When I and my mother would disagree, to get my way I would run from her to him

Sunday shoppers scurry in and out of card shops for their last minute ‘fathers day’ cards, I don’t know who should own more guilt - the card companies or the offspring who forgot to prepare. Being the green hat thinker that I am, I hate having to conform; I dislike being told what to do and how to think. Mothers day, Fathers day, Valentines day – they don’t have the meaning that they should – you aren’t celebrating the person because you want to, you are doing it because Hallmark have told you that for this 1 day out of 365, you should put a year’s worth of thought into 24 hours. Well, yes, I did buy my dad a card, and yes, I have brought him a present, but Dad, this is also for you.

Although my style, my (hmmm shall we say) life choices, my music taste and my general ‘nu-like’ mannerisms are an echo of my aunt, you can see that I am most certainly a combination of my parents.  People always recognise my mum’s personality in me; they notice my sarcasm, my humour, my passion, my strength and yes, my stubbornness – and they see that these traits all come from my mum. But, without my dad, I wouldn’t be the character that I am today. How many women would spend their weekends doing DIY? Climbing ladders, putting up shelves, changing plugs? My dad is ‘do-er’, and I want him to know that he has taught me well (but that is not to say that his assistance is unrequited – because let’s face it, I am incredibly easily distracted).

Now firstly, let you me tell you about my dad. He’s not very tall, he’s not a distinctive dresser, you won’t find him down the pub or watching football, if you saw him on the dance floor he would be rocking out to his own ‘dad-like’ moves, if you passed him in the street, I doubt you would even notice him – but in spite of you passing him by, you know what? He’s the best dad that anyone could ever ask for, and my world is a better place, because no matter how old I am, where I am living, who I am with, or who I become, I will always be my daddy’s girl.

I know I can be a bad influence on my dad. Even now, I get him in trouble. It was always the case of asking dads permission before asking mums, because they would always provide a united front, so if dad said yes, mum had to go with it. I know that my dad is always there for me, whether this means taxi-cabbing, garden hacking, washing machine plumbing, loft ladder testing or trips to ASDA, he’s only ever a phone call away.

Shortly after moving into my first house, I was home alone one evening, when two people tried their luck and entered my kitchen whilst I was upstairs. I barricaded myself in the bedroom, and shakily grabbed the phone. Any logical person would have dialled the police, but I called my dad (who then told me to call the police). The police came, and so did my dad – armed with...i think it was a spade or at least the handle of one! For this paragraph just picture the full on spade...because, my dad is like the avenger...but with a spade! You see it started in my teen years, when I was seeing some guy, who decided to turn up at my parent’s house after a night of clubbing to see if I was awake. He threw some pebbles to the window to wake me up – genius...had it been my window and not my parents. This was the first formation of my dad and the powerful weapon ‘the spade’.

My mum and dad are how parents should be. They have always done everything for my sister and I and put us before anything else – this is not to say that they spoilt us, or let us get away with murder, nope, had there been a naughty step back then, I would have found myself seated upon it for many an hour. I guess, the point I am making is that my mum and dad are a partnership and my dad isn’t one of those dads who sit on the side line, he is in all of my memories. I remember the old moped that he used to ride, and every so often I was allowed to ride with him as he came down the drive – it was only about 7 ft, but I loved it. I used to love the smell of the bike gloves, because they smelled of my dad. Even now, when I smell fresh ink it reminds me of when he would come home after being at work all day.

I also remember my dad being dressed up as Mickey Mouse for my birthday whilst my mum sweated underneath a ‘snowman’ costume. My mum used to help out at the school all the time, she would teach sewing, and reading, she would come on school trips. When I was in year six, my dad came on a school trip to Maldon. He knew all about boats and looking back I am so pleased that he went – even if I didn’t show it at the time (I had just got together with a boy called Jamie and was way more excited about my first kiss, than my dad’s knowledge of knots).

My dad has watched my grow into the woman I am today – this can’t have been easy. I know that I have tested his patience on more than one occasion (as he has mine) - I remember him threatening to sleep outside my bedroom door when my first boyfriend came to stay. My dad and I share the same temper and we may find we disagree on many a thing, but he has been there every step of the way, and he’s rescued me from myself so many times over the past year, I can never repay him. So, this blog is to say, that I don’t say it enough, but ‘Dad, for all that you are, and all that you do, I am truly grateful and I love you very much’

Happy Fathers Day.

I saw a mouse! Where? There on the stair! Where on the stair? Right there!

When I was young (which, some may say was rather a long time ago) my mum and dad gave my sister and I hamsters for Christmas. One of my fondest memories is returning home one afternoon with my dad and sister, to find my mum sitting on the floor with the paddling pool in the middle of our lounge (void of water I hasten to add) with a highly... well, some would say stressed, some would say bemused expression. You see our two female hamsters, were not quite ‘sold as seen’. Turns out Sophie (I was a big BFG fan) was an unfortunately named male, and Petal , well, she was still female, and had happily popped out an array of mini-hamsters. Of course, Sprog and I were delighted, my parents less so...my mum in particular disagreement based on the fact she had to catch the little buggers as the climbed the chimney breast, and escaped through the bars of the cage.

A decade later and I was still a lover of cute and fluffy animals. Hims and I lived in a tiny one bedroom flat at this time of my life, and based on the no cats/dogs rule one Saturday, Hims finally gave in a gave me a little Russian hamster who I named ‘Oogie’. Oogie was awesome...if not crazily small...and insanely fast. She lived quite happily in a ridiculously oversized tanky-like thing...a tanky like thing that had a broken latch towards the later years...a broken latch that Oogie decided to take advantage of. Should’ve called her Houdini,  as one day she just vanished. I was slightly convinced that she had gone into the rubbish sack and I had thrown her away...this led to a very sad Nu.

2.30am one Sunday morning and Hims woke me up saying the Oogie had run past him in the lounge. Now, before I got my hopes up, I had to remind myself this was the man who would wake me up during random nights (whilst he continued to sleep) to tell me that ‘sandwiches taste better in the Sahara, because there are no buildings around’. Turned however, on this occasion, he was awake.

One hacked up sofa later and Oogie was returned. Turns out she had made a lovely den inside Hims’ brother’s couch that was on loan to us at the time. Oogie was fine for her adventure, the couch less so.  However, after that point no more mini critters was a general rule between us.

 

This was a rule I planned to keep. Having three cats, it isn’t an argument that I needed to have with myself. I have no desire to have mini-critters in my house or my life now. Unfortunately, life had other ideas...and this morning whilst doing some sever house cleaning (yes, lesson learnt here!) I went to the cupboard under the stairs to move my crisps from under the stairs into a basket in the kitchen. Except I didn’t find the crisps that I had left there. Oh no, I found nibbled empty packets. 24 packs of empty packets.

I don’t think I live alone anymore.

I can’t hear any squeaking, I bravely flash lit my cupboard but luckily did not see any movement, but the crisps didn’t shred and eat themselves. Having three cats, I should just unleash their almighty claws and let them catch dinner, but I hate to think of the mice suffering, equally though, I hate to think of random rodents in my house. I decided to google how long mice can survive in a home...turns out quite a while, turns out they breed quite quickly too. Hummpf! The joys of an old house. I know you can get the nice mouse traps, that just capture them for re-release, but how many traps does one need? and where does one release them to? Are they like homing pidgeons? Do you get homing mice? Have decided at this point to barricade the cupboard door and keep instructing my pride of chats to meow loudly as they pass the hall way – luckily MeowMeow is called her name for a reason and doesn't need much persuasion.

On the plus side, this event has reminded me of a song that my grandpa used to sing when I was little.

Devil's Spawn

I have been told on occasion, that I am a little ‘quirky’, and on even more occasions that I’m just plain weird. This isn’t because of my 50’s dresses and bright red hair, it’s not down to my pink vespa with rainbow flowers, it’s not even to do with the fact that I don’t own a single pair of trousers...nope it’s because of the following statement that I am about to confirm here in black and white.

I HATE SPROGS. In fact I hate them with a passion.

I don’t like the way that they look, I can’t stand the way that they sound, when they scream it makes me want to do the same, and the supposedly ‘cute’ habits, you know the really ‘charming’ things like running around naked, singing, mispronouncing their R’s – it all just gets on my wick.

At this point, I am going to perform an astonishing mind reading activity – you see as you read this you are thinking ‘what is wrong with you?’, well dear reader, nothing, nothing is wrong with me, I just don’t like children, similar to the way that you don’t like cockroaches. To which you are now thinking ‘you can’t compare cockroaches to babies – they are adorable’, and now I will reply with the simple question – ‘Are they? Are they really?’ Because, I don’t find it adorable when they sit behind me on a plane kicking my chair, I don’t find them adorable when they get the hiccups and spit up weird white foamy goo, nor do I find it adorable when the fling popcorn at my hair during a trip to the cinema. So now you are going to pull out your big guns, because, you sprog lovers adore this final statement, you say it with such utter confidence – because this is the real doozey of a response ‘But you was a child once’. There you go. You said it. And all I need to say to that is... EXACTLY! But before you start getting out the holy water, you need to hear me out (because let’s face it, I get to hear your arguments time and time again).

I Hate Sprogs when I’m Shopping

If there is one thing that I hate more than people with ‘push-tram egos’ it’s the Sprogs that have escaped from the confines of their push trams. Let’s take this one topic at a time. Why, in a crowded shopping centre do people with pushtrams believe that because they have a buggy, they have superiority over all other shoppers? You know the type, they see that everyone else is patiently allowing passers through, but they don’t wait to the side like everyone else, oh no – they charge through the middle, steam rollering any innocent bystander with their mama&paper buggy of bruises! Oh, and why, do they have to be left right in front of what I wish to look at? Can’t you move it so that it’s in your way and not mine? After all, it was you that should have had a headache...not me.

Ok, so if it’s not the parents it’s the escapee sprogs – and this always happens when Christmas shopping. The sprog is harness free and out in the wild (well Lakeside shopping centre at least), they have a toy car or truck, that they are happily shooting across the shop floor, I say happily, I mean happily until you trip over it and land painfully on the polished floor moments before you hear the crunch of tomy plastic underneath your spine. The scream and wails that follow do not come from you and your slipped disk, but from the bright red banshee demon that is frantically thrashing its arms across the floor retrieving the rogue wheel that has burst from its body and is now rolling under the counter.

I Hate Sprogs when I’m on Holiday

Planes – Screaming, Kicking, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ - Need I say more?

If cats and dogs have to be kept in hold - surely the same rule should apply to under 21's

I Hate Sprogs when I’m having a Day Out

Not being the most mature grown up in the world, I still like doing things that I did when I was a kid – going to see the dinosaurs at the natural history museum, feeding the elephants at Colchester Zoo or seeing the sharks at the London Aquarium. What I do not like is how parents shove their sprogs in front of me. Why do they do this? Why would I want to let your sprog infront of me? Unlike myself, they haven’t paid their entry fee and let’s face it, they have many more years in their life than what I have, so why should I let them queue jump? If I hadn’t wanted to feed the heffalump, I wouldn’t have joined the queue – as contrary to my British heritage, I’m not a lover of waiting in queues for no apparent reason.

I am a photographer. I always have a camera with me. So when I go to London Aquarium and it’s shark feeding time, you can pretty much understand that there is a reason why I have been sitting in front of the glass for the past 15 minutes. A few years ago, I had the perfect shot lined up. The shark was perfectly posed in front of my lens, she had just opened her mouth to eat, and then just as I pressed the shutter, some hell demon popped the back of its head in front of my lens and blocked the shot. By the time my anger had dissipated, and my vision returned, the shark had eaten and exited, the sprog had happily hopped off, leaving me staring in disbelief at my shot-less camera and the smeary jam hand print that was left against the glass. I am sure there is a reason Richard Attenborough goes to such anti-human locations, and it’s not entirely for the cinematography.  

I Hate Sprogs when I’m at a Restaurant

I come out to dinner to relax & kickback – I do not come here to play babysitter to your sprog that is running back and forth around the restaurant. I don’t like eating in front of strangers as a rule, so I really really don’t find it amusing to be gawped at by the sprog that has attached itself (literally) to my table. If am a at a diner style restaurant, I don’t want to see bouncing brats on the spongy leather as they jump up and (and I don’t want to see their dinner as it reappears down their t-shirt). Oh, and no, I don’t decide to go out to dinner to listen to you and your sprog arguing over the fact that if he doesn’t eat his veg he won’t get any dessert. If you want a night off from your little darlings, do the right thing and leave them at home. Do not take them out and inflict them on the rest of society...we will have to deal with them in ten years time anyway when they turn teenagers.

Oh and don’t even get me started on teenagers...