ED, ESOS, The Sensible One, The Gymnast and Tinkerbell Mushroom

The names caused great discussion.

The thing is, that in real life nobody, (well nobody other those who might have accidentally been growing the wrong type of grass in the garden or something) really wants to call their child Moon Unit, Peaches, Fifi Trixibelle, Pixie or Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lilly.................. BUT when given the opportunity to rename your entire family for the purposes of writing, then the world is of course an oyster, and if my children wish to change their names once they get to 18, either on my blog or otherwise, then that of course is their choice.

So, after due consideration of Enidd's very sensible idea to give my children pseudonyms, we came up with the following...............

ED - "Eldest Daughter" (aged sixteen, seventeen later this year), despite wanting to be called after the various types of coffee available in Starbucks and Costa, eventually decided that she would prefer to stay as she is. ED has sort of become a pseudonym in its own right, and so she is quite happy.

ESOS - "Eldest Son Only Son" (aged fourteen, fifteen later this year), had many names thrown at him over the weekend by other siblings, especially his eldest sister, as they "sweetly" (????!!!!) fought in their truly sibling like way, but in conclusion, ESOS works for him. There's not likely to be any confusion as he is after all the only boy.

The Sensible One - "Daughter Number Two, Child Number three", is however more of a mouthful.......... and she is by everyone's admission, especially my eldest brother's, the "sensible" one amongst us. More often than not, her twelve year old mind (shortly to be thirteen) comes up with wise words that put us all to shame for not thinking of such ourselves.

So .......she is to be called such: "The Sensible One".

The Gymnast - "Aged 8", shortly to be Aged 9 is a bit of a gymnast. When visiting Berkeley Castle two years ago, she spent the entire afternoon upside down as she cartwheeled around a dried up moat from beginning to end. She goes several times a week to be handed over into the hands of a strict Romanian ex international gymnast coach. No-one would dare question said coach's intentions when she increases the training rigours to double the hours. We as parents just nod meekly, and realise that it is clearly for the good of humanity that we allow our children to be put under her capable control...............

Therefore she will henceforth be called: "The Gymnast".

Tinkerbell Mushroom - Youngest Daughter, previously "Aged 6", who yesterday celebrated her seventh birthday is shortly to play Tinkerbell in a very cut down version of Peter Pan. For this grand debut, the eldest three children clubbed together and bought her a spectacular new fairy costume for her birthday, which looks gorgeous.

Now, she also hates mushrooms. So at Christmas, when my other brother offered her some dinner with mushrooms, she announced that she would NOT be eating those mushrooms! He replied that SHE was a mushroom........ which she thought very funny, and ever since, he has called her "Mushroom".

So on my blog, she will be therefore be called: "Tinkerbell Mushroom"..............

Coming Soon.......I have many challenges to meet from Enidd, Keith and Chris......... I haven't forgotten, but as I have left it so long, will instead answer them all at the same time.....................

Secret Stuff!

"Ow, that hurt!" says aged 8, as I quickly try to do the hair of aged 6 and aged 8, before dispatching them off to school. "Oh naughty brush" I say. Apologise to Age 8. "I'm sorry" says the brush, I didn't mean to hurt you. "Ow you hurt me again." She says. "Now really brush, do you think you can be a bit gentler? Apologise again" "I've already apologised once" says the brush, "She shouldn't be so fussy".

They laugh........

It's shortly to be aged 6's birthday. This will of course make her aged 7, just to confuse the blogosphere. So hubby and I decide to make a rare trip to the shops together to buy her a birthday present. He has to be back home by a certain time, so we are in a rush to get out early.

The present clues have been unhelpful. "What would you like?" We have asked. "Some Bratz stuff, or a mobile phone." She has replied........ The toy selection in our house does slightly resemble the floor stock of a 1990's Early Learning Centre. It's a pity that we didn't buy shares at the time.... But it actually doesn't leave much room for new toys.......... Or so we say.........

But then we think again. Second hand toys from ten year's ago aren't always a lot of fun...... And she certainly isn't getting a mobile phone at seven!

We make our way into Toys R Us, to peruse the Bratz paraphernalia and are greeted by Doctor Who. Well, not personally you understand, although that may have brightened the day to have had a chat and a coffee with David Tenant. It is instead a massive Dr. Who display, which talks and lights up. A megasized model of said David Tenant is staring at us, and I do wonder momentarily how he must feel every time he walks into a Toys R Us store and sees himself staring back. It must be a bit like one of those out of body experiences.....

The Bratz stuff is abundant, but both hubby and I look at it with dismay. Now please do bear in mind, we have never been pushy parents, and although in the 90's we did buy predominantly ELC, we do understand that children should be allowed to be children, and are quite happy to give toys to children............. but everything that we see seems either too young, too ugly or too expensive for what it is.

Hubby turns round and starts to make his way over to a different part of the store.

As he turns, the extremely extra large soft toy horses that he knocks off the pile are very nice. They preferred being on the pile with each other, but apparently are quite happy to have a little tumble to the floor. We hastily try to restack them. It is a bit like one of those puzzles where everything has to be balanced just so.

Eventually we do it, and then walk backwards carefully, before we, in a very mature way, run away from the display. It is one of those very funny moments in life. We laugh a lot - ignoring any strange glances from passers by.

Just as we are about to give up on Toys R Us, we suddenly see the perfect present for aged 6 - soon to be 7. A Bratz MP3 player and a Bratz walkie talkie that you can even use to send text messages within a 2 mile radius. Brilliant! That will keep she and her friend down the road entertained for hours. It even looks a bit like a mobile phone............

We then make our way to Smith's to buy a copy of Winnie The Pooh for her. This is because we found The House at Pooh Corner on the bookshelf the other day, and both she and aged 8 love it. We have a £5 Smith's voucher to spend, but sadly their only copy of the book has sat on the shelf for so long, that it is battered.............. a sad reflection on our modern world.

So we make out way down to Waterstones, where they have a Costa Coffee inside. I have just persuaded Hubby of the merits of parting with some hard earned cash in order to sit and peruse the books while drinking a coffee, when we find that Costa is being overhauled and refurbished. Back soon they promise...

Still Waterstones do have a pristine copy of Winnie, AND they are selling Harry Potter at £8.99 a book, if you pre order it..........

So we buy Winnie and pre order HP.

And we shall of course return at midnight on 21st of July to collect Harry. Perhaps Costa will be open by then, and we will be able to sit up all night and read it there and then................

The Human Face

So the Next order finally arrives. Minus a packet of hair scrunchies.

I ring up and asked when I might be able to receive the missing goods, which aren't marked as being delayed on the order, and have been charged for.

"Well Mrs. Lomax. What you can do, is re-order the scrunchies, then I will send them to you - with NO POSTAGE - while we trace what has happened to the originals."

"No, you don't understand" I say. I've already paid for the item, so I now just need you to send them to me............

The conversation is long and unfruitful. I suggest to them that they may NOT want to lose my very loyal custom for a £2 packet of scrunchies. The next day, a parcel arrives, with scrunchies, and another addition to bill...............

I'll wait until the end of the month on that one, to see how many items I have been charged for.

Meanwhile, my other dear friends, the unmentionable large institution with four letters forming their name, run a critical illness insurance policy for me. It's paid for by monthly direct debit, on a certain day of the month that Hubby's pay goes into the account.

This month however, they decide, for their own reasons, one day before pay day, to call for the direct debit early. Knowing that it will not get paid, I ring the people who run our personal bank account at NatWest. They by now know me by name, so it cuts a lot of the time wasting out.

It seems too that they have a new system at the NatWest, where, quite brilliantly, you can choose to reverse a direct debit, as long as you call them before 2 p.m. on the day it is presented. Now of course, it does mean that you need to be addicted to the accounts on your computer like a hawk, but providing that you haven't got anything better to do with your time than play banks, you can actually win the game. In defence of NatWest, the bank that we recently changed to, they do seem to have realised that the branch system works and that human beings are actually better than machines. So, there are only another few thousand institutions to go, and then we can make progress............

So, I salvage the few remaining pounds back into our bank account to last us to pay day, the next day, and then go forth to tackle the "other lot" with four letters in their name and arrange for an online payment one day later.

"Hello Mrs. Lomax, please may I take characters 2 and 4 from your personal security number?" "But this is a life insurance policy, there is no personal security number". "It's the number that you set up on your account when you first opened it.............."

I rack my brains.

No number emerges from the fog.

I admit defeat to the four lettered bank and ask if there is some other way that we can sort this out.

"No problem", they say, "we'll reset your security number using your security questions."

This seems to be straightforward enough..............

The first question is:

"What's your memorable town?"

Sorry? I say.

"Oh, it's a town that you would have given us when you set up the account. Probably where you were born, or somewhere special that you lived."

I stop and think. I give them the name of the town where I was born. Yes. Jackpot.

Great. One down, two to go.

Now tell us the name of a special person.

Again I am baffled slightly by the question.

They explain in kind terms that it's likely to be my mother's maiden name, or another family members name. They also explain that it is a one shot system, so if I get it wrong I can't get through security.

"But, I don't know which name it is", I say. "I can give you my mother's maiden name, but I can't play "guess the question"!"

"Well I'm sorry Mrs. Lomax, but it's for your own security, and that's the way it's set up."

Knowing that I am playing Russian Roulette, I opt for my mother's maiden name.

I fail the test. I have not passed "go". I did not guess the question correctly. I cannot collect £200, (which is a shame because given the time of the month it would have been useful), and I cannot access the information to my life insurance account.

"So what now?" I say.

"We'll get the customer care team to call you, within the next day or so, and reset your security."

"NO!!!!!" I say. Shout. Scream even. "I demand to talk to the manager. I JUST WANT TO PAY YOU SOME MONEY!!!!"

The manager of the call centre cannot help, my stress levels rise uncontrollably, and so the chances of them having to actually pay out on my critical illness cover get higher. I finally give up and trounce off to phone the Chairman's Office of the four lettered bank.

Today a very nice man called Gary, from the four lettered bank, calls me. He is very happy to deal with me on a very human level. We sort everything out. I've got his direct line and full name and can call him with any queries. Everything is sorted, and Gary and I are best of friends.

It seems then that the way to tackle large institutions is to cut out all middlemen -call centres - and go straight to the top.

It will take time I acknowledge, but eventually, they'll realise that putting human contact back into banking might just be more efficient!

New Term!

It is the usual frenetic half hour between 6.30 and 7.07. Eventually all three older children are planted on the bus outside the door.

Hubby offers me breakfast. For the last few days I have been trying a "not eating in the daytime" regime, inspired by fellow bloggers. Realise however that I am really not going to cope with the rigours of the next hour or so without some reasonable sustenance on board, so accept gracefully and decide to do a "Sally" version of not eating in the day time. I'll have breakfast and dinner and that way avoid the temptation of snacks. No danger of consuming any chocolate anyway, as everyone has eaten the last morsel provided by the Easter Bunny. The entire family it appears are chocoholics.

One of our nephews has a birthday on Monday, and so for speed, convenience and cashflow considerations, it being the middle of the month, decide to order something from Next.

It's only 7.40 a.m. and so I reckon that I have time to order before aged 6 and 8 need to get ready for school.

A voice answers. "Do you have an order or an enquiry." "An order" I say.

Suddenly I hear a scream. All other thoughts go out of my mind, as I realise that the scream will easily be heard by call centre operator too, and she will think that she is dealing with a family who tortures their children.

It's youngest daughter, aged 6. "But I want some lemonade," she screams in her less than usual dulcet tones. "And I want it now". It's a bit like a recreation of a Violet Elizabeth Bott scene from Just William.

I excuse myself to the Next operator. Call hubby for help. He explains to aged 6 that she can't have lemonade at 7.45 in the morning. "But it was bought for me yesterday, because I was poorly, and Mummy said that I could have a bit to get some strength back, and I only had two sips, and now my mouth is completely plain dry."

Indeed I had. This is true. She had been up in the night, ill, hadn't managed to keep anything down all day, and so I thought a little lemonade (being too mean to buy Lucozade) would at least mean that she had a bit of something to regain her energy. Being mean and horrible parents, it's a rare treat in our house to have any sort of pop, and so when it's there it's like the forbidden fruit.

Hubby somehow manages to calm down the situation and give her some breakfast. I go back to my call. Given that I am ordering from Next anyway, I decide to get some bits of uniform that we need as well and some white socks. The last 980 white socks have either been destroyed in the garden or eaten by the washing machine, or both. We are now down to just a few, odd, very mucky looking apologies for pairs of socks. They don't look too good with the summer uniforms.

"I am sorry Mrs. Lomax, but the socks are on a two to four week delay." Have you any other white socks?" I say. "If you let me know the page number of the directory that you know they are on", she says "I'll find out." "No", I say. I'm asking you if you know whether or not you have any other white socks and where I might find them in the directory."

"Hold on a moment" Mrs. Lomax.

Music.

Eventually, she returns.

"There are some exactly the same in the Spring Summer Catalogue", she says, "and they have the same ordering code." "So presumably", I say, "if they are identical to the ones in the Summer brochure, they will be on a two to four week delay as well then?"

"Hold on a minute, I'll have a look."

Music again.

"Yes, I'm afraid they are on a two to four week delay."

I give up on the idea of white socks and decide to buy them from a proper place, like a shop. Meanwhile I ask about the item that I originally rang up for. The one for our nephew.

"I'm afraid that that item is on a two to four week delay" she says.

"OK." I say. "In which case, please could you send it directly to the person's house, as it's present, and if it's going to be delayed, it would be better if it goes directly there. And please can you waive the delivery charge?"

"I'm afraid that I can't waive the delivery charge."

"But it's not my fault" I say "that it is delayed. It could be sent here if you had it in stock and I would have time to wrap it and send it on."

"Well," she says "I can waive the delivery charge on your order, but you will have to pay for the delivery charge on the one to the different address."

That seems fair enough. So I go with that scheme of events.

"Can I have your credit card number for the delivery charge for your friend's parcel." She says. "No that's fine thanks," I say, thinking back to the original reason for using Next, please will you put it on my account. "No she says", for security reasons we can't send something to another address, without you paying for the postage up front."

??????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I put her on hold again and go to locate my handbag. I pay for the delivery.

"And what's the address of the recipient please Mrs. Lomax?"

They have just moved. I can't remember their new address. I excuse my self again to go and find the address book. By now she must be thinking that she is dealing with a family fit for the lunatic asylum.

I give her the address, and then I get to the postcode. In Hubby's writing. Has he written a 5 or a 15?

I leave the phone again, to check the postcode with hubby.

We finally manage to end the call. I just hope that I have managed to order the right thing for the right place and that two red school dresses don't arrive on our Nephew's doorstep. It has taken half an hour for the transaction.

I hear another scream from Miss Dulcet. "I don't know what to wear, she screams. "Uniform would be a good start" I proffer. "Yes, but I don't know if my friends will be wearing a summer dress or not." "Well" I say, "It's summer now, so they'll be wearing summer uniform." "No they won't Mummy. You can choose." I muse that last year she was much more easily placated with my slightly wide interpretation of the school rules when it suited me. "Well wear a dress anyway then I say. "It's much easier for PE and stuff." "But I might be the only one", she says.

I realise that this is going nowhere, so eventually I decide that the only way I am going to solve this is to call a friend's Mum. Number on mobile. Where's mobile? Call mobile from house phone. Find mobile. Call friend. It seems that dresses are on and everyone is happy. I think....

PE kit, book bags, where did I see the missing bag? By Aged 6's bed I say to hubby. Look all over the house. Eventually find it: by my side of our bed. I sort of had the right vision in my mind. Where are aged 8's trainers? Hubby looks in bottom of wardrobe. 85 things are on the floor of the wardrobe, and no trainers apparent.

Eventually we call a halt to operations as it is time to go to school with or without the various bits of paraphernalia needed.

Afterwards, when the house is quiet, and hubby has gone to work, I go back to the wardrobe. Pick up the 85 items from the floor, find and put away a Christmas stocking back to the right place. They do have a right place. They are just rarely back there before December 1st.

It's 9.10 a.m. Time for a cup of tea I think.

Space

"Aren't you going to write a blog today" says Hubby. He lists a few of the things that I should have written about by now.

"Well maybe," I say. I have got quite few other things to do.

"Oh yes" he says, I know.

Do I see a slight look of disappointment cross his face?

I suddenly realise that there is more to blogging than meets the eye. It's the "entertain" bit of the marriage contract. You know the bit where you say: Love, honour and entertain. It replaced the "obey" bit which, not being a submissive type I didn't do.

I took the entertain clause as an alternative. It's a silent vow of course. Not one the rest of you - or me - know about. But it's there nevertheless.

It is of course school holiday time here in sunny Gloucestershire - well for all but eldest son whose school seems to have decided to run on a different timetable to the rest of Gloucestershire Education Authority. This therefore means that access to the computer at times when I might want to use it, is limited.

Computers need to be used for so many important things: fish feeding ("Are you going to be long on the computer Mummy?" says aged 6, "not too long" I say, "Why", because if we don't feed the fish, they will die!!!")

and.........

Bebo

and.............

MSN

and.............





Oh yes ................coursework and.................. homework.

and Bebo and MSN....................


Added to that is the fact that I do, being holiday time again, have some admin to do for the stage school's that I run (when I can get near the busy computer), otherwise no-one will turn up on Saturday and no fees will be paid this term.

But I HAVE got lots to write about........................ and will soon. I promise. So watch this space!

Monsters!

When we first moved to huge house, with huge mortgage for huge family, over four years ago, we thought it might be nice for aged 6 and aged 8, two youngest, both girls to have their own rooms - because they could now.

So, first night in, we carefully separated out their stuff, as much as was possible, and put their beds into the correct rooms, put them into their respective beds, read to each of them and kissed them good night.

It all went very well. A friend of ours came to see the "new" house and asked youngest which room she liked best. "This one", said proud then 2 year old. "Why is that" said friend. "Because it's mine."

Two days later however, the scene changed.

Suddenly they realised that not sharing a room with each other meant that they weren't together when they woke up in the mornings, that toys had to be dragged from one room to the other and that life was generally, well a bit inconvenient for a 2 and 4 year old. They even had to find each other first before they came and jumped on our bed first thing.

So, youngest moved back into second youngest's bedroom, and both were happy again.

Two years later, we decided to be really nice parents, and gave them two interconnecting rooms, keeping one room as a playroom, and one as a bedroom. We decorated it all and made it look - in my opinion, gorgeous.

Hubby and I moved out of those rooms, into their old bedroom.

Everyone was happy again.

Until now.

In recent nights the house, has suddenly been full of monsters, ghosts, other things to incite bad dreams and sleepless children. Fortunately though, the monsters only seem to confine their activities to two rooms of the house.

Which is lucky, because a solution can of course be found........

I have to admit that whenever I look in on the offending monsters and ghosts and sleepless children, all I see are two little girls fast asleep and dreaming peacefully.

So they must be be quite small monsters really.

To solve the problem aged 6 and 8 have decided that they want to go back to the ORIGINAL room plan as decided four year's ago last September.

"Why is that" I asked aged 6 this morning.

"I don't know" she replied.

"We're growing up I suppose".

Hot Easter!

O.K.! So which bright spark arranged for it to be hot on Easter Sunday?

So hot that the STUPID Easter bunny didn't realise that the chocolate would melt, and left one of the eggs in bright sunshine? Surely the person who organises the weather and the EB should be in communication with one another?

Clearly not.

Thankfully it was ESOS (Eldest Son, only son) whose egg was melted, and being fourteen he put it in the fridge and later enjoyed the molten mass that it resulted in.

Family feasts can of course often result in disappointment. On an Easter Sunday before I was born, when one of my brothers was two, he walked down the stairs, chocolate egg in hand (..............well, so I am told. It's a story of good family tradition. You know, the sort, where you have been told so often, you know it so well, you think that quite probably you were actually there after all.........), when the dog, a border collie, ran past, skillfully grabbing the egg on his way, leaving poor bereft two year old brother, somewhat distraught in his wake........ (I think he's got over it now, fifty years on.)

As a result we made sure that we kept our own border collie in the house for said hunt. She looked soulfully from the window at us all, only being allowed out once most of the hunt was done.

There is however - so the Easter Bunny tells us - one Creme Egg still in the garden. Waiting to be found. We always manage to lose one every year. Is EB actually a bit of a chocoholic, eating on his way round I ask?



I then decided to make a simnel cake, forgetting that only one child (Eldest Daughter) likes marzipan. I don't remember that being a problem last year. Perhaps it's because I love marzipan so ate most of it myself.

Never mind. Easter's nearly over.

Back to the diet...........

Again...........

A Real Housewife!

You SEE!!!

SOMETIMES I can be a real housewife.

Not always dependent on the lazy housewife's guide to survival.

AND I remembered the yeast!

The Consultant

What time is the appointment? Says Hubby.

"It's either ten to ten or ten past ten", I say.

Being the organised types that we are, we don't seem to be able to lay hands on the appointment letter at 9 a.m. in the morning, so hubby, in his efficient mode, decides that it's best to play safe and get there for ten to ten.

We scrape in by skin of our teeth, register and sit down. The appointment is of course ten past ten, but better to be early than late. The consultant hasn't arrived yet.

At five past ten a little girl and her mother arrive. I recognise them. The little girl has a broken arm, and they were talking to us in casualty on the night of my - and her - injury. We chat. "What time's your appointment?" I ask. "Ten o'clock."

At ten fifteen we see the consultant arrive.

Ten twenty five, the little girl is called in.

Ten forty, hubby goes to enquire when we might be being seen.

Ten forty and three seconds, just as hubby goes to enquire, I am called. Struggle to consulting room with two leg braces (one too big, for the five foot ten person, and the right one), two books, my handbag and crutches. Haven't been using the various bits of paraphernalia for quite a few days now, so have brought them back to the hospital in good Samaritan style.

Ten forty one, Hubby then re finds me and joins me in the consulting room.

Eleven o'clock, no consultant visible. We are feeling a bit impatient.

Eleven ten: Flash of light!

............Mr. Consultant finally makes an appearance.

(When they finally make a film of my blog, he will probably be played by a cool glamorous type of Hollywood actor. The very beautiful, but a little too cool type.)

Wrenches my leg in various directions and causes pain! Declares that the next stage is physiotherapy. Gives us a sheet to take to the cottage hospital in Ross on Wye, discusses the book in Hubby's hand, with hubby, comments, with amusement,that I am wearing a pink leg warmer on my knee, and .........."vroom"! Flash again .........

He's gone.

Eleven twenty we try to dispatch the crutches to Draconian Nurse. We are dispatched down to another department in the depths of the hospital where all such things are kept. We walk past a large cupboard full of crutches. I'm tempted to throw them in there, but we decide to be good sorts and take them back to where they should go...................

So, at eleven thirty, hop along and Hubby eventually find the right department.

We stand and wait..........

Eleven thirty five, we get to talk to someone.

"Are they your crutches then" says the lady at the counter.

"No says Hubby . They are yours. That's why we are returning them to you."

"Put them over there then".

"Don't you want to know where they have come from, so that you can check them back in?" I ask.

She looks confused.

Clearly this is beyond the scope of questioning normally allowed to patients.

Someone else comes to the desk. I explain that I want to return the crutches, and for them to know that I am returning the crutches, so that we are not sent a letter in a few weeks asking for the return of the crutches, or something. By now I am feeling a little flustered. I hand her my letter that the consultant has given me, so that she can see that I am a genuine patient and not just an actress or something, acting on the casualty set. Oh yes, maybe they saw me coming.

Finally dispatch crutches and make our way back to the car.

Get back to the car at quarter to twelve. Drive to Ross on Wye to make an appointment to see the Physio.

Walk in to the hospital. See sensible person immediately. Have appointment organised within two minutes. Will have to wait two weeks for the appointment, but we are so shocked by the efficiency of the cottage hospital that we are bowled over, and don't mind waiting two weeks for the actual appointment....................

Still............. at least we were able to advise the consultant on which book he should read next.

Brown

To blog or not to blog. That is the question.

When things are getting you down a bit, it's easy to bury your head in the sand and pretend that it isn't happening. To forget to do the things that normally keep you on an even keel and to just be you.

The alternative is of course to write about all things and people that are currently annoying you. That can be very cathartic, and is wholly recommended. Usually.....

Unfortunately though, in my case, unlike you clever people who decided that blogging with an air of anonymity would be the way to go about things, I decided to go all out for five minutes of fame, and wrote in my real name from the beginning. It means that now, if you type Sally Lomax into Google, you cannot help but come across my blog.

This is great.

I have fame.

Well fame that is if you count typing a name into Google and it coming up with you. It's a sort of fame. It's not Marilyn Monroe, Posh Spice or Claudia Schiffer type of fame. But it is unmistakeably, unavoidably NOT anonymous.

And this is great.

Because it's sort of what I wanted.

Until that is, when someone says to you, that to blog about what you like, and who you like, isn't ethical.

That can sort of throw a BIG spanner in the works.

That is NOT so great......

Suddenly, your cathartic little way of getting round all things bad and negative in life is not available. Suddenly you think that everyone is reading you, (a relative word I know, because I keep a fairly close watch on my stats through the site metre), and everyone (in that very sort of small way) knows when you might happen to mention something, that MIGHT be something to do with them, which actually you would prefer that they hadn't read, about them that is, and although you actually wanted to say this thing, whatever it is, you sort of wished you had some other way of saying it, because you don't actually want the whole world to read about it here!

Sort of...........

And yet........ you sort of do want the whole world to know what you are thinking too........... at the same time. What has happened isn't fair perhaps, and people are being judgemental and harsh over things over which you have no control. You are not there to defend yourself, and no-one else has come forward to tell you that it's OK, they do support you, they are just however going to play the game and not let on that they support you. Instead, there is deadly silence.

You are left without any outside support. Your family love you, and tell you so. But of course, it's a bit like your Mum telling you that you are pretty when your first boyfriend has just chucked you. You sort of don't believe it, even though you should , because after all mothers know best. I know. I am a mother.

But in the meantime, all I can say is that it has sort of gone wrong recently. Ever since falling off a stage. I seem have fallen from grace from people who I thought were friends. And without mentioning anything too specific, it's all to do with the fact that I wrote a blog about falling off the stage, and then told lots of people who I hadn't previously told that I write a blog, that I had written a blog. The result was plenty of publicity. And the problem was that I didn't let other people who might have been affected by such publicity, know that I was going to write about that particular subject and let lots of other people know, in advance. Of course, I personally didn't see the need to ask permission to write about it, when I had been writing my blog openly for the last six months.

So I didn't ask permission....

And I did write.

And now, on a Monday evening when maybe I should be writing something funny and clever about dresses for Chris's "Fun Monday". Dresses that I may have worn, loved, cast aside. I am instead writing about being dropped from on high. And not just onto my knee.

So, on clothes, I feel as if I am lying in an outfit that I once bought when I was pregnant. I always managed to buy at least one strange outfit, every time I was pregnant. This particular time I bought a brown sleeveless jacket and long brown skirt. I hate brown. Probably because I was forced into it at school. It's the one colour that always made me feel ill, and, after buying brown in the early stages of pregnancy that time, it made me feel even iller. I still associate the colour brown with morning sickness............

Think brown. Think Pavlov. Think sick.

I think that right now that is how I feel.

Brown.