Welcome to Feel-Goodish Friday!
I am feeling VERY good today. This is because next week the school Easter holidays start and I just cannot WAIT to be with my darling offspring, re-realising that they are unconscionable arseholes.
No. I am feeling very good because on Monday I will pack-up the boot of my car with essential supplies (7 bottles of wine, a huge hunk of cheese, some bread, a vat of coffee and 100 fags) and I will drive away from this house ON MY OWN to spend the next three nights in a cottage ON MY OWN so that I can write my book ON MY OWN.
That’s right folks. The universe has conspired to allow Gwyneth a week off work at the precise moment the offspring are absolved from ‘education’ so that he can be immediately educated in the numerous ways they are unconscionable aresholes.
This time last year, Gwyneth had just returned from three months working out of the country, three months where I spent my everyday stacking up childcare credits and resentment and fantasising about life with a fella who occasionally walked through the door before dinner, or at all.
Within minutes of being home, Gwyneth fell on our cellar steps and broke his leg in a most thoughtless, surgery-demanding, two-months off work kinda way. To say I didn’t mind looking after him during the Easter hols would be like saying I don’t mind Theresa May, Boris Johnson and Philip Hammond being in charge of the ship that steers the UK into a pathetic, narcissistic, Rioja-less lump of jingoistic sand. Ahem. Excuse me.
I wished it was MY leg that had snapped, ME that lay breathless and faint in a heap, ME that was forced to take copious opiates and lie down for days and weeks, ME that waved at my children from across the room while someone else did everything else.
March 2016. We didn’t know we were months from boarding the ship named Brexshit McShitface.
We also didn’t know, Gwyneth and I, that we were months from walking into a non-descript room in a non-descript house in a non-descript suburb to meet a man called Jim and ask him to take our marriage in his hands, look at it and talk about it and eventually give it back to us looking better than it ever had.
We didn’t know we were months from realising that eldest was on her way to University, after years of misdiagnosis, misunderstanding and mis-bloody-ogyny, she WAS able and she WAS ready and she IS going.
And we didn’t know we were months from fully realising we are raising a boy who is quite the intellectual, whilst also being so unusual as to make his world confusing and awkward and sometimes even frightening. But he is our intelligent, confused, awkward and utterly glorious boy. Last night he went to his school disco, and whilst he didn’t dance or want to wear special clothes and didn’t speak to anyone apart from me, he did at least GO and the look on his face when he realised it was the end of the disco and he had BEEN to the disco almost carried me through the heart-stopping moment outside when he fell from the climbing frame so badly that I thought I was about to spend another March 30th in A&E.
And I had no idea in March 2016, that within a few weeks I would start banging away at a blog that has brought me so much pleasure and teeny bits of pain but more than anything, a lovely feeling that my words are sometimes your words.
What a difference a year makes.
Ok. To business:
My award for Outstanding Public Feel-Goodishness this week goes to: every single magnificent Muslim in the UK but especially the ones who rocked up to Westminster Bridge to hold hands. I just wanna FML that this public display was even necessary.
My award for Outstanding Private Feel-Goodishness this week goes to: all my mates in my locale. I don’t know quite how or why they do it, but they take my slides on the chin, my cancellings and quietness and they never demand. And then when I’m back on track, they’re still there with wine and cake and no resentment. This is mostly because they are all a squidge mental themselves, but I’ve never had a band of women quite like them. I do hope you are enjoying such deep understanding from your mates. If you’re not, may I suggest you fuckety off from anyone who needs you to be always ‘up’ (or always ‘down’ – in fact they’re WORSE) and find yourself a band of chums who sing your praises and get your phases.
May I now apologise for the length of this post, but at least you will be free of my ramblings for a time, while I spend the next week writing THE GREATEST MEMOIR OF ALL TIME (aka: getting spangled on me own in front of the telly) …or hopefully, BOTH.
Stay well folks. And to any women who are not feeling very goodish today, be heartened by the knowledge that you will never be forced into a one-to-one with Mike Pence.