“Keep those blocks of ice away from me,” he says, “Why are your feet always so cold?”
Not wanting to stink up the space with what’s mostly on my mind, I didn’t blog much last week. But because this is an exercise in honesty, I’ve decided to put it out there. I’m afraid – you could say worried – about admitting that I am worried.
The ‘plan’ is to grow our own vegetables and keep the rest of the garden in a state fit for respectable people, we shall see. I think I’ve killed my poinsettia from Christmas. I’ve been warned to stay away from the basil plant. My mum will remember me moaning about having the water our millions of potted plants.
When I’m all grown up I’ll…
My body has decided it’s time to do something about my ego. Rightly, it figures that making me climb bum first then legs together into a car as if I’d forgotten to wear underpants would be the best way to go about it.
We’re packing up the flat to move into our first house this weekend and I’m coming face to face with my usual lack of organisation. One suitcase has books, shoes, a mini djembe drum, a hot water bottle, hangers and a game of chess. My mother would look at this, amused, and wonder what these things have in common. They’re all stuff that was living room at the time, Mum. I’m sorry, you did try.
Then the moment of truth comes, will I initiate the exchange of numbers? She’s got no reason to initiate it. She’s settled in her life, her social group. So it’s up to me to make that move. And more often than not, I don’t. I just hope we’ll bump into each other again.
In this flat, we have a bedtime routine that I’m not altogether proud of. If we stay up beyond 11, I’ll almost inevitably go into a funk that doesn’t allow me to go to bed without making a fuss. It goes like this.
Yesterday I proved that my husband is patient enough to put his life and, more impressively, car into my shaky hands simply to encourage me. He yelled, “Brakes!” a couple of times but there were no beads of sweat, whispered prayers or attempts at thinly veiled contempt.
with pinches of salt for the coming year. Mompetition hits it again. Sign up to my newsletter to keep in touch and support my writing
I’ve been sickeningly obsessed with Christmas since July this year. Laurence has been caught somewhere between amusement and horror as I’ve enticed (coerced) him into buying presents from hippie stalls at music festivals and drawing up our Christmas card list. I haven’t always been this way. In fact, it’s characteristic for me to make the mad dash to the shopping centre for entirely unglamorous last minute hunting on Christmas Eve. So I’ve reflected on what makes this one different. Firstly, my parents are coming to England. If this is indeed