It’s hard though.  Ever since I moved away from home at 18 and moved in my first cat, the lovely Myron, and my gorgeous old dog, Jazzy the stink hound, I have been a pet person.  Right now, while our gerbils are very sweet and make me smile, I miss having that soft furry something to cuddle up to, and I think M would really benefit from a larger pet.  It just doesn’t feel like the right time to take on a dog though…although I’ve given it some thought.

In the mean time Cody will have to do, and M is making the most of any opportunity to fuss and cuddle him.  Take this afternoon as we leave our house…

My neigbours are two young blokes.  One is about my age, the other maybe a little older, but they’re both proper boys.  You know, sports cars, sun tans, into fitness etc.  When I first moved in I wondered if they were a couple, but having witnessed one snogging his girlfriend in the back yard by accident as I opened my curtains one morning, I’d say that’s unlikely.  

Anyway, as we stepped out the door they were doing boy things with a bright red, soft top car, (Don’t ask me what kind it is.  It’s a car and it’s red ok?)

Miss M ran up to Cody who sitting watching them on the pavement with that critical eye that cats always seem to have, and she began to talk sweetly to her feline friend.

Me:  ”Cody’s got a fan there.”

Neigbour 1:  ”Yeah, well she’s the only one he’s got right now.”

Me:  ”Oh why.  Did he do something minging?”  

Images of poop filled trainers or hairballs in the cornflakes flash through my mind.

Neigbour 1:  ”No he just keeps miaowing.  He never shuts up.  He’s driving us crazy.”

Me:  ”Oh right.”

We smile and nod at each other then I utter the following words:

Me:  ”Our old cat used to dribble when you stroked him.”

There’s a moments silence, then… 

Neighbour 2:  ”Snort, I do that sometimes too.”

Me:  ”Nice.”  

And I walk away thinking, ‘nooooooooooooo’.

Oh, and my amazing and lovely friend, Rosie Scribble, is hosting the British Mummy Bloggers Carnival at her site today.  There are some fabulous posts there.  Go see.

My sis-in-law and I headed into town after our meal as we decided we were both definitely in need of a little more entertainment.  The night was dull and rain cleared the streets leaving bars jam packed with hot and slightly damp smelling people.  

In need of cheesy music and an opportunity for gratuitous dancing, we headed into the 70s and 80s bar. The floor was sticky, the clientele were sticky, and we were allowed to head downstairs with our drinks by a sympathetic bouncer when we informed him we couldn’t stay upstairs as it smelt of feet.  Nice.

It was full of people mainly older, or a lot younger than us.  There was dancing.  There was a mixture of occasionally cool, and often hilariously bad music played by a scary Ron Jeremy look alike who would not smile.  And for a newly single woman there was a sudden awareness of feeling vulnerable.

Not that I’m a skinny little chick with the word ‘breakable’ crayoned across my forehead, I am not, nor will I ever be skinny or in the least bit physically breakable.   But I was suddenly aware of eyes on me.  Of men who just seemed to watch.  Their gaze boring into me with an intensity that was at first flattering, then later kind of unnerving.  They weren’t out with mates.  They weren’t part of a group.  They weren’t there for the music.   They were alone, looking for a woman.  Any woman.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for freedom and as long as you’re not hurting anybody then your life is your life, but when a man suddenly steps between you and your friend, stares down at you intently and presses against your body his face looming at yours, it’s a little bewildering to the inexperienced.

I’ve been with Mr B since I was 18 years old.  Before that I had one boyfriend and was with him for 8 months, but I was a very naive kid and it was a fairly innocent relationship.  Bullied at school and with little self esteem I didn’t flirt, didn’t date, didn’t dare talk to boys really.  Then when I finally lost some weight and kind of bloomed at around 16 I bagged myself one of the cool Upper Sixth Form boys and then didn’t have to worry about any of that other stuff.  

When we broke up I was sad but hell I was 17, there was no rush.  I spent Thursday nights at Rock City in my Doc Martins, dancing the night away with a ton of mates.  I had one encounter, an evening of kissing and conversation with an older man at a house party, but nothing else until 6 months later when I got together with my future husband.  (A drunken New Years Eve snog doesn’t count right?)

So what am I saying?

I’m saying that I felt like that kid again.  A bit lost, a bit nervous, completely unsure of how to react, and it’s left me feeling kind of scared.  I no longer have the protected veil of a relationship.  The ring on my finger that meant I didn’t see the stolen glances, didn’t have to think twice about any men that were getting too close, didn’t have to make choices.  Didn’t have choices.

Part of me feels exhilarated but another part feels terrified.  How do you avoid the predators?  How do you know if a person is nice or not?

Blimey I’ve got some catching up to do, but I’m glad that my eyes seem to be open and I’m aware of what I don’t want.  

I don’t want to be the woman in the corner being groped by the bloke who’s tried it on with half the other women in the room before he turned to you.

I’m not up for a quick squeeze and a tongue sarnie after a few thrusts on the dance floor.  I don’t want to snog random strangers.  I need more than that I think.   And while the thought of a really slow sweet kiss with lips gentle at first, tentative almost, asking permission, checking that it’s ok, is wonderful, sighhhhh,  it’s not likely to happen any time soon and I don’t think I’d be ready for that anyway…  

..unless you’re David Tennant, Colin Firth, Liam Neeson or Simon Baker, or you look a bit like them in a certain light, or you take the time to talk to me and you make me laugh.

Ok?

Good.

Yesterday was such a time in the house of the D’s.  Like us, my brother and his wife have two little girls, cousin ME and Baby J.  We have a tradition in our family that on each of the four little ones birthdays, the other three get a couple of little gifts as well.  Yesterday was a mad day for us all as both Miss M and Cousin ME were invited to another little boys birthday party in the afternoon, so my sis-in-law, Helly, asked my brother, Dave, to wrap the items on their bed while she took ME to the party.  Then all she had to do was pick him, baby J and the gifts up and bring them to Miss M’s evening tea party at our house. 

This he did.

As Miss M, Miss E, Cousin Baby J and Cousin ME rip apart carefully unwrap their gifts, Helly finds herself with one item left.

Helly:  “What’s this Dave?”

Dave:  “I dunno, clothes I think.”

Helly:  “What clothes?”

Dave:  “I don’t know.  They were on our bed.  You told me to wrap the stuff on our bed so I did.”

Helly looks up at us all, frowning, her lips pursed.  She squeezes the parcel, then studies it suspiciouly, an invader in the ranks.  She gives it a shake then slides her finger deftly under the bright yellow paper, tearing apart the surprise package to reveal…

..her pyjamas.

Snort. 

You’ll be pleased to know we didn’t laugh or mock him in any way.

Ok I’m lying.

Why?

Well, on Friday I will be traversing to Stratford Upon Avon to see the delectable David Tennant in this 16th Century Comedy, along with my gorgeous Holly and my scrumptious Belle.

Being an English Graduate I have read most of Shakespeare’s plays, but this one seems to have dodged my radar so I plan to familiarize myself with the plot so that I won’t be distracted from David’s lycra enveloped manly legs.

Does that make me a bad person?

Naaaah.  Public drooling.  That would make me a bad person.

At Grandma’s her thoughts were momentarily elsewhere.  A cuddle with Uncle Peter who is visiting from Torquay.  A discussion about where Miss E is.   (She spent the day at her friend D’s house.)   A new dress that flares out like a ballerina when she twirls and skips and dances.  But when we climbed back into the car she returned to her task, pop, pop, popping until her eyes closed, her head fell to her chest and her fingers rested on their air cushioned plastic bed.

On the way home we stopped off to buy bread.  I stayed in the car with Miss M as she slept.  To make her more comfortable I tipped her chair backwards and gently lifted her head so that it was cradled in her seat.  She stirred.  She looked at me.  Her hand sought her gift and she pop, pop, popped…just three times, and then her eyes closed once more and her fingers stilled.

As I sit now at my laptop, Mr B is at my feet, the new BBC series of Merlin is on TV, and I am serenaded by a cracking sound, a snap of plastic releasing air, a bubble pressed between idle fingers, and I think back to my child’s self soothing polythene lullaby.

My husband lets out a sigh, gets up and leaves the room.  I hear the sound of a cupboard door being opened, a rustle of rubbish upon rubbish, and he returns empty handed.

Me:  ”Have you finished them?”

Mr B:  ”Yep.”

Me:  ”Do you feel all fulfilled and satisfied?”

Mr B:  ”Ho yes.”

Me:  ”Well you’d better watch it.  Miss M will be asking for that in a bit.”

And he looks guilty for a moment.  Just a second of regret, then he shrugs and his eyes return to the screen.

I grin and flick him on the shoulder.

Me:  ”I hope it was worth it.”

Mr B:  ”Oh but it was.  Sighhhhh.  It really was.”

He leans back against the chair, calm, relaxed and filled with that sense of achievement that always comes when a task is complete.

And I realise that at that moment, for Mr B, nothing, no nothing compares to the wonder, the satisfaction, the complete and utter joy that is bubble wrap.

But never, no never did I ever believe I would see the sight that met my eyes today.

An old man and lady. Stooped, anoraked, bent double against the wind, climbing through the mesh of a fence at the bottom of a large farmer’s field filled with car booters.

And how much did they save themselves with this acrobatic feat?

50p each.

Snort.

P.S.  A car boot sale is where you take all your old or unwanted stuff down to a field or car park, pay the organizer about £5, then sell your stuff from a trestle table in front of your car.  They’re normally quite big events and great for making some money or picking up a bargain.  I was just buying today but I made £60 earlier this year doing one.  I suppose it’s a way of recycling too.  Hope that explains it. 

It’s weird because we’ve been together for 15 years so you’d think I’d know everything there is to know wouldn’t you?

Like if he stands beside me in a certain way I know he’s going to leave me with the gift of a windy emission that wouldn’t seem out of place in a sewer.

And if he can’t find the TV remote he will snarl and grumble like a lion with a verucca and not stop until I go in, lift a cushion, or a book, or a child, and find it almost straight away.

I know he likes to sing loudly when he cooks.

I know he loves having head and back rubs and has even trained Miss E in the art, and if E and I are otherwise engaged he shimmies up and down the door post in the living room Baloo style and makes weird grunting sounds. (NB. He has eczema, not anything else in case you were thinking body lice or something really nasty.)

But what I did not know, what I could never have guessed, was a certain ambition for, erm, power.
I mean, I suppose the signs were there. He used to love Pinky and the Brain from Animaniacs, and is big into Sci-Fi which let’s face it is generally about either unlikely yet oddly enticing love matches, or somebody wanting to rule the known universe, but…

.. Mr B??

Drummer, Dad, scourge of Trivial Pursuit players across the land?

Surely not?

But, as I rose from my sick bed (yes sick again) and wandered unsteadily downstairs, then perched myself gingerly on the edge of my familiar large black office chair and touched the eager little mouse, I saw this;

So now I’m not only going to have to recognise that minutiae of body language that announces a fart, or an itch, but also world domination.

Tsk, the things we have to do.

Must

Sleep

xoxoxox

Can they really be useful when sharing your innermost thoughts with a loved one?

Take apples. Sometimes people describe another person as the ‘apple of their eye’. That always strikes me as a little strange. I mean, apples have absolutely nothing to do with eyes, unless you have green or red eyes and that would be frankly quite worrying. I have no apples in my eyes, I don’t even have apple pips in my eyes and if anyone attempted to change this I would have to summon a superhero or something.

Then there’s the egg. You can be a ‘good egg’ or a ‘bad egg’. Again I don’t really see the connection between people and eggs. I mean, if someone likes an egg it’s because, well, it tastes nice. And if they don’t like an egg it’s because it’s old and stinky and tastes like something died. It’s very rare that I describe my love for someone by their ‘taste’, and I can promise, I have never once said the words “I don’t like Henry, he stinks like a polecat and tastes foul”, I mean, that would be so rude.

However, yesterday as I prepared tea for my family, I was pondering to myself about what I might write today, August 28th 2008, the 9th Anniversary of the day Mr B and I were wed. I wanted it to be simple, something short and sweet that would make him smile but that he wouldn’t have to strain his eyes over as he can never find his glasses.

As I emptied potatoes into the bowl of hot water and took out my knife to peel them, my mind raced through a myriad of possibilities. Should I do a Romeo and Juliet style balcony scene using Barbie and Alan (she is so over Ken)? Or maybe I could do a Dr Who story with him as my Dr and me as something much prettier than a darlek.

But then, I dipped my hand into the warm water, searched around for the nearest potato shaped item, and discovered this.

Sighhhh, is it not a thing of beauty?

So, Mr B, my sweet potato, my rumbunctious roasty, my tuberous tattie my desiree, my King Edward my romano, I love you so much my dearest spud muffin, even when you’re mashed.

Happy Anniversary babe. You are the potato of my left ventricle. Sighhh.

As we stroll down a quiet sun filled street a middle aged man crosses the road in front of us laden with a large green holdall.
As he reaches his car, his voice blares out in a strong local accent (think Shane Meadows films.)

Man:  “Don’t touch me maggots.”

Snigger.

I didn’t touch his maggots, I promise.