December has begun and I have started my Christmas shopping – online only so far but I have to build up to Actual Shopping at this time of year. The teens want clothes mostly with theatrical and baking supplies for DD and ( much more expensive this but his dad is doing the honours) a car for DS who turns 17 at the end of the month. Aside from the inevitable fears about young men on four wheels I am also sad that we will now lose one of our most consistent chatting areas. Kids open up in cars – I don’t know why exactly but tongue tied teens will suddenly rediscover the power of speech when in transit within a small space with their mothers, to say nothing of the intelligence gathering opportunity and entertainment value of eavesdropping on a group of them talking in a semi-unguarded fashion while I pretend that I’m listening to the radio – I have learnt many things about my two and their friends on various car journeys. But it’s the boys’ banter I will miss most. I have been transporting my son and roughly the same group of his mates around for years and rarely do they fail to lift my spirits. True, they are all idiots, but they have that simplistic, blokey, nothing too serious approach to conversation that can be very soothing in a stressful day. I return to trusty old Amazon before premature nostalgia engulfs me and wonder if DS would like a personalised key ring with a picture of me on it to go with his new car?


Monday night and we are all tired. DD spent yesterday rehearsing for the school’s upcoming production of the Sound of Music – she’s a nun, I would post a photo but I doubt she will let me – and is badly missing her normal crash-out Sunday. DS spent the weekend accumulating love bites and training for his first post-injury rugby game tomorrow and is already in bed in his rabbit onesey. I am about to follow his example and catch a sneaky episode of Bondi Rescue from the comfort of my bed   ( will Maxi make it to fully fledged lifeguard, will Kerbox find love, will an unsuspecting tourist drown in the dreaded Backpackers Rip? ,)  when the clothes dryer attached to the kitchen ceiling by pulleys falls down on my head as I am loading it with wet washing.  Closer inspection while standing on tip toes on the kitchen table reveals a minor engineering job is required and I know just the man – my very nice neighbour A who lives over the road with his partner C.  They are in their 60’s, free from the demands of work and childcare and spend their days travelling the world by plane, boat and camper van, which they park in my driveway when not on the road in France or Spain or some other driveable location. In return for housing this bright red freedom wagon A does odd jobs for me – last week it was the drains. Safe in the knowledge that I can survive one night without drying facilities and in need of my own brand of travel free escapism, I head upstairs to catch up with Bondi’s finest.  Maxi gets the job, Kerbox fails to find true love, nobody drowns and as the credits roll up over a spectacular Antipodean sunset I feel altogether more relaxed until DS yells from his room ‘ I forgot to say, I need my rugby kit washed and dry for tomorrow, I wore it training today..Did you hear me? …Mama? ‘

My mum has continued to impress with her attitude towards Monday night’s break in. Although naturally a bit shaken up by being burgled while she was downstairs watching TV, she is simply ‘ not going to think about what might have happened ‘ if she’d come out of the sitting room when the intruder or intruders were there and has decided instead to put her energies into praying for the little b…….s who did it – she’s much nicer than me.   When I tell DD about her grandma’s prayers she clutches her heart, and says ‘ OMG, she’s so cuuuuuuute! ‘. DD loves both babies and old people in equal measure and we have on occasion followed particularly adorable examples of the latter around supermarkets as they myopically pick out their favourite biscuits, entirely unaware of the teenage girl cooing ‘ Ah look, they can’t read the packet, that’s so cuuuuuute!’ a few feet away.  This week there will be few opportunities for stalking old people as DD has her second batch of GCSE language exams – French and Spanish. She is sat at the kitchen table with me now, trying to learn her Spanish and refusing to listen to my advice as to the best way to remember things you are studying. ‘  Say something for funny for my blog ‘ I ask.  I won’t repeat her response.

I spent last weekend exhibiting at the Independent Schools Show in Battersea Park with T, my business partner and friend of more years than either of us cares to remember. The most surprising thing about the weekend was the mother who wanted to subscribe to the site so she could help prepare her son for his Maths GCSE. Her son is two. The least surprising thing about the weekend was that at the end of it I returned home to an assortment of tired, hungry and emotional teens, cats and dog and a kitchen full of washing up, a scenario that greeted me upon my return from work most nights last week. But after a relaxing weekend things were calmer last night and DS, DD and I settled on sofas for an evening with ITV – X Factor followed by the opening show of I’m A Celebrity. I had said I wasn’t going to watch this series but one programme does not a new reality TV habit make. Someone called Mark from TOWIE overcame his fears to jump out of an aeroplane, Lorraine Chase was sick in a bush and I failed to convince DD and DS that Fatima Whitbread is a woman.

But tonight brings fresh drama as about 2 hours ago 2 burglars broke in through the kitchen window of my 82 year old mum’s house while she was watching TV in the sitting room. They ransacked the upstairs drawers before letting themselves back out through their entry point. My mum is highly amused that nothing was taken ‘ because they couldn’t find anything they wanted! ‘ and asked if I wouldn’t mind calling back as the two ( loud stage whisper ) ‘… Very nice and strapping policemen ‘ would be leaving soon and she wanted ‘ to say goodbye properly ‘ before my sister arrives to check on her. I say I’ll call in to see her tomorrow evening but she says not to bother as she’s off to the cinema with her prayer group but Wednesday’s good if I’m around?

DS has invented a new word – ‘ crutching’ to describe getting around on the crutches he has been issued with following a nasty injury sustained during last weekend’s rugby tournament. X-rays examined by a rather young looking doctor ( well, young to me but these days many people in positions of responsibility are  ) after a long, typically purgatorial wait in A and E revealed no bones were broken and analysis by the Bristol physio later in the week diagnosed a tear of the muscle in his hip, very painful and resulting in a 6 week break from his beloved game. He is handling the situation well so far but this may be due in part to the high doses of pain killers he is taking plus the fact that he is not alone in his temporarily disabled state.  Right now he is in the lounge with 4 of his mates, 2 of whom are also on crutches ( more rugby injuries ) and as half term has just begun and bedtimes this week therefore flexible, I am issuing stern warning about not drinking whilst on medication as beers have magically appeared to fuel the evenings get together.

DD is with them and noise levels are high, though I suspect she is not detailing them with her latest thoughts on Careers For Girls we discussed earlier this week following a discussion with her friend R during a clearly less than absorbing Physics lesson. ‘ Just get pregnant with a fit person’s baby, no matter how old they are, then they’ll have no excuse not to see you ‘. ‘ Who are you thinking of? ‘ I enquire calmly as I am hoping she is winding me up and am not about to oblige by entertaining her with a feminist rant about pregnancy no longer being an acceptable career choice for girls. ‘  Bradley Cooper, Channing Tatum, Aron Johnson, Alex Pettifer, Zac Effron or Daniel Radcliffe. What do you think?’ ‘ Well…’ I wrack my brains for a response….’ They all seem like nice young men but let’s wait until you’ve got your GCSE’s and A Levels out of the way before deciding which celebrity should impregnate you. Speaking of which, have you done your homework? ‘.  DD frowns at me but heads upstairs without protest to her books and I am left shaking my head and asking the dog, not for the first time, ‘ What is she like? ‘

I am blaming the unfeasibly hot October weather for my general inertia today. Apart from doing several loads of washing (because only a fool or a woman with an empty laundry basket would ignore such perfect drying conditions) I have mostly been sitting in the sun or lying lightly panting on the sofa watching my current guilty TV pleasure – Judge Judy – ‘ The people are real, the cases are real, the rulings are final…’ Having attended parties the past 2 evenings DD has also been resting most of the day, including a session sunbathing on the flat roof outside her bedroom window while DS has spent the day at his girlfriend’s house, mostly in or beside their outdoor pool. He returns exhausted from the day’s efforts, incapable of even basic speech and attempts to make polite conversation are met with barely audible, monosyllabic replies. His friend K who lives down the road, 17 this Friday just gone and getting closer to six foot every day, arrives dressed in a monkey onesey, a kind of giant animal babygro which is a favourite mode of home attire for many of the teens. It is still hot and I cannot believe that K isn’t overheating inside his simian suit. “ Nah, it’s fine, I’m really comfortable in it…’ ‘ Nice beard ‘,  I say. K is shaping his latest facial hair into a rather fetching, narrow strip running across his jawline . He strokes it carefully in an Austin Powers kind of a way –  ‘ Thank you, I’m working on it ‘.

Some time later and we are all watching the X-Factor, shouting at the telly as the judges yet again make some bad decisions ( ie. ones we don’t agree with ) about who to put through and who to send home. ‘ Noooooooooo! ‘ shouts DD, as Louis Walsh sends home Terry the scaffolder, tearfully shattering his middle aged dreams. ‘ He can’t send Terry home, I love Terry! ‘ protests DD. “ He’s crap ‘, says DS bluntly, ‘ No one’s gonna buy his records ‘. ‘ I would ‘ says DD, staunch in her defence of the luckless Terry as he joins a long list of X factor rejects we have loved and lost and quickly forgotten. When I say goodnight to DS later I ask him what his grey and pink animal onesey is – DD’s is a cow – ‘ It’s an elephant isn’t it? ‘. ‘ No, it’s a rabbit. Can you leave me alone please, I’m very tired ‘. So I head for bed, letting teenage sleeping bunnies lie.

Tuesday at 6pm, the phone rings as I am driving home. It is DD. She asks if I would like some of the ( very nice ) supper she is currently cooking when I get in from work? Absobloodylutely!  As I savour every mouthful of the food I Did Not Have To Cook I tell my son that I now love my daughter far more than him and will be leaving her the vaster portion of my vast estate when I finally shuffle off this mortal coil. Unless he also feels like rustling up some tasty treat for me one night this week? He smiles sweetly. ‘ It’s never going to happen old woman, we both know that. Can I have some money for a Dominoe’s, I’m still hungry ‘.

When I finally walk through the door on Friday evening at 9pm after a very long but enjoyable day in the Nursery Pavilion at Lords cricket ground, yes you’ve guessed it, exhibiting,  DD has left me a treat of 5 empty WKD bottles on the kitchen table rather than a home cooked meal.  She and several friends have gone to a local party which I have seen advertised on the teen hostess’ facebook page. Hummmm, I tell DD on Thursday evening, 24 hours before the planned celebration, that’s gonna end in tears ‘ Why? You always think the worst, just because there’s a lot of people going doesn’t mean anything will go wrong ‘. Back to Friday and I have arranged to pick up DD and her sleepover friend R at midnight, so kill the next few hours with a bit of light cleaning and telly and standing in the back garden trying to work out where the sound of loud music is emanating from – it can’t be the party, that’s a good half mile away. The phone goes at 11.30. ‘ Yeah, it’s me, can you come and get us now cos the party’s over, the neighbours called the police because of the noise ‘. Or then again, maybe it can. ‘ Delighted to ’ I say, ‘ The police eh? ‘ But DD has already hit the end call button cutting me off mid-gloat, so I head out into the night to pick up two barely dressed teenage girls, thanking the publicity department at facebook for providing me with further ammo in the ‘why you will never be able to have a party, ever ‘ debate.

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