FB decrees it so

OK people, it's late, it's a Monday and we've all had that to deal with.

Bref, les enfants, Fag-Bangle has read and said that the blog is rather gloomy. Needs to be less of the fuming, more about dreaming- as the title suggests.

He is right of course, so a small post to say onwards, upwards and courage pour la suite.

Big bisous and tomorrow is another post xx

You don't bring me flowers

There are some times when things are just shit all over.

There are times when you feel as though you've been fed through the shit mangle.

If I were a particularly superstitious person I may blame the prophetic number of lone magpie (is that the correct terminology? F*cked if I care right now) that have been merrily swooping into my line of vision of late. Taunting me with their cocked head, dead-eyed, harbinger of doom inevitability.

There are also times when you wonder what karmic crap you may have accumulated in a past life- or, for that matter, in this.

I am too weary to blog in detail about what has been a most horrid few days, the like of which not experienced since the Year of the Custody Battle, when I had to contend with all manner of vile surprises on a weekly basis.

So, light on the facts but suffice it to say, these involved;

Police cars: quivering wreck in the back of.

Financial crises: turning an otherwise clever person into a long-legged bird renowned for it's propensity to stuff it's head in the sand.

Points on a license: (mine) because of the stupid stupid stupid actions of aforementioned bird.

Possibly one should be wary of the blog as confessional, as it can come back to bite you in the ass. However, right now, I am PAST CARING. Besides, only a few folk I know (and not many I don't) read my mutterings and feel have been suitably oblique and vague as to have avoided causing lasting upset.

Unlike my week's experiences which have left me flailing about in murky waters and have most definitely caused lasting upset.

When one might feel deserved of grand sweeping gestures of apology/atonement, sadly, there have been none. I'm not sure if I start sounding the death knell or keep hoping for flowers.

Friday night

I am going to post only this and in no particular order;

Point 1) Daughter has lost her 4th, YES 4TH coat of the school year (barely 2 months in for the non-parents among you).

Point 2) It is howling a ferocious gale outside, a threatened storm of biblical proportions is lying off the coast of the UK and the thermostat has chosen this moment to go to the great pile of useless household appliances in the sky.

Point 3) Ratpack has been for his millionth interview this month and is not overly jubilant about the outcome.

Point 4) Younger sister is due to come and babysit in order for us to 'step-out', like, on a proper date. Ratpack has just informed me that his friend Monkey is down on a stag-do and perhaps we could join them. And I could be 'the mascot'.

Point 5) I imagine this will consist of all manner of things I've no intention of even contemplating, let alone bearing witness to.

Point 6) I am not even sure that RP was joking re. point 4.

Point 7) Received a letter home about the non-fatal stabbing of a pupil by another pupil at Daughter's school. Ahh, at least it was non-fatal.

That's all folks.

In pursuit of the perfect jogger bottom

Ok, the title may be a bit of an oxymoron, granted. But actually, my fashion brain-worm has been gradually and insidiously growing in strength regarding tracksuit bottoms. And then, lo, what do I see in this month's British Vogue, but a whole piece dedicated to their status as current fashion must-have.

The fashion radar has been bleeping relentlessly in my head and I have decided to go forth in search of a pair that somehow miraculously doesn't transform me into a leisure centre employee or long-term benefits recipient.

No easy task with the clutch of fairly mundane high street shops that currently occupy the retail space in this town.

I have tried, on several occasions, to achieve an insouciant yet achingly fashion forward look with the joggers in American Apparel these past few months. Every time has ended in me staring aghast at my reflection as the strangely coiffed assistants largely ignore the chump in the corner that is middle-aged me. No matter, I jauntily/optimistically intend to give it another go. Because on previous visits I was just having a 'bad fashion day' and my thighs have shrunk despite the kilograms having crept up.

Post search update:

This is an utterly pointless quest- I have trawled about hither and thither looking for the aforementioned item and all I can say is this- tracksuit bottoms shall remain resolutely off my radar. On a day when I was not feeling on particularly sparkling form having woken at 5.30 a.m. with 'the fear' about last night (another blog post beckons) and thus consumed 2 (!) jammy doughnuts for the much needed sugar rush to get me through work, it's the fashion slave's equivalent of the search for the holy grail. An urban myth that results in lost hours dedicated to the pursuit of the impossible.

I shall just have to find something else to sport with the Surface to Air multi-buckle wedges which are lovely and deserved of a trouser other than jeans or the ubiquitous webbed-crotch harems. Just not a tracksuit trouser, clearly.

Post post update : Ratpack has just questioned my judgement in that lounge wear and this particular fashion shoe may never have made happy bedfellows. I fear he may be right.

Armistice

For some time now, Daughter has not heard from her father. He ceased maintenance payments years ago and after a long, protracted and largely unnecessary court battle it seems that he has decided to sever contact completely, despite overtures from Daughter herself.

From a purely personal and selfish point of view it would be not be an untruth to say that I am relieved that neither the spectre of him, nor that of his new family haunts us as it once did.

But from the objective view of the professional I am not, I mourn the loss for Daughter and also, for him.

In light of the hour, the day and the month, the sobering reality of all those who have suffered far more than the futile bickerings of parents who no longer see eye-to-eye looms large.

I think of those who no longer have the option to argue over a son or daughter, family member or friend. Left only with the immeasurable grief and memories, that can be of little comfort in the face of such senseless tragedy.

The wars fought, the fallen, those who have yet to fall and the monumental debt we owe them cling to my thoughts. The poppies a flash of unflinching colour in an otherwise stark landscape of loss. The clock will mark the minutes and time will go on regardless.

And I, the consummate professional that I am not, shall endeavour to keep a door open. There is little sense or satisfaction, in doing otherwise.

Sisterhood

Daughter is railing against her 'monobrow' after comments from schoolfriends. I am failing to convince her from reacting to it even though (because) I unintentionally plucked mine into extinction. This should of course work in my favour, but I'm not allowing for the contrary nature of a tween brandishing a pair of tweezers.

Plus she is recounting the latest installment of 'the steps at school'. It is like a real life version of Gossip Girl minus the designer outfits. It is awful and renders me momentarily mute with sadness. Why can girls be so mean? My own school days aren't so distant that I don't recall the same dreaded falling's in, falling's out, best friend lists and furtively vicious whisperings.

So it was with cheer that I read about the solidarity that increasing numbers of women are discovering online from the burgeoning blogging community, in India Knight's piece in last week's Sunday Times. The wonderful Mrs Trefusis also wrote about the inspiration to be drawn from the internet in a recent fantastic post on her eponymous blog.

I am new to this world, but I am deeply heartened by this turn of events. Encouraged enough to hope that something more profound is afoot- it is surely high time.

A friend authored the SEAL (social and emotional aspects of learning) educational aid books designed initially for implementation within Primary schools. My mother is credited with helping her, as together they shared a precipitative belief in the necessity of teaching emotional literacy to young children. It has been met with phenomenal success, becoming an everyday reference aid for the modern classroom.

They are hoping to mirror this level of success within the Secondary sector, despite the different challenges that this age group will present.

It gives me hope that it may infiltrate it's way into the conscience of the Mean Girls before too much damage is done, thus opening them up to the endless potential of kindness and the regenerative gift of sisterhood.

Mini post- 'Bad Emu'

Pifflingly poor mini-post:

EMS remarked upon seeing photos of me in my feather 'cape' that I looked like a bad emu. I have decided that, on balance, there is no need for me to share in my outfit malfunction and thus have relegated all photographic evidence to the 'Annals of Shame, pt 1'. Apologies to all of you who were 'waiting with baited breath' for the proof of my Halloween shenanigans.

Outfit fail/ Work win: The Cubbyhole of Gloom is usually deserved of it's title, but yesterday we got a (litre bottle!) handout of Tanqueray. No matter that it's been kicking about for a few years in a dusty cupboard (luckily it's aging better than this particular consumer) it has resoundingly succeeded in obliterating my job despair and self-pity. For one night only at least. There's every chance that, come tomorrow, you'll find me in a corner muttering darkly about Mother's Ruin.