Maureen.

"So it was last Tuesday...no wait, it couldn't have been Tuesday because we drove to Chepstow and we got stuck behind a tractor! It was driving so slowly and every time we tried to overtake it, another car would drive by and we were there for half an hour. No, it wasn't Tuesday, it was Wednesday. Or was it Thursday? Thursday. No, Wednesday. Hang on a minute, what happened on Wednesday? We went to tesco and......."

In my head I'm thinking about how I'd like to take your annoying story and put it in a very dark place, then I'd sneak up on it and shout BOO really loudly then turn it into a puddle of wee.

"No, it was definitely Wednesday because I remember telling my friend how much I like this day because its the middle of the week."

Before I continue I would like to express upon you that this story is not based on anyone in particular (at least no-one who's likely to read this blog.) This technique of blathering on about inconsequential details of where you were and what you did is what the husband and I call the Maureen effect. Let me explain.

We were camping. It was a Monday- no wait, a Tuesday...(I'm joking) and I realised that I'm a creature of habit. I liked to use the same loo. And if someone happened to be using - nay, defiling my loo, I worried, fretted, got a bit upset. (I've yet to shout at the person but its not beyond my capabilities). As I told the hubby about this later on we started laughing (but inwardly I still worried...MY TOILET, my precioussses). And a character started forming in our minds of a 57 year old woman who worked on the campsite, and who thought of it as her land, her kingdom. And every time someone sat on her loo she'd do nasty things to them like turn the lights off when they were showering or hide outside their tent late at night and make ghost noises. But if she really didn't like you she would talk. Talk. You. To. Death. And her name? Her name was Doris. (Joking yet again!). Meet Maureen.

Every time someone started on an elaborate story where every point was shrouded by fluffy details, we would look at each other and know that the spirit of Maureen was upon them. We introduced her to our friends with brilliant results. One dear friend told her parents about it who, in turn, adopted Maureen into the fold. Her dad told a long story to guests and her mum rolled her eyes and said "maureeeen"! (The guests though she said "boring" though. Oops!)

For those of you now who are reading this and fearing that you do the same, don't worry, we've all been guilty from time to time of elaborating, flowering, boring other people. And I must reiterate, I am not writing this about anyone in particular. But next time you tell a story and you can't remember what day you bought your cabbage, or what time it was when you found the back to your earring, or how many people EXACTLY have read your blog and liked it (ok, that ones mine), just ask yourself...what would Maureen do?

Bikes. Twitter. And stuff...

Twitter is a random thing. I have acquired bike followers but don't know how, as the only time I tried something remotely daring whilst on my bike (a slight detour to the designated path) I fell off. And cried. Then carried on (like any good cyclist should) and stopped on a hill, only to fall off again. This time I swore quite badly, and an old lady looked at me disgustedly then walked away without checking I was ok. I cried again. And had baddie knees.

This makes me a girl in a weird looking helmet with cool looking gloves which seem to do very little to combat the cold. (And such a snug fit, doesn't do my moisturised hands much good).
Anyway I like being part of the biking family, I feel like a comrade even though I have no idea what they're talking about and no desire to join them on their death defying flings down a mountain.

And it's made me more careful around cyclists on the road. I don't want to be named and shamed for knocking a biker off his steed. To feel the wrath of a biking community would be like putting your finger in a shredder then dousing it with salt.

And what's with this n+1 business? My husband (bike fanatic - nay, obsessive), has 10 bikes and wants more. We have a fairly decent sized house but no garage. A shed and a bike shed but our study is housing at least 3 bikes as well. And he wants more. The other day I actually used the words "children in africa have nothing but you want another 3 bikes!" I couldn't think of any other way to make him understand how I felt about more bikes. That the answer is no.

At least he has a hobby I suppose. One that makes him happy and has made him a few friends. Who, in turn have become my friends, of a sort. Who make me want to go out on my bike and be super fit, and talk about bagging my latest KOM on strava. (Yeah, totally don't know what that means, just heard the hubby say it).

But I will be sticking to the flat, uncomplicated paths with the family thank you very much. The paths that have rainbows and bunny rabbits and Tarmac. And occasionally a cafe with coffee cake and cheese scones. Right, salivating, now time to saddle up...

Should've gone to spec savers...

So before we had kids, I had it in my head that they would be short sighted. Not one to dwell on negative stuff, me. But I did.

When I was 10, I would sit at the back of the class and borrow Anna Swayby's glasses with the guise that "it's so fun looking through them". She'd get cross at me but give in eventually. When she didn't or wasn't there I'd make a diamond shape with my fingers and look through the tiny gap and just about be able to make out words on the board. Shocking. Of course the inevitable happened when the nurse came and did health checks on the class. It had not occurred to me until that moment that I was short sighted. It was as much of a revelation to me as it was to my parents, who had no idea whatsoever. Seems all of us were oblivious to my blind-as-a-bat status.

Now the glasses that were presented to me (the free ones, of course) were big and round. And big, did I mention that? Oh and pink. And free. And big. Really big. I hated those babies. (I don't think that style has ever come back in fashion, they were that bad). And my path of shame and humiliation began.

Now before we had kids I was desperate for them to have normal eye sight and not to go through that. But a few months ago we went to get the older 2 tested. The reason? Well when your 8 year old is constantly standing in front of the tv, blocking everyone's view, you kind of sense that something is up. Of course, we did our own tests and thought everything was fine...
"Ollie, what does that say?"
(Pointing at a huge sign saying Exit)
Ollie: "Exit."
"Good. I think you're ok".
But we took them anyway (just to confirm we know what we're talking about) and Ollie needed glasses.

We chose a rather dandy pair (certainly not big, pink or round) and that was it. I actually felt quite excited, he looked so handsome and intelligent. (Makes his eyes look bigger though, kind of glares at me, I need to get used to that.) He also realised how much he couldn't see, he enjoyed wearing them and looking at detail from afar.

He doesn't wear them all the time though I don't think it will be long before he does. We went out as a family the other week (as we regularly do) but he'd left his glasses at home. I told the boys that the first person to spot a bin would get a prize. (The rubbish in my hand, but they didn't know that). Ollie shouted "I can see one, I win!"
I scoured the landscape in front of me but couldn't see one anywhere.
"There, right over there!"
I looked where he was pointing but could only see a green pushchair.
He started running towards it with the rubbish in his hand but stopped before he got there, confused.
I (good mother that I am), laughed my head off and shouted across the park "should've gone to specsavers!" We laughed about that one for quite some time.

Meanwhile I've realised it's not such a big deal if they need glasses. They're good boys, handsome, sensible. Far more important to worry about the TYPE of glasses that they need. It's all about the image.

Lovely.

First blog ever.

So here I am, writing a blog. The stuff of dreams.

I'll be honest with you I'm finding it a challenge. I'm scared, it's scary, I'm a scaredy cat. Who knew? I'm one of those lets-look-at-everyone-else's-blog-first-to-see-how-to-do-it people, the kind who read witty, intelligent, award winning blogs and know they can't compete, can never produce anything quite so brilliant. I get deflated and start huffing and puffing, and resting my head pensively against a window, stroking the glass because it feels so smooth...

But I'm giving it a go so yeah, go me, whoop whoop. And if its rubbish well...well....um....well it doesn't matter. Does it? Ooh, I don't want people laughing at me. Ah, stuff it - they can laugh.... Ha ha ha, I'll laugh with them. (Except I totally won't laugh, not my strong point if I'm honest).

I think I'll find enough stuff to talk about, though. Stuff seems to happen to me, leaving me with two options...either cry and never emerge from my bedroom again or write about it and have it out in the open. Like the time I had a conversation with another mother at the school about the holiday we were going on. "Oh yes, we love cottaging." The time I was in a toilet cubicle with one of my sons and he shouted at the top of his voice "Please don't hit me mummy". The time I shoulder hi-fived a tescos delivery man and left him dazed and confused on my door step. (Long story, it was a mix up - I don't normally touch delivery men unless they're particularly dishy).
It's going to be an adventure and I frigging can't wait.

So for now I'm off to bed, it's been a long day and tomorrow I have to be with dozens of little children, most of whom are mine. Wouldn't have it any other way.