Divide and Conquer" adage and encourage his staff to back-stab, thankfully the new guy doesn't. He told me about it and I am so grateful. Ignorance however, is bliss and since discovering this, I've felt quite sick. Mostly because the people responsible haven't once mentioned their problems to me and even more telling, have been very, very nice to me. Now, I know there are many people who function quite happily in this way; I'm just not one of them. Therefore, have finally made a decision I've been pondering over for a long time.
It's time to go.
11 years in the same job is a long time, possibly too long. I'm not hugely happy there anyway. The job gives me no intellectual challenges and can be quite stultifying. The technical name is "a bore out" which is the opposite of a "burnout" (in case you hadn't made the connection - hehe) Also, after this school term some of the people I really enjoy working with are leaving. Why waste my precious life worrying about people I actively dislike, who obviously passive/aggressively dislike me? Tony, our beautifully insightful eldest son asked me yesterday if I was going to let these people chase me away. Answer: "YES".

What I’ve learned?

It is possible to smile sweetly and be ultra nice to people whilst actively sabotaging them. Not just possible, in some it’s practically an art form.


Never trust someone who laughs after everything they say. Seriously, “I just went for a glass of water – giggle giggle” is a bit odd. You realise it’s a nervous trait and never realise the reason for the nervousness – they’re scared they’ll be caught out?

Personally, I’m incapable of that level of sneaky.

I have bloody great kids (but this I knew anyway)

I have bloody great friends.

I have a bloody great husband, who has suffered my whining about this with stoic devotion.

There are two sides to every story and am aware I’m sometimes …huhum…difficult to deal with but now know how much I appreciate straightforward people.

It’s not so easy to tell who’s straightforward.

And lastly but really, the most important…..

I get massive spots when I’m stressed.


“Drie keer raak” – toodleoo.