I've had bloggers block. I think my brain atrophied and died slightly over the festive season from the massive consumption of alcoholic beverages I consumed. It's not my fault; Ireland was so cold that anything more ambitious than sitting in front of the fire in a pub drinking hot whiskeys seemed sheer madness.
My brain was further destroyed by the return trip from hell which featured an ill-advised stopover in Istanbul, something which I quickly told myself would be an experience when I saw the cost of the flights (half that of a direct flight). The reality was something similar to childbirth in terms of the cyclical agony as the children ran the wrong way down the travelator in the departure lounge, over and over and over...
Predictably our plane was delayed, and so as everyone gathered around the departures screen anxiously scanning it for updates, we started pushing our way to the priority boarding point to avail of our right to board first since we suffered the tragic affliction of 4 very lively children. As the children, now thoroughly bored, rolled around on the floor, stopping occasionally to thump each other, a kindly greying gent approached my very cute three year old and patted him on the head 'go away athh hooole' he lisped, as the entire group looked on, furiously hoping they wouldn't be seated beside us. Blushing I ushered three year old away but what can you say to that? Like I said, childbirth. Without the epidural.
The flight itself wasn't too bad, although a wriggling three year old wouldn't be my travelling companion of choice, not least because of his insistence on repeatedly flipping the table on the back of the seat in front of him up and down. After the 89th time it just gets old and one grows tired of apologising to the person in front. This tedium was only relieved by the appearance of a 'gift' from the airline to all the children on the flight. This gift featured a plastic bag containing a mini Turkish Airways plane with stickers and an inflatable Turkish Airways plane. The boys fell on these gifts enthusiastically although I had to clamp my hand over 5 year old boys mouth as he held up the inflatable plane and announced, loudly-
'mummy, I know how to blow up this plane!'
But age does take its toll on mind and body and I find myself becoming increasingly desperate to stop this slow march toward inevitable decrepitude and a slow painful death.
Obviously the only way to deal with this decline is through a healthy diet, no alcohol, lots of exercise and positive thinking. Personally I prefer over-priced miracle creams and moisturisers. Although I must admit to being quite baffled by the huge variety of creams on the market. What happens if you use a 'night cream' during the day for example? Or 'hand cream' on your face? (I do both regularly)
And what are the seven signs of ageing? They never tell you in the ads. Could it be memory loss..(.lost keys, anyone)? Or perhaps difficulty in straightening up when you stand up too quickly? Maybe it's feeling invisible to the opposite sex (although the obvious formula to that is move to the Middle East where any woman, ugly or not, will most definitely be stared at with a curiosity usually adopted by your dentist or gynaecologist)? Perhaps it's a gradual depression which descends slowly as it dawns on you that all your dreams have been unrealised and your life has been ultimately empty? Or maybe it's wearing nylon-elastic-waisted pleated-skirts thus becoming an embarrassment to your family... or stress incontinence. I could go on...
Another nuisance with the whole ageing process is the inability to drink more than half a bottle of wine without suffering from a hangover the next day. I'm beginning to gravitate towards the whole never drinking again thing, as it seems the only sensible solution to these lost days spent quietly dying on the sofa. Although, on the last day of our trip, we met with one of my oldest friends for a drink in our hotel. I looked forward to a few swift ones while catching up.
During our hey day we shared a flat and my god could she drink. Her favourite tipple for getting drunk was a pint of Smithwicks with a shot of whiskey thrown in to it. She used to regularly fall into bed with a half eaten takeaway and a bottle of whiskey surrounded by dog ends and debris. And vomiting in the street was no foreign country to her. A sort of walking-talking real life version of Tracy Emmins 'unmade bed'. She always made me feel pure and wholesome by comparison by virtue of the fact that she was so god damn unhealthy. However, to my dismay on this occasion she swept into the bar looking radiant with health and ordered a mineral water as myself and DH looked on open mouthed.
-'Don't you want a real drink?' I asked.
-'God no, I'm not drinking' she replied. 'Nobody I know drinks any more'
-'Really? Whoops!' I gestured toward my half empty glass.
-'No' she continued, ’all my friends talk about now is running. And community gardening, don't you know we're too old for this, have to start thinking about our health'
This was news to me. Suddenly myself and DH felt as outdated and anachronistic as a pair of old drunks sitting at the back of the pub droning on about the 'good ol' days'.
DH got up to go to the bar and made a sly 'drink?' gesture as he passed. I nodded guiltily. But hey, it was the last day of our hols, we felt entitled, didn't we?
'I don't know how you do it to be honest, with four kids and all, since the baby I just can't keep awake long enough to drink' she observed.
She's not alone in these observations, practically everyone I know says the same. Which makes me wonder if I'm hanging on by my broken fingernails to a youth which has passed. Is it, in fact, time to hang up my dancing shoes, throw out the Chablis, and settle down to the task of being a grown up?
Perhaps it is, but I resist with every fibre of my being and bristle at the 'I don't know how you...' speeches I so frequently encounter.
Here's my top 6 most hated 'I don't know how you's....'
-I don't know how you manage to read books, what with four kids and all (why, did they remove my brain in the delivery room along with the child?)
-I don't know how you manage to email me regularly, I'm just soooo busy with my pregnancy/one child/school run' (I suspect there's time for Oprah and Dr. Phil)
-I don't know how you manage to go to classes and learn new things all the time (currently piano..and why do you have to stop learning new things after you leave school? Assuming you live for 80 years, and you finished school at 18, that reasoning makes the assumption that you've learned everything you need to know in less than the first quarter of your life. That's illogical )
-I don't know how you manage to go shopping and buy actual clothes (well frankly neither do I considering what's available in the shops these days, but you know, Boden DO deliver to the Middle East)
-I don't know how you can still go out to dinner, get drunk and end up in a night club (very occasionally, but still nice to bop around a dance floor believing I am THE disco queen)
-And my favourite 'I don't know how you can type at the computer with all those little ones pulling at the keyboard' (err, well, I made a pact with the children from the start, 'I do what I'm doing, you do what you're doing' and never the twain unless they need feeding, changing, comforting....the result, quite independent and creative children who do not rely on me to entertain them...oh, and a huge amount of telly helps)
Anyway, as I recently pointed out to a friend after the 'I don't know how you do it ...' speech, 'I don't know what else I'm supposed to be doing'. And that, dear reader, is the truth.
So anyway, it's a new year, new opportunities and lots of drama ahead methinks. But that's for next time...
My brain was further destroyed by the return trip from hell which featured an ill-advised stopover in Istanbul, something which I quickly told myself would be an experience when I saw the cost of the flights (half that of a direct flight). The reality was something similar to childbirth in terms of the cyclical agony as the children ran the wrong way down the travelator in the departure lounge, over and over and over...
Predictably our plane was delayed, and so as everyone gathered around the departures screen anxiously scanning it for updates, we started pushing our way to the priority boarding point to avail of our right to board first since we suffered the tragic affliction of 4 very lively children. As the children, now thoroughly bored, rolled around on the floor, stopping occasionally to thump each other, a kindly greying gent approached my very cute three year old and patted him on the head 'go away athh hooole' he lisped, as the entire group looked on, furiously hoping they wouldn't be seated beside us. Blushing I ushered three year old away but what can you say to that? Like I said, childbirth. Without the epidural.
The flight itself wasn't too bad, although a wriggling three year old wouldn't be my travelling companion of choice, not least because of his insistence on repeatedly flipping the table on the back of the seat in front of him up and down. After the 89th time it just gets old and one grows tired of apologising to the person in front. This tedium was only relieved by the appearance of a 'gift' from the airline to all the children on the flight. This gift featured a plastic bag containing a mini Turkish Airways plane with stickers and an inflatable Turkish Airways plane. The boys fell on these gifts enthusiastically although I had to clamp my hand over 5 year old boys mouth as he held up the inflatable plane and announced, loudly-
'mummy, I know how to blow up this plane!'
But age does take its toll on mind and body and I find myself becoming increasingly desperate to stop this slow march toward inevitable decrepitude and a slow painful death.
Obviously the only way to deal with this decline is through a healthy diet, no alcohol, lots of exercise and positive thinking. Personally I prefer over-priced miracle creams and moisturisers. Although I must admit to being quite baffled by the huge variety of creams on the market. What happens if you use a 'night cream' during the day for example? Or 'hand cream' on your face? (I do both regularly)
And what are the seven signs of ageing? They never tell you in the ads. Could it be memory loss..(.lost keys, anyone)? Or perhaps difficulty in straightening up when you stand up too quickly? Maybe it's feeling invisible to the opposite sex (although the obvious formula to that is move to the Middle East where any woman, ugly or not, will most definitely be stared at with a curiosity usually adopted by your dentist or gynaecologist)? Perhaps it's a gradual depression which descends slowly as it dawns on you that all your dreams have been unrealised and your life has been ultimately empty? Or maybe it's wearing nylon-elastic-waisted pleated-skirts thus becoming an embarrassment to your family... or stress incontinence. I could go on...
Another nuisance with the whole ageing process is the inability to drink more than half a bottle of wine without suffering from a hangover the next day. I'm beginning to gravitate towards the whole never drinking again thing, as it seems the only sensible solution to these lost days spent quietly dying on the sofa. Although, on the last day of our trip, we met with one of my oldest friends for a drink in our hotel. I looked forward to a few swift ones while catching up.
During our hey day we shared a flat and my god could she drink. Her favourite tipple for getting drunk was a pint of Smithwicks with a shot of whiskey thrown in to it. She used to regularly fall into bed with a half eaten takeaway and a bottle of whiskey surrounded by dog ends and debris. And vomiting in the street was no foreign country to her. A sort of walking-talking real life version of Tracy Emmins 'unmade bed'. She always made me feel pure and wholesome by comparison by virtue of the fact that she was so god damn unhealthy. However, to my dismay on this occasion she swept into the bar looking radiant with health and ordered a mineral water as myself and DH looked on open mouthed.
-'Don't you want a real drink?' I asked.
-'God no, I'm not drinking' she replied. 'Nobody I know drinks any more'
-'Really? Whoops!' I gestured toward my half empty glass.
-'No' she continued, ’all my friends talk about now is running. And community gardening, don't you know we're too old for this, have to start thinking about our health'
This was news to me. Suddenly myself and DH felt as outdated and anachronistic as a pair of old drunks sitting at the back of the pub droning on about the 'good ol' days'.
DH got up to go to the bar and made a sly 'drink?' gesture as he passed. I nodded guiltily. But hey, it was the last day of our hols, we felt entitled, didn't we?
'I don't know how you do it to be honest, with four kids and all, since the baby I just can't keep awake long enough to drink' she observed.
She's not alone in these observations, practically everyone I know says the same. Which makes me wonder if I'm hanging on by my broken fingernails to a youth which has passed. Is it, in fact, time to hang up my dancing shoes, throw out the Chablis, and settle down to the task of being a grown up?
Perhaps it is, but I resist with every fibre of my being and bristle at the 'I don't know how you...' speeches I so frequently encounter.
Here's my top 6 most hated 'I don't know how you's....'
-I don't know how you manage to read books, what with four kids and all (why, did they remove my brain in the delivery room along with the child?)
-I don't know how you manage to email me regularly, I'm just soooo busy with my pregnancy/one child/school run' (I suspect there's time for Oprah and Dr. Phil)
-I don't know how you manage to go to classes and learn new things all the time (currently piano..and why do you have to stop learning new things after you leave school? Assuming you live for 80 years, and you finished school at 18, that reasoning makes the assumption that you've learned everything you need to know in less than the first quarter of your life. That's illogical )
-I don't know how you manage to go shopping and buy actual clothes (well frankly neither do I considering what's available in the shops these days, but you know, Boden DO deliver to the Middle East)
-I don't know how you can still go out to dinner, get drunk and end up in a night club (very occasionally, but still nice to bop around a dance floor believing I am THE disco queen)
-And my favourite 'I don't know how you can type at the computer with all those little ones pulling at the keyboard' (err, well, I made a pact with the children from the start, 'I do what I'm doing, you do what you're doing' and never the twain unless they need feeding, changing, comforting....the result, quite independent and creative children who do not rely on me to entertain them...oh, and a huge amount of telly helps)
Anyway, as I recently pointed out to a friend after the 'I don't know how you do it ...' speech, 'I don't know what else I'm supposed to be doing'. And that, dear reader, is the truth.
So anyway, it's a new year, new opportunities and lots of drama ahead methinks. But that's for next time...
