Listglorious

To do or not to do...that is the question

I write lists. 

The minute I get a bit panicky about what I have to achieve I write a list.

I write lists on a pad next to the fridge. I write lists on the back of receipts and find them weeks later in the back pocket of my jeans (usually washed) and I write lists on my phone and I am the queen of spreadsheets for the ultimate 'everything list'.

I have several of these on my phone currently in use http://iphone.appstorm.net/roundups/productivity-roundups/25-fantastic-to-do-list-apps-for-iphone/ but obviously I also like to back up these apps with the spreadsheet versions.

I have lists on lists. Here is a list of some of my lists:

• Things that need doing in the house list 

Last time anything was ticked off on this list was April 2004.

• Shopping list

Of course this list has subheadings and is separated into the food shop and the things I want to buy shop (this list is always being ticked off otherwise we'd starve).

• Things I want for the house list 

These range from beautiful things for my kitchen to new items for the boudoir. The boudoir (for those not in the know) is the top floor of my house; used to be an office and now houses my collection of shoes, accessories and clothes. (One of the benefits of being single, you get to choose room function).

• The shoes I need list

See above point on collection of shoes for the boudoir. A girl can never have enough shoes.

• The bucket list 

This list is quite important and stupidly has things like GET A TATTOO written on it and CLIMB A MOUNTAIN. Both of which I am supposed to be doing before I am 40. I really need to get going on this list.

• Things I must to today list

Always too long this list. And of course completely unachievable.

• Things I should have done yesterday list

See above note on unachievable.

• The ultimate list

This is the everything list, combines all of the above in a spreadsheet and is often colour coded in priority; depending on my need to avoid ticking anything off the above lists.

Writing lists makes me feel like I have done what I need to do. When I write a list I have achieved.

I know if I did what I was supposed to do, my lists wouldn't take quite so long to write. 

But then; what would I write my lists on?

Camping chaos and calm

Camping

I’m not supposed to like camping.

No double bed with white cotton sheets.

No doors to protect you from people.

No wardrobe with a choice of shoes and accessories.

No en-suite; in fact not even a toilet that you can call your own.

But I do.

I even like putting my tent up. I take pride in knowing I can erect a tent in 30 minutes (sort of well really 45 minutes but that does include the wine break).

I like being outdoors. I even like being outdoors when it rains.

I like the fact that I shoehorn a lot of equipment into my car and off we go for a weekend.

I love the fact that I’m in a field with my mates and even my phone gets ignored.

I ignore small details that would normally really upset me – like the fact that this weekend I managed to pitch the tent on an ant’s nest.

The reason I love camping so much is the feeling of calm that envelops me as the weekend settles in. As the sun starts to set and the small things roam free, I look around the field littered with tents, barbecues and camp fires and I realise (strangely) I’m in my happy place. Only for a weekend mind.

I love the fact the small things are so free, they can flex their independence.

They explore, climb, and operate as a pack having adventures and playing games that frankly just aren’t possible in my urban life.

Normal rules don’t apply, the six year old spent most of the weekend in his bare feet and I remembered to brush their teeth at around 11.30 am every day even though we had been awake since dawn o’ clock.

It’s taken me a while to get used to sleeping on a piece of tissue pretending to be a bed listening to the noises of the night and I have to ensure coffee is on a constant drip.

But when I’ve been camping for the weekend; I feel like I have really been away  (it might be because the days are soooooooooo long), I feel like we have truly left the nonsense of life behind and just had fun.

In the words of my ten year to her eight year old mate as she threw a cup of water over me this weekend and I didn’t shout:

8 year old: “My mum would have shouted if I had done that.”

10 year old: “Mum won’t shout this weekend. We’re on holiday. We’re camping. She doesn’t shout when we’re camping.”

My job was done. I was complete. I sat down in my very uncomfortable camping chair, supped my slightly too warm wine in a mug and smiled.

Note: as this blog is published, all camping equipment remains in my hallway as I don’t like putting it all away and unpacking. That sucks.

Separation and sanity

Small things, separation and a revelation

It was the week I thought would never happen.

After two years of being separated somehow the ex was taking my small things away on holiday for a week. 

To France. 

A completely different country. 

A whole plane ride away.

Now those that know me, know that I have never been THAT parent that is glued to one's small things. Only 8 weeks ago I happily abandoned them whilst I jetted off for four fun-filled days in Marbella with the girls. (Obviously I didn't leave them in the cellar with a tin of beans; they had juice aswell).

Every year I jet off on a girls ski weekend and I don't think twice about sleepovers.  (Well sleepovers that aren't at my house.)

In the past two years I have got used to them going off to their dad's for two nights a week and sometimes I have even enjoyed - no relished - that time to myself.

But this was different. It was a whole week. Seven whole days without my babies. Seven days, 168 hours, 10,080 minutes without them. And they were on a plane in  a different country. I counselled myself. It was ridiculous I have got on planes, trains and automobiles that have taken me away from them....but they have never been taken away from me - and never on a stupid giant metal thing that flies in the sky. 

It was such a small subtle difference but it grew arms, legs, a beard and several heads as the day approached. 

I smiled with the small things and joined in their holiday excitement, I became a gibbering wreck with my friends as I spent nights awake on 'what ifs'. That moment when you are dropping off to sleep or you think you are dropping off to sleep and you allow your mind to wander. Only for a second it wanders into very dangerous territory when your mind takes you on the journey of the worst nightmares you can imagine. Then you stare at the ceiling counting sheep, or in my case counting hot men doing the long jump.

The day arrived and it's fair to say I was a wreck. The girls had set up a tag team of lunatic watch with regular text counselling which to be fair to all my friends not one was entitled: *Man up you blithering idiot.*

The 10 yo was wobbly - a week was a long time. The 6yo was nervous and I could have got a gold medal (see what I did there) for my credible excitement at what fun they would have. Their dad picked them up and I waved happily from the window.

Inside I crumbled, I felt like someone had tore me limb from limb. I knew it was ridiculous. I knew it was frankly mental and I knew (possibly) that they would be fine. I cried more than Gwyneth Paltrow getting an Oscar and then I cried some more.

Then I manned up. Mainly because the electricity meter man knocked on the door and I'm not sure he could have coped with my hysterics. In fact if he hadn't arrived the flash floods of the past few days could have been started from my kitchen.

Fast forward one week and my babies are back. In my arms. I met them at the airport. If T-mobile had been there, the scenes would have had more views on YouTube than Justin Bieber's inaugural performance. 

They are now in bed. We snuggled on the couch. We had a pillow fight. The 6yo made a den and the 10 yo told me all the things she had been saving up for the past 7 days which culminated in a discussion as to whether sex and section were the same thing. Normality had resumed. I sighed a giant sigh of relief.

The fact remains I love my independence. 

I love it when I choose to spend a few days abroad without my small things. 

But when they go away without me, when they are abroad without me, when I can't easily get to them and swoop in wearing my Supermum cloak I hurt.

It's subtle. It's really rather small.

It's what makes me their mum.

Girlpower

Make friends, make friends

...never never break friends

It began six months ago. Five of my oldest friends. Several glasses of wine and a determination to celebrate our last year in our thirties in style - in the sun. A plan was formed. A weekend was set and the flights were booked.


At 4.30am on Thursday, the girls arrived to pick me up for a stupid o'clock flight. As I left the house, I heard from inside the car; 'Bloody hell who brought Paloma Faith' (a comment about my lovely hat) and so the weekend had begun.


We arrived at the airport, checked in and boarded the plane to take us to the sun.  The plane was full of groups of girls, women, hens, stags, boys, very few men, each and everyone looking forward to seeing that rare sighting - rarer than hen's teeth in the UK - the sun.


On the plane, we plugged in iPhones, opened kindles, read pages and barely uttered a word - all around us people were catching up. We ignored each other. It was just perfect. Each of us content in each other's silence as we made the transition from mum to me.


We arrived at our villa, marvelled at the bedrooms, argued over the master suite and gazed longingly at the pool. Within minutes cases were abandoned, phones were laid down and bikinis, tankinis and burkinis (me) were found, bemoaned and adorned.


Then it started. The laughter. We chattered, gossiped and reminisced  over our past, caught up on latest goings-on, shared our angst, our worries and our nonsense - which even included whether the blades of grass were thicker in Spain than the UK. 


And then we laughed some more and ridiculed each other - I even snorted beer down my nose. It was one of my more classy moments in Marbs.


These girls have been part of my life for over two decades - we've been through break-ups, make-ups (and that's just us girls) boyfriends, husbands, marriages, divorces, children, illness, grief, loss and laughter. At the heart of it are six girls that met through school, clubbing and parties - and in Marbs we were those girls again, friends to the end.


The thing about friendship - true friendship - is that it just exists. 


In silence on a plane. In shared cocktails at a beach bar. During a three hour Mad Dogs styli walk in the burning heat of the midday sun to find a supermarket. Even when one of your oldest friends storms in a takes a picture of you in the shower (of course I hadn't locked the door, why would I?) A picture I might add that will never see the light of day - mainly due to the fact that I got my revenge shot the following day. Nothing is sacred.


The weekend ended with a delay at the airport. Seven hours and several bottles of champagne later we finally made a flight out of Marbs. 


And once again I was reminded about the power of friendship. I realised how lucky I am as my friends at home rallied round and sorted my small things. In an instant. In a blink of a eye - and then told me to go and drink more champagne - which of course I did.


I know two things.


This time next year we will be back in Marbella drinking in the sunshine.


My friends are blinkin important to me and I salute you.


Well actually three things:


Cocktails on the beach in the sun are just the best thing ever. 
(except for good friends of course).


*This blog is dedicated to my beautiful friends.

What happened to me?

The downward spiral

I don't know when it happened. I can't pinpoint the moment. 


I can't even remember when I changed.


One minute there I was obsessively reading high fashion magazines, looking at the clothes I would, may and possibly could purchase for my ever extending wardrobe and then the next I was drawn to house things. 


Things designed to make my house look better - not me. And worse still, things designed to make my house run more efficiently. Not even beautiful things.


Don't get me wrong, I still crave beautiful things for me. My boudoir and shoe collection is testament to that but I am worried about my descent into middle age.


Things I really want start with the following:


- A Utility Room
Instead of having my washer and dryer downstairs in my cellar, I dream of a room dedicated to laundry. WTF! I am screaming at myself. Laundry. A room dedicated to washing. WHAT. HAS. HAPPENED. TO. ME?


- A Larder
Now I don't mean your run of the mill cupboard which you can pull out of the wall and it cunningly displays your tins of nearly out of date tuna, your herb collection from 1996 and the emergency chicken soup just in case of illness. I mean a real larder. A walk in larder. A cupboard where all sorts of interesting things are stashed. My granny had a larder and it was often the first thing me and my sister attacked when we went on a trip to visit the wrinklies (she had proper sugar cubes). AM I TURNING INTO MY GRANNY? A LARDER?


- A Porch
I'm picturing the front door of my dreams, it opens into a wide porch where there is a wellie bootrack like this:
http://www.notonthehighstreet.com/barefootkitchen/product/barefoot-bootloop
There is a range of perfectly arranged coat hooks where the waterproofs, school coats and weekend jackets are hanging in neat rows, perhaps even colour co-ordinated and there is even a hook for school bags. Perhaps there is even room for a small ottoman where picnic rugs and everything that is currently in the boot of my car can be stored.
I realise that the porch of my dreams is also a tardis.


However, my hallway is currently my porch.


Obviously further down the list of wants include beautiful shoes, gorgeous make-up, a ready supply of botox and a personal trainer on tap.


Seriously though what has happened to me? I am concerned. What's next? Bird-watching? The W.I.? A subscription to SAGA?


How have I become that person that wants a utility, in fact not just wants a utility. I crave a utility.


All you people out there, all you people with utility rooms, you don't know how lucky you are...