DH needs to get back to work. As the visa application for Oz drags on I fear for his sanity. My first inkling that he was 'losing it' was when I found him sitting alone on a bed in the boys' room furiously assembling a gigantic Transformer toy whilst inexplicably wearing a hand-knitted hat on his head and a bow tie around his neck. So engrossed was he that he didn't notice me for some moments before looking up and asking 'have you seen the other truck for his foot?' On another occasion he disappeared outside for several minutes; wandering outside onto the deck I found him perched on the roof of the garden shed staring out at the cows in the next field as if it were the most normal thing in the world (it is a very nice view mind you).
Unlike me DH is not designed for idleness, but rather than seeking out things to keep him busy -- and without the cut and thrust of the world of work, not to mention the incentive of pay at the end of the month -- he sinks into a lethargic swamp of self-pity, misery and negativity: Not unlike Irish radio when you think about it, which has nothing to tell me other than the fact that we are all financially up a certain creek and can't afford a paddle. And while I'm on that subject, I thought a Troika was some sort of Russian folk dance -- this particular recession charmingly has it's own patois. Perhaps if we took to the streets dancing to Kalinka it might be more effective than the collective outpouring of doom and gloom which passes for a schedule on RTE radio 1 these days.
Having said all that, I must admit the longer we stay here in Ireland, the more reluctantly do I look towards the move to Oz. We have settled back into our old lives (well, apart from the fact that I see DH all day every day, something I haven't experienced since the disastrous 'move' to France in 1995 -- when I say 'move' it was more like a month spent camping between Bordeaux and Biarritz, feebly seeking out work, before it dawned on us that we couldn't actually speak French) and I'm finding myself frantically buying lottery tickets -- like a convict on death row praying for a for an eleventh hour reprieval -- in the hope that a huge amount of cash will mean I can stay in my house and my children can stay in the same school for more than six months at a time (they're on their third school this year SO FAR)
Dreaming of Gary....
Last night I dreamt I was waiting in my hotel room for Gary Barlow. In the dream I was conscious that such a rendez-vous would amount to infidelity and the possible destruction of my entire world, but I didn't care, I was committed to whatever indiscretions were about to take place. Self-consciously I stood in front of my hotel room mirror, sucking in my stomach and wondering how Gary would feel about the five kids; well that and should I get a boob-lift. Would Gary be repulsed by my childbirth ravaged body or would my charm and wit keep him captivated?
The dilemma was resolved by the rosy fingers of dawn and a baby bawling for his bottle.
I love Gary you see. I already had a bit of a crush on him as the only fanciable member of Take That, what with Robbie's somewhat simian aspect; Mark's small stature and Orville*-esque falsetto while the other two members -- who's names permanently escape me -- I find hard to distinguish between except to say that one of them looks a bit like a homeless person up close and has a lisp which you would think would exclude him from the singing profession.
No, what started out merely as a 'soft spot' has developed into a full-blown -- I'd-leave-my-family-for-you -- crush, for one reason and one reason only, namely his appearance on X factor. I had been most dismayed to learn that Simon Cowell -- who's straight-talking both delighted and irritated me at times -- was departing as judge on the new series, and was underwhelmed to learn that Gary was to replace him.
However, it's turned out to be a stroke of casting genius, giving the female viewers something to pash over for once; let's face it, Simon's is so full of botox and hair-dye, no self respecting woman could fancy him were it not for his vast amount of cash, and Louis, well Louis doesn't count. Male viewers have always had a constant stream of totty to stare at (although can I ask, who on earth IS Tulisa? I thought at first she might be Jo Frost, aka, 'Supernanny' after six months on 'Celebrity The Biggest Loser' and a makeover but it seems she's too young.)
But what makes Gary so pash-worthy is the fact that, rather than the nice, cuddly, judge I expected him to be, thrillingly he's a bit of a bastard: straight-talking like Simon, but without the cynical agenda (if you could ever say that about anyone connected to X Factor). And then there's those low-cut T-shirts. Have been threatening to buy some for DH although he tells me he won't wear them. Mind you, give him another month as an idler and I could probably get him to do anything.
Anyway, my money's on the wee Nothern Irish girl with the voice of an angel.
* Orville, a green, ducking puppet from 80's BBC TV show with ventriloquist Keith Harris. Achieved number 4 in singles charts in 1983 with 'Orville's song'
Unlike me DH is not designed for idleness, but rather than seeking out things to keep him busy -- and without the cut and thrust of the world of work, not to mention the incentive of pay at the end of the month -- he sinks into a lethargic swamp of self-pity, misery and negativity: Not unlike Irish radio when you think about it, which has nothing to tell me other than the fact that we are all financially up a certain creek and can't afford a paddle. And while I'm on that subject, I thought a Troika was some sort of Russian folk dance -- this particular recession charmingly has it's own patois. Perhaps if we took to the streets dancing to Kalinka it might be more effective than the collective outpouring of doom and gloom which passes for a schedule on RTE radio 1 these days.
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Can we 'Troika' our way out of recession?'
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Dreaming of Gary....
Last night I dreamt I was waiting in my hotel room for Gary Barlow. In the dream I was conscious that such a rendez-vous would amount to infidelity and the possible destruction of my entire world, but I didn't care, I was committed to whatever indiscretions were about to take place. Self-consciously I stood in front of my hotel room mirror, sucking in my stomach and wondering how Gary would feel about the five kids; well that and should I get a boob-lift. Would Gary be repulsed by my childbirth ravaged body or would my charm and wit keep him captivated?
The dilemma was resolved by the rosy fingers of dawn and a baby bawling for his bottle.
 |
| Mark Owen? |
No, what started out merely as a 'soft spot' has developed into a full-blown -- I'd-leave-my-family-for-you -- crush, for one reason and one reason only, namely his appearance on X factor. I had been most dismayed to learn that Simon Cowell -- who's straight-talking both delighted and irritated me at times -- was departing as judge on the new series, and was underwhelmed to learn that Gary was to replace him.
However, it's turned out to be a stroke of casting genius, giving the female viewers something to pash over for once; let's face it, Simon's is so full of botox and hair-dye, no self respecting woman could fancy him were it not for his vast amount of cash, and Louis, well Louis doesn't count. Male viewers have always had a constant stream of totty to stare at (although can I ask, who on earth IS Tulisa? I thought at first she might be Jo Frost, aka, 'Supernanny' after six months on 'Celebrity The Biggest Loser' and a makeover but it seems she's too young.)
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| Supernanny? |
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| Tulisa? |
Anyway, my money's on the wee Nothern Irish girl with the voice of an angel.
* Orville, a green, ducking puppet from 80's BBC TV show with ventriloquist Keith Harris. Achieved number 4 in singles charts in 1983 with 'Orville's song'
