Clutter!

I seriously need to de-clutter my house. I have now filled every available shelf/cupboard/cubby hole and there is simply no more room for anything else. Everyone who knows me will tell you I am the Queen of organising. "A space for everything and everything in its space" has always been my motto. Sometimes it amazes me just how much I have managed to cram into this tiny box I call home.
I read an article the other day that said British people's clutter adds up to an estimated worth of £31 billion. That's just stuff we never use. I know most people would have been shocked to learn this but I wasn't. In fact I did wonder if I might be contributing to at least a couple of billion of those pounds with the stuff that lies unused and untouched in my under-the-stairs cupboard. I lovingly refer to that 8 foot by 3 foot rectangle as "no man's land" ("An area of land that no-one wishes to move into or take control of for fear of being attacked" - in my case by a precariously balanced stack of toilet rolls or a particularly vicious ironing board). There have been times when I've desperately needed something at the back of that dark and frightening place but have taken one look at the obstacle course I would need to negotiate in order to get there and just closed the door with a heavy sigh. I know I need to tackle the problem but I hate chucking things out. I've done it before and almost always regretted it. I do have the occasional ruthless splurge where I feel liberated by throwing things onto the charity/rubbish pile. "If you don't use it or don't like it then chuck it!" is the mantra during those times. But inevitably, a few months down the line I'll find myself cursing under my breath that I gave that certain something away.
My loft is a veritable banquet of guff. There's no other way to describe it. It bulges at the seams. Having to clear it out is a job that fills me with dread not least because I cannot even get into the attic. There is not one single inch of floor space on which to stand. My attic reminds me of one of those puzzles I used to play with as a child. The one where you had to move the squares around to make a picture. I would have to move all the things around the loft hatch (broken lamps, old baby clothes, three legged chairs, an ancient typewriter) just to get up there. It seems like such an overwhelming task, and one I simply could not contemplate doing on my own. There is very little truth in the saying "out of sight, out of mind" when it comes to my loft. I lie awake at night in a cold sweat thinking about the day I'll have to tackle it.
My kitchen cupboards are a plethora of unused appliances that at some point I must have thought I wouldn't be able to function without. A yogurt maker (what a hassle that was!), two juicers (which take around 40 oranges and an hour to clean just to get one tiny glass of juice), a popcorn maker (fun to watch the truckload of puffed up corn spewing out the hole but it tastes like pieces of polystyrene which could in no way compete with M&S butter toffee bites), a George Foreman grill (which I bought during one of my short-lived health kicks and is a real faff to clean), three Thermos flasks (!), a Soda Stream fizzy juice maker...the list is endless. I haven't used any of these appliances for years and yet I cannot bring myself to part with them.
In Feng Shui the main entrance to the house is called the "Mouth of Chi" because it has the strongest influence on how energy flows into your home. "Your home cannot benefit from fresh, vital Chi if the front door is blocked". Mmm. I wonder if Chi has worked out a way to get past two pairs of muddy wellies, three pairs of smelly trainers, a broken brolly, a spade (which has been there since the snow forced me to dig myself out of my parking space every morning) and enough coats and cagoules to start a clothes stall. Since Junior came into my life I don't think I have been able to open the front door all the way. It used to be pushchairs and car seats blocking the way, now it's school bags, football trainers and a Spiderman ball (that somehow I always forget is there until I have fallen over). According to Feng Shui, "opening the front door more widely and frequently is a good way to breathe life into a less-than-exciting romantic life". Oh well, that explains quite a lot then...
Having a small house gets on my nerves beyond description. I hate having to manoeuvre my rather ample bottom around things to get washing into the tumble dryer/step over hamster cages to get in and out the back door/tiptoe through the mine-field that is Junior's bedroom floor in order to put clothes away/crawl over the bed just to get to the wardrobe. But I often wonder if having a bigger house would solve the problem or simply result in me filling every available space with even more clutter! Oh, to have a minimalistic living room. Nothing gathering dust, no obstacles to make my journey from the settee to the kitchen fraught with danger.
Getting rid of clutter feels great. I think I'll go and make a start on no man's land. To quote Captain Oates, "I may be some time"!!

Quote for today

"As long as the world is turning and spinning, we're gonna be dizzy and we're gonna make mistakes"

Mel Brooks

The tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth

“In this pocket you will find,
A teensy, tiny tooth of mine.
So while I sleep where dreams are made,
Let’s see if you can make a trade”
Author Unknown.

Well, it’s the first day of March and I have spent the last couple of hours running around like a mad march Hare! When I picked Junior up from Monday Club this afternoon he smiled up at me and I just about fell over. He resembled a miniature Shane McGowan (pre fancy new veneers).
One of Junior’s top front teeth fell out on Saturday morning. It felt like such a big deal; another step towards adulthood. It had been dangling by a thread and we tried everything from crunchy apples to wrapping it in tissue and yanking it. But for the entire Friday night he looked like Nanny McPhee. I was slightly concerned that it might fall out during the night but tried to reassure myself that for as long as there has been little boys and girls there have been wobbly teeth and as far as I know nothing awful has ever happened. At 6am the following day I heard him fiddling around with it and then there was this sickening sound like an elastic band snapping followed by a delighted shriek as he waved a blood-stained tooth in front of my face.
The tooth fairy wrote him a lovely letter and left it under his pillow in an envelope filled with fairy dust and a note attached saying “time delivered 2.30” (see what I did there? 2.30/tooth hurty) Two shiny pound coins were tucked inside - I hear that’s the going rate these days. It was 10p when I was little but that’s inflation for you.
Anyway, I wasn’t expecting to have to do it all again so soon, hence my shock when I saw another gap in Junior’s mouth this afternoon. My first thought was “Oh no, I don’t have a single penny on me, I’m going to have to go to a cashpoint” which was a real pain because the traffic was already building up and I had just polished off a massive mug of tea (a deadly combination if ever there was one). Junior spent the whole way home in the car planning what he was going to buy with his fairy money and I had to gently explain that the tooth fairy might be a bit skint after a busy weekend. But he wasn’t buying it.
“The tooth fairy is magic mummy..” he said with a patronising tilt of the head, “..she can get money from anywhere”
The first cashpoint was at the petrol station round the corner from my house. There was a queue to get in so imagine my frustration when I eventually made it only to find a sign up saying “Out of Order”. Back in the car and off to the shopping centre, a frustrating 15 minute drive back the way I had just come. I put in my card and it spat it straight back out at me. Apparently I had 'insufficient funds' to cover the £2 needed to cover the cost of one shiny white incisor, lovingly wrapped in a paper towel by Babs at the Monday Club. Tooth fairies might be able to get money from anywhere but it would appear that stressed out mummies (with very full bladders) can’t!
I racked my brains to think where I could get the money for a very excited Junior. He was not going to buy my stories - "The tooth fairy has a sore wing and can only carry a 5 pence piece this time"/"the tooth fairy gave your money to the poor children"/"the tooth fairy is really poorly and has promised to being you £2 when she’s feeling better" - He’s six, he ain’t stupid!
Back home there was a frantic (but fruitless) check inside the settee and the pockets in the dirty wash basket. Junior was already upstairs putting the tooth under his pillow and the familiar ache of motherly guilt was beginning to unfurl in my chest as I imagined having to break the news to him that there was not going to be a special delivery. I started to unpack his school bag - half eaten packet of crisps, wet socks, chewed up homework sheet and the tin I give him for Monday club money. Imagine how my heart swelled when I heard it rattle. Inside was the £2 which he had forgotten to hand in to Babs! I’ve never been so happy to have a son with a memory like a sieve. When he goes to bed tonight I will write yet another letter from the tooth fairy and gently slide it under his pillow when he’s in the place “where dreams are made”. And I don’t feel too guilty for telling him porkies about the existence of fairies who take his unwanted teeth away to make beautiful necklaces. These are magical times and so short lived I will relish every single moment of them.
I was just having a little moan to my Dad on the phone about always having to fork out money left, right and centre for things that are out with the budget (i.e lost teeth) and he told me to look on the bright side. With two less teeth in Junior’s head at least I’ll save some money on toothpaste!

Playground Politics

Whatever next? First Tesco say “No!” to shoppers in pyjamas and now Head teachers are banning “slovenly mothers” from wearing nightwear when they drop their children off at the school gate in the mornings.
I can honestly say I have never done the school run wearing my pyjamas but I certainly don’t have a problem with people who do. I’d rather see a nice, clean pair of pyjama bottoms than a grotty, stained pair of joggers, wouldn’t you? In fact I’m probably too busy to take any notice of the other Mum's attire and therefore couldn't really care less what they wear.
Getting to school on time is pretty much like a military operation. It makes air traffic control look like a walk in the park. One tiny digression can throw the whole system into utter chaos. I guess this is why I am a little more tolerant about Mums doing the school run in their pyjamas than your average Headteacher.

*****

I only have the one child and I find the morning routine utterly exhausting. Junior is full of beans from the second he wakes up. The simplest task cannot be done without being accompanied by a gymnastic manoeuvre.
“Go and get your slippers on” I’ll groan with bleary eyes and he’ll spin twice, do a handstand and finish off with a Ninja move that would be envied by the Power Rangers.
“Time to get your teeth brushed!” I’ll say and he’ll run up the stairs like a whirlwind, do a forward roll along the top landing and finish with a star jump.
I’ve learned to accommodate an extra five/ten minutes into the morning routine just to allow for cartwheels and body popping. It really can be draining and most frustrating when you’re running out the front door (carrying gym kits and school bags, packed lunches and wellie boot bags) with seconds to spare and Junior is tagging along behind acting out the scene where Darth Vader fights Luke Skywalker in Star Wars. I’m pretty sure my long-suffering neighbours could set their clocks to me yelling “Hurry Up! We're going to be late!”
Despite best laid plans - packed lunch made the night before, uniform ironed and hanging up, shoes polished and lined up at the front door - it is impossible to prepare for unforeseeable disasters on a school morning. And we’ve had plenty! A spilled bowl of cereal, an action man stuck in the U-bend, a coco pop stuck up a nostril, an escaped hamster, a lost shoe, an empty petrol tank. One tiny change sends the whole thing tumbling down like a house of cards. It’s hard to try and explain how many things I need to do in a single morning just to tread water. I simply do not know how people with more than one child manage. I am in absolute awe of anyone with more than two children and I completely understand why some people arrive at the playground wearing their jammies. I would never judge them. But clearly there are some who would.

My Sleeping Boy

I stare in wonder at my sleeping boy.
How beautiful he is, like an angel or a portrait in oil.
He has kicked off the covers; long limbs strewn across the duvet.
He cuddles Elmoure, a hairy dog who he cannot sleep without
and who I have to wash in secret because he loves the smell so much.

I step over the paraphernalia of childhood to get to him,
dodging the loose floorboards that might give away my presence.
During the day he is in perpetual motion, a blur of noise and movement.
Time is impossible to freeze so this is my chance to study him; his enviable lashes, his button nose and the top lip that forms a perfect heart.
He looks like me from the nostrils down.

I touch a clammy hand and his fingers twitch.
For a moment I am briefly transported back to the night he was born,
That first moment on our own with only a flimsy curtain to separate us from the rest of the world.
Just me and him as it has always been.
I watched him then as I watch him now.

I marvelled at those fingers, the way they curled around mine like little worms.
Such perfectly formed fingernails, like tiny shells.
I remember the surge of untamed maternal love that told me nothing would ever be the same again.

Now he is too big to sit on my knee and he cringes when I kiss him goodbye at the school gate.
Soon he will be all but lost to me,
My sleeping boy.
I tenderly tuck him in and close the flimsy curtains that separate us from the rest of the world.

A poem from 1982

The Kingdom Under the Sea

"Under the sea, way way down deep,
Where the seaweed floats and the mermaids sleep,
The sea king laughs as the fishes perform,
He lives in his cave so cosy and warm.
He holds his spear, his spear of gold,
There he sits so brave, so bold.
The bird in the cave flaps his wings,
And way down below the mermaid sings,
As her golden hair swings to and fro,
Searching for coral as she goes.
Lots of people like you and me,
Know about the kingdom under the sea"

By Hazel Allan (aged 10)

With Valentine’s Day looming..

..I thought I would write a blog post about being single. I love being single! I probably go on about it a bit too much if I’m honest. At times I actually feel quite smug about my relationship status. I am sure my friends are all starting to think “the lady doth protest too much". But the single life is definitely for me and my thoughts about this are only reinforced when I hear horror stories about cheating husbands and unhappy partnerships. Despite my contentedness at being a single woman there are some nights when Junior is safely tucked up in bed and there’s nothing good on telly when a sudden blast of loneliness hits me. It’s nothing major and it doesn’t happen very often but when it does I have been know to switch on my laptop just so I can hear the man from Avast! tell me that my ““virus database has been updated". Sad, I know but he does sound ever so nice. The kind of guy who would look out for you and never let you down. Once, much to my embarrassment I inadvertently blurted out “stay for a cup of tea!“ when his gravelly, American drawl came through my speakers. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.

Alas Avast! man isn’t real and therefore I can pretend he is Mr Perfect. I’ll bet if he were a real person he would pick his nose and make annoying noises/smells. I am as guilty as the next person of romanticising the thought of having a man around the house. Yes, I sometimes miss having a cup of tea made for me. And I miss having someone to discuss my day with or laugh about my funny observations with. But I don’t miss all the irritating things that comes with that. And believe you me, I am easily annoyed! I once had a boyfriend who used to prop his feet up on the beanbag and rotate his ankles. After a while, the swishing of tiny polystyrene beads intensified to the point where I wanted to grab the beanbag and smother him with it!
I thought I had found my perfect partner recently when I invested in a Sat Nav. Suddenly here was someone giving me some gentle guidance, a person who could stay calm under pressure and allow me to make my own mistakes. They never ridicule me for making the wrong decision or choosing the wrong path, they simply tell me to ‘turn around when possible'. Supportive, reliable and always there when I need them. Oh, and you can turn them off when they get a bit annoying.
Until Mr Right pops up and throws me over his shoulder (he had better be strong!) I am very happy living the single life. And it would seem I am not alone in my delight at being a single lady. Jennifer Aniston, Rhianna, Sienna Miller, Alesha Dixon and Kate Hudson all recently claimed to love being single too. And whilst trying to find a quote/poem about being single to put alongside this blog post I Googled ““I love being single". When I clicked on one of the links it came up with “There are too many visitors on this site at the moment please try again later”
I don’t like the thought that I might be labelled as lonely simply because I am alone. I couldn’t ever be lonely in any real sense, not when I have a demanding six year old around. And when he’s not around I have the characters from Bree McCready swirling around in my head, prodding me when I’m doing the washing up to remind me they are there. Hilma Wolitzer once said “Writing fiction is a solitary occupation but not really a lonely one. The writer’s head is mobbed with characters, images and language” I couldn’t agree more.
Sometimes you have to stand alone to prove that you can still stand. I have a very fulfilled and rewarding life without a partner. I am pursuing my dream and doing a great job of bringing my son up on my own. I am really proud of the achievements I have made whilst being on my own. I love that my young son has watched me change a fuse, put a shelf/curtain pole up and be the proud owner of a well stocked tool box (I do have a rather groovy screwdriver with a flowery handle just to keep it slightly girly).
I have considered internet dating but to be honest it’s the thought of someone actually showing an interest that puts me off. I do think it is a great idea though, having a computer sift out all the unsuitable people and match you with the compatible ones in the blink of an eye. How did people ever meet their significant others B.C (before computers)? And the great thing about internet dating is that you’re guaranteed to ‘click’ with every one you meet (boom boom) It’s just not for me though.
I always visualised meeting my perfect man whilst wandering around a museum or an art gallery. The fact I haven’t been to either of those places in a long time probably says quite a lot about my thoughts on being single. When the time is right it will be right. And if the time never comes I’m happy with that too. I don't dread Valentine's Day any more but for those of you who do here's a link ; )
I think when it boils down to it what I really miss is someone to cuddle up with on cold winter evenings, someone to share quality time with and someone who listens to me moan without judging. I think when it boils down to it what I really need is a cat.