A Whore in the Kitchen

Domestic goddesses, avert your eyes.

You may see I've attempted to clean the laminate with a wet wipe.

I've always been rubbish at biology, chemistry, or any kind of science. Mostly, domestic science.

In home economics the girls made beautiful butterfly cakes with delicate wings. Mine were more like Quasimodo.

Splattered tools, cake mixture in my hair and nails, and how did Homepride's Fred manage to get footprints on the floor? Smug little shit. 

Born this way

I was terminally messy.

The teacher asked a prefect to show me how to keep a tidy school bag.

But the pencil shavings, Hubba Bubba wrappers and mouldy peanut butter sandwiches left them rocking back and forth in the library.

My bedroom was an explosion of ski jackets, Rimmel and Just 17.  Would Nick Kamen put up with this mess when we got married?

The OC(d)

When my husband and I moved in together it was - in Hart to Hart terms - murder. Complete opposites. I was forced to confront my untidiness, because he has OCD.

He lined up his combs in size order, had a whole drawer designated to batteries and folded his clothes into neat piles, like a Benetton employee.  

He was fastidious. My slovenly ways disturbed him. So we had a rule. I made the mess and he cleared it up. The routine worked, until we had kids.

Desperate house strife

In my professional capacity I knew what was expected. I was trained to sit on my backside all day and gossip with colleagues.

As a housewife, I’m all at sea.

I'm not experienced in manual labour.

Labour in vain

But I pretend that I’m house proud.

After the boys were born, I was in a panic about the health visitor’s visit. I plumped cushions, found doilies and even bought Boasters (the biscuits, not the round plastic things you rest hot cups on). However, she seemed oblivious to my efforts; especially when two babies projectile vomited into her handbag.

Playdough, arts and craft, dominated the early years. Mr N would get home and it would resemble the scene in Psychoville when Dawn French's character (a crazy Midwife who believes her Tiny Tears is a real baby) upsets her obsessively tidy husband in an arts and crafts frenzy.

(View from 6 min 14 to 15.01)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZLDQ_yywN8

Bad housekeeping

Because I have a defective tidy gene, it takes me twice as long to make the house presentable.

When we go on holiday I spend a day cleaning so that the neighbours don't crack on that I am actually a slobbish teenager masquerading as a middle aged mother.

If a friend gives an impromptu visit, it sends me into a tiz and I pretend I'm not in, or go to extremes and the whole house stinks of Mr Muscle.

If I did these chores as I went along, and didn’t make a mess in the first place, then I  wouldn’t have to spend half my life tidying.

I make life hard for myself. But just as my husband can't help hoovering the big vac with a mini Henry desk vac, I can't help leaving all the lids loose on the jars.

Even when I spend hours tidying it never looks immaculate like the houses in magazines. Thank God for drawers.

Half-a Stewart

I'm less Flash and more hot flush. I prefer to do the quickest, slap dash job possible.

Sorry Kim and Aggie, but there's no lemon juice or vinegar in this house. Just gin.

I don't think I will ever be accused of being a Stepford wife.  Maybe a stepoverit wife.

Wishy washy

Did I accidentally have sextuplets? Why is there so much laundry?

Even with my masterclass in recycling school uniform (rule: if it can be picked off, it can be re-worn). Delicates, woollens, lights, dark. Or you could just get a Colour Grab from Poundland and pray for the best.

My friend's soft, fluffy Lenor scented towels....I'll stick a bit of Febreeze on our sandpaper ones.  

Clothes ironed, starched and folded away in drawers. I need a degree in origami to figure that out.

I can stack the airer until it’s creaking under the weight, and leave clothes on the line through sun, rain, snow and sun again, until they are bone dry and we’ve entered a new season.

Mrs won’t be Beeton

Viz top tips:  'Run a length of string through an Edam cheese. Hey presto! A delightful aromatic candle which will fill your home with the smell of burning cheese'.

I’ve developed various shortcuts to make jobs less tedious.

Balancing plates: Many were shocked watching the Wife Swap where one Fairy Liquid hating woman served up meals on paper plates. Not I. This woman is a genius!

Sew boring: My sewing looks like I’ve stitched up Frankenstein’s monster. Thank God for my mother, Super Glue and staples.

De-pressing: I’ve been known to iron with my GHDs and dry my not so smalls with a hairdryer. I don’t microwave-dry undies anymore. Not since the underwire in my Wonderbra started a minor kitchen fire.

“Do you iron the creases in school trousers?” my friend asked. “What creases? Intentional creases? I buy non iron uniform,” I replied. Apparently this still needs ironing, though. Whatever!

All washed up: My husband washes up, because he is frightened I will use the dishwasher and this will cost money. Or, that he will once again open it to find a stash of festering dishes that I had accidentally mislaid.

Vacuous: I'll ‘fess up that I did the shake and forgot the vac. Mr N thought I had a bad case of dandruff.

One bang and the stain’s still there: I watched a programme on American au pairs who simply sprayed Pledge onto light bulbs to make the room smell nice; giving the illusion they’ve been busy, instead of shagging Chad. Inspired, I sprayed Windolene, but it just looked like Chad had got excited all over the bays.

Sorry, Anthea. Housework’s boring. I have far more pressing issues, like shopping.

Not Going Out: A Valentine's Day Special

You know you’ve got kids when you and your husband have a hot date on Valentine’s Day - at Parents’ Evening.

That’s how I’ll be spending this February 14^th.

It’s warm, I get a seat (albeit a tiny child’s one ) it’s a ride out, and I get to spend quality time with my husband.

There’s even an intermediary to get you talking about the kids when spouse to spouse conversation runs dry.

Who says romance is dead?

Hallmark? It’s probably where the school shoes have scuffed the wall

Valentine’s Day should be the most romantic event of the year. Proclamations of love. Hearts and flowers. Passionate assignations. 

Take your average married couple.

He whispers sweet nothings: “Have you seen the toenail clippers?”

She luxuriates in the bath. “Mommy, I need a poo. Can I come in?”

In the early years, cards were thoughtful, padded affairs with heartfelt messages. Now it’s comedy or generic cards that are straight to the point and practical.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, love ? P.S. Can you turn the oven off in 30 as I don’t want to burn the kids' Crispy Pancakes?’

I might opt for Asda’s Smart Price (7p) Valentine’s Day card, if it hadn’t sold out.

My aunt and uncle were way ahead of that. They sent each other the same Valentine’s Day Card for 20 years.  They’re divorced now.

On my wedding anniversary, Dad sent my husband a card which read: ‘You’re my hero’ and pictured an amusing cartoon of a beleaguered male and his nagging wife.

This followed Dad’s pre- altar words of wisdom to Mr N: “She’s off my hands now, son.”

The best a woman can get

In fairness, I have received some lovely gifts from my other half. But the bouquets of roses and champagne truffles have downscaled to a box of Cadbury’s Roses, as this covers all bases. Plus, I can spend the savings on some new finials.

One ex bought me an ornately wrapped pressie.  I excitedly tore open the gift to the gushes of:  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,”

Only to reveal a Ladyshave.

“It’s got two spare blades,” he quipped.

Come dine with me - and 100 other random people

I’m happy to stay in on Valentine’s Day.  February is rather chilly.

Maybe I’m getting old and jaded. Maybe the honeymoon stage is over.

it’s not like I live on Coronation Street, where you can conveniently walk next door to Nick’s Bistro.

No reservation is required – even though it’s the busiest backstreet restaurant on any given week night. Just sit next to all your neighbours while Nigel Havers serves you Dom Perignon and oysters. 

Maybe I’ve just had too many unromantic meals..

Nobody puts Baby in a corner

On our first Valentine’s evening we booked a three course meal at a swanky restaurant. The price tag was hefty, but love is… priceless.

It didn’t bode well when we joined the queue outside and were handed raffle tickets, IKEA returns desk style.

Once inside - and after the blue tinge had faded - we were guided to our table.

It was intimate.

“Can I borrow this?” the man two tables along said, as he leaned over to grab the salt cellar.

We had a candle. Which blew out whenever anybody opened the toilet door.

We were breathless. We had to breathe in to let people squeeze past our seats.

I had a rose in a plastic tube from a guitarist named Manuel, who performed a medley of hits by The Mavericks, Los Lobos and The Gypsy Kings. It transpired that he was actually a welder named Kevin from Chelmsley Wood.

There was time to whisper sweet nothings before the starter arrived - an hour later.

As I bit into my frozen pud, the gong struck and our session was over. The next tranche of diners were seated faster than you can say Black Forest Gateau.

It was as romantic as Alan Partridge’s date at the Travel Tavern’s all you can eat Valentine’s Buffet; ‘though we did not get chocolate mousse all over the valance.  

In subsequent years we tried other eateries, including Wetherspoons.  You can’t beat £15 for steak and wine. What woman doesn’t like to devour a 20oz steak, washed down with a pint of Ruddles? Especially a veggie like me.

But the pub was crammed to capacity. Starving punters were poised to pounce on the end of any available table, clasping their coffee card and a packet of wet wipes to dab away any residue.

The following year I tried to find vouchers that we could use, but the restrictions were so limited that it would be impossible to down a four course meal, complementary rose and enjoy the Sabrina tribute act, between the hours of 1 and 2am. On a Monday.

This year I'm content to stay in with a bag of chips and a Lion Bar. There many benefits:

Heating, Freeview (eliminates the need for small talk) and somebody to cuddle up to; my cat Bella!

My not so funny Valentine: Cautionary tales from the drip tray

Once I dated a man who described McDondald’s as a restaurant. The same individual referred to Sports Soccer as a designer outlet.

Another suggested we go halves on the 2-4-1 special. After sending me up the bar to order, he insisted on the change from his £2.50.

A friend’s (not me, really) partner gave her a fiver to buy herself a bunch of carnations from the Murco garage while he was filling the Mondeo up.

“Get me 20 Silk Cut and a scotch egg while you’re there, bab,” he shouted across the forecourt.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Bunking off P.E.

There are many reasons why I'm crap at exercise.

There's me; uncoordinated, unfit and unwilling to wear luminous lycra. I've no drive, no competitive edge and no team spirit (unless it's Bacardi) and I'm out of breath at the very mention of circuits.

Then there's exercise; boring, painful, and about as much fun as a night on the tiles with Geoff from accounting.

In a bid to exorcise my demons, here's the first of several blogs investigating why I'm intolerant to exercise.

Fourth period games

Why was I always picked last for the team, behind even Wheezing Wendy and Sweaty Susie?

How I longed to be athletic and nimble, with tits like midget gems; instead of slow and unsporty, and wearing two sports bras.

Netball. Firstly, I have to wear a stupid bib. Secondly, I'm surrounded by some very tall girls and, at 5ft 1 and 3/4, I feel like a yappy dog jumping up to retrieve a reward. Only, what's rewarding about trying to get a stupid ball into a stupid net?

Cross Country. More like crossing the South Pole as snow and ice cover the sports field. A wintry gust of wind blows up the slip of material that represents my gym skirt, to reveal my backside to the entire school.

As the Chariots of Fire swots vye for pole position, the smokers and I walk at the back, complaining of stitch and dehydration. Our classmates are in third period Woodwork by the time we finally return all chilblains and disorientated, like Scott of the Antarctic.

Climbing hymen

Why do I want to climb a rope? I'm not a sailor, nor do I need to escape - Kathleen Turner, Romancing the Stone, style. Plus, I'm not a teenage boy, so the experience will not give me a stiffy; just burns and possibly some static as polyester hits twine.

Why do I need to straddle a horse? Will I ever visit Texas or take part in a Pentathlon? Petrified of the rumour that one misjudged split would break my hymen, I wore a Doctor White's sanitary towel for the whole of the third year, as a precautionary measure.

Why should I walk across a bench? Once again, I'm not a navvy; I doubt I will ever need to walk the plank or balance on a ledge, unless I am doing a midnight flit from a hotel room after accidentally moving a Barbie sized bottle of Pernod 1cm in the mini bar.

Speedon't

I must confess to have always liked swimming and my breast stroke is half decent. But the onset of puberty put pay to that.

Not only did I hate the idea of mixed swimming and boys pointing at my rapidly expanding breasts poking out of the side of my navy costume, I was scared that Charlotte's web - which sprouted from her Speedo gusset - might crawl into my fanny, and that I too might develop an Octopus's lady garden.

Sports day: The final humiliation. A sudden bout of illness on the day was preferable to being forced to compete in the 400m as a stooge to make the proper runners look even faster. Collapsed in heap after the first bend, I pray that one of the sixth formers will carry me off the track Officer and a Gentleman style. More like head teacher's office if they found out I was pretending.

In primary school I made my equally unsporty mom enter the parents' race. As she teetered in her hot pink Noddy Holder platforms, I knew the fall was imminent. I just didn't realise that she'd also take down one of the judges, Reverend Plum, along with the table of medals.

Batting for the other team

My Cuban cigar smoking gym teacher, Jiffy Jenkins - who makes Sue Sylvester look like a gym fearing pansy - had given up on me a long time ago.

My feigned asthma attacks and eternal periods, combined with my sheer inadequacy, left her reaching for the Lucozade.

Each time I 'forgot' my PE kit this simply resulted in me having to don the dreaded spare kit. This consisted of tiny or extra large bottle green knickers, minus the elastic; a 1950s swimming costume with a perished lining; and an off white polo shirt, complete with yellow underarm stains.

From the fourth year we could choose games 'options'. So while all the other suckers chose to run 'round in the cold like hamsters on wheels (and actually enjoyed it) the overspill of misfits played ping pong, nattering in the warm and having crafty tokes on their ciggies by the fire exits.

But we still had to face the changing rooms, as Jiffy herded groups of fresh teenagers into cold showers.
Maybe, it was being surrounded by fannies or boobs, or maybe it was the fact that I did not have the bod of Kim Cattrall in Porky's, or maybe it was sound of Jiffy's whistle in my ear as she made me return to wash behind my ears; but since then I have never been able to willingly expose my naked flesh in public - unless alcohol was involved.

But more on gyms and changing rooms in my future blog..