Over-medicated

I love Monday mornings.

Radical concept I know and one that is bound to upset St Bob, but it's true. No work until 12.30, time to come to my senses gently, drink coffee, catch up on blogs I read, quick glance at Twitter. Then, maybe, have a coffee. A bit of light housework, you know, where you straighten a couple of heaps, pack the dishwasher and hang up coats. Have a coffee.

Enjoy a shower, fiddle about with hair, have a coffee, check Twitter (where are you all ?) Oh, hang on, better iron a shirt. Nip to the butchers to get the poor dog a bone. Have a coffee.

By midday I have decided I hate work, I can't cope, I'm too stressed and I feel slightly sick. Despite saying I was giving up I light a cigarette to have with my last cup of coffee.

I'm shaking.

It's like first day back at school I'm so twitchy.

Is work really that bad ?

Nope, work is fine.

Suspect the caffeine hit may be to blame though.

The Inbetweeners

The Inbetweeners is a truly vulgar, yet wonderful comedy on Channel 4 that follows the lives of four young men in their final year at school. It has all the stereotypes, a geeky one, who carries the burden of being posh, a sweet one, a dim sporty one and the little horny one. There is a Mum everyone fancies (except her son, thank God, Channel 4 not 5), a bullying teacher and "the first car". The various mishaps they encounter are exactly those that we remember ourselves and are reliving with our own pet teenagers.

I feel quite "young and hangin with the kids" because I found the programme all by myself, probably during a late night Twitter and rapidly decided it was worth watching every week. I told the young about it, I recommended it to my friends, (in the context of a Natural History programme,) and every time we met up we would talk about which of us remembered doing what, whilst worrying if our children were doing it now.

Then, oh then, the rumour started. GirlChild came home from work on Tuesday. "The guys from "The Inbetweeners" are coming to Revolution on Thursday, don't even think about going"

I pretended I hadn't heard and rang bestest friend to tell her. We talked about what we might wear, mutton, lamb, mutton, lamb ? Could we go very Mumsy as a "humorous" yet ironic take on our age ?

It was all in vain, respective daughters got first dibs, our night out was vetoed, we were the new inbetweeners.

They think we are old, we know we aren't

Call me Fagin

More evidence of bad motheritis and although I suspect many of us are guilty of this sin, not many of us (possibly just me) are foolish enough to announce it in a public forum.

Cast your mind back to times spent with young male students, (go on, you know you can if you try, the therapy won't be too bad.) and remember the laundry basket.

There seem to be two types of YMS, the "I looked at it so it needs washing again" or the "I have peeled it off and it's standing in the corner over there" variety, both generate vast, daunting heaps of washing. Boy child is a member of the former group.

The following is a direct reporting of a conversation that took place over three days on his return from uni.

"Have I got your washing yet ?"

"Oh, er, right, er, what ?"

"Washing"

"Washing ?"

"That stuff on your floor covering the carpet"

"Oh, yeah"

"Well can I have it please ? I want to get it going"

"Ooh, washing, ok, er what wants washing ?"

Things are becoming a little terse by now

"Bedding, clothes, more clothes possibly. I'm not actually certain BC as it is your washing, oh and don't forget to check your pockets"

"Pockets, why ?"

"Because the best way to ruin a memory stick is for it to go through the machine, and if I find any money it is mine" (I find it best to try and speak his language)

"Oh, K"

Time passes, dynasties fall, Big Brother is cancelled.

"Have I got your washing BC ?"

"Now ?"

"FFS BC, yes now, and check your pockets !"

Like a slow moving torrent the clothes made their way downstairs

"Thanks BC, so, everything here ?"

"Er, yeah, well I don't know, guess so"

"Have you checked your pockets"

"Oh God Mum you do go on......"

"So, you have checked ?"


And that is how I came to be in possession of £15.

Flaming June....I think not.

So, if I can't go and sit in the garden, the garden will have to come to me.

Mother: Job description: Psychic Powers an Advantage

I have been ticked off. Girlchild is currently working fairly random hours, if Sainsburys require some overtime she will step up and I admire her for this, although I have noticed that immediate financial gain seems to be a far higher motivation than the fact exam revision will enhance results

All this overtime makes her attendance at mealtimes variable, so I have been doing food for us and allowing her to snackerel when she gets home. Theoretically not a problem, although I question the nutritional value of anything she makes herself. Sainsburys value pack flavoured noodles and 2 rolo puddings would not receive the approval of the food Tsar.

Anyway, this evening she got in at about 10.30pm.

"What can I have for supper Mum ?"

"Didn't you get anything at work ?"

"No, I couldn't see anything I fancied"

(This is a fairly large Sainsburys, my heart sank)

"Eeermm what would you like ?"

"I don't know"

"Well, there's some chicken, or I could do scrambled egg, an omelette ?"

"No, you know I don't like eggs"

"There are some fishcakes in the freezer"

"No, don't feel like that"

I'm becoming slightly tetchy by now

"Toast, cereal, bacon sandwich, cheesy toast, pasta with smoked salmon ?"

"No"

"Well, what would you like ?"

"I don't know..........why don't you ever buy something I want ?"

"I don't know GC, I am perplexed that I cannot find things you would enjoy, when you don't know what they are yourself........................"

There was a tut and a flounce and she was gone.

I am a bad mother, I have allowed my psychic powers to fall by the wayside. I blame Twitter.

I have never owned a baseball cap, but I have read Jenny Joseph

Recently on Twitter there has been much talk of hats and whether they are life enhancing or a sheer embarrassment. I tend to the former school of thought, being of an extravagant nature and decided to post on hats I have known.

The first hat I remember was a dark green beret with a white silky tassel on top, I loved the tassel with a passion (the inner burlesque already making itself known) as it made playing horses much easier, providing a tail for frisking.

Then at boarding school we wore a boater, which we knew as a "board". Worn at a clearly prescribed angle there would be prefects outside church knocking it to the horizontal, in case any of us were either playing angels with it tipped back like a halo or with it tiptilted rakishly over one eye. At the end of our seven years servitude I laid mine down on the High Street and waited for a vehicle to crush it to oblivion. It was a long wait, this was rural Staffordshire.
When I got into the senior school I became a member of the school choir so also got to wear this, not actually a hat, but certainly a head covering. The smell of ironed linen can still make me want to burst into song.

Having left school I went to art college and afterwards on to uni, where I went through a range of eccentric home made numbers usually involving feathers, ribbons, veiling and massive embarrassment for the then boyfriend. Although none of these have survived the march of time they are remembered with great affection. They tended to look very similar to this. They were worn in public. I suspect I was laughed at but I was an art student, we have a tradition to maintain

From Uni to work, there had to be a radical rethink, I wanted to be a grown up, so not only did I get a camel coat but sensible hats, fedora, panama and a rather neat little number with a cockade of cocks feathers. What I hadn't taken in to account was that no one wore hats, so even sensible ones stood out. I was working on a huge engineering site in a predominantly male environment and I became known as "Hats" by the guys on the shop floor, who would make me alternative headgear with bubble wrap and card. Yes, I did wear them, it would have been bad manners not to and I had my reputation for "quirkiness" to live up to. (I was even wearing one when I met my husband, which should have warned him).

Through the 80's with both weddings and the New Romantics there were splendid opportunities to go for the mushroom look. I know stylists say that if you are short you should not wear big hats, but I decided I knew better. Looking back I realise I didn't.

Strangely, when I got married I lost my nerve and rather than go for a veiled Victorian top hat (probably with sequins) which was my original fantasy I had a tiny little circlet of flowers from John Lewis, go figure. (I have just removed the wedding photograph from its frame to scan on, so the strange ectoplasmic effect is actually where it has faded, rather than a visit from Miss Haversham. )

As time passed I acquired a veiled tricorn that I wore in Venice, with some aplomb, at the Carnevale and with less success in Harrogate, the strange take on a medieval Turkish helmet made in velvet that I bought in Salzburg - look it has a tassel..... the Venetian Gondolieri hat my father bought me, a huge fur thing that was meant to make me feel like Anna Karenina but actually just looked as if an absent minded cat had gone to sleep on my head, a stetson from Texas - yeehaw, an Aussie drovers hat, and now, the hat to end all hats.

The Russian Officers hat which I will wear as I plan world domination.

Once I have succeeded in my evil plans I think I will go for this.