A Day in the Life...

Mr Parsnip told me off on Thursday evening. He came into the house, full of high dudgeon, and stated: YOU BLOGGED ABOUT ME AND MY SPOT!

Yes, I replied calmly: I did. I experienced that filth; I have a right to blog about it.

Are you going to keep blogging about me? he asked, fearfully.

Probably, I replied. And walked out of the kitchen...

And so, I think to myself each time he makes a faux pas, that's one for the blog...

Such as just ten minutes ago. The silly old hypochondriac saw black marking all down his index finger and rubbed at it plaintively. Is it a bruise? he asked.
I dunno, I replied. Does it hurt?
He licked it, rubbed again, and the black marking went.

Last week, our local friendly priest came round to visit, armed with his holy water and proceeded to tell Mr P all about the forthcoming trip to Lourdes - there are 29 of them going.

Mr P has no knowledge of the Roman Catholic religion whatsoever (a bit like me, who only converted last year so the girls could receive a decent education in this village...) and just about refrained himself from asking who was playing. For our non-British visitors, Lords is a famous cricket ground in the south of England. Mr P thought 29 priests were going in for six...

Cricket is a bit of a sticking point for Mr Parsnip. Whilst on honeymoon in Sri Lanka, our taxi driver pointed out the national cricket ground. Being quite aware that Mr P knows as much about cricket as I do about black pudding hurling, I was rather astounded to hear the tripe which started to issue forth from his mouth in his attempt to be 'a bloke'. So I turned to him with a raised eyebrow and sweetly asked, Who's the England Cricket Captain at the moment, darling?

He nudged me hard, turned a little pale underneath his Fab Lolly tan and mouthed at me to shut up.

A red rag to a bull, I'm afraid...if there's one thing I don't like to smell, it's bull sh*t and so I proceeded to question him about the current line-up and whether he thought Ian Botham or Graeme Gooch would represent us in the next World Series (or whatever the daft name is for an equally daft, and boring, sport).

It seems a little unfair to Parsnip-bate all the time, though, so Charles, that's all I'll throw out on you today!

Daughters #1 and #2 return to us tomorrow from their Spanish holiday with the ex. #1 has fallen 'in lurve' with a 15-year old and has proclaimed that her current boyfriend (the callow, spotty yoof I cannot abide) is 'a bit of an ass, really'. Music to my ears! 'Dan' (the new one) even has #2's approval, so he can't be bad - or possibly he bought her an ice lolly...

I am really looking forward to seeing the little angels. My ears haven't bled with white noise, I haven't said, uhum; aha; hmmm; yes, whatever; STOP IT! for two weeks and I fear my vocal cords may be seizing up. They go back to High School on Wednesday - indeed, it is #2's first day and year at Big School and she is petrified. She keeps trying on her uniform and showing us various different looks. I keep telling her to knot her tie properly and then her big sister takes her to one side, tells her she looks 'a spoff' and adjusts it so it is hanging down almost to her navel.

I have, personally, got rather broody just recently, and even mentioned the pitter-patter of tiny feet to Mr P who looked rather dyspepsic for a while. Then I realised there's no room in the house; it'd have to sleep in the new conservatory, 'cause I'm b*ggered if any mewling, puking thing other than Mr P is sleeping with me...So I may get a budgie instead...

I feel fairly certain that, upon the return of the girls, all broodiness will vanish like the Autumn dew on an Indian Summer's morn (how's that for a bit of prosaic claptrap?). I will crave my solitude and silence, will desperately want to clean kitchen floors, trouble-shoot silly websites, visit pharmacies in the middle of nowhere to see how their TV installations are going, and bake coffee cakes. The image I uploaded above is a bit of jiggery-pokery performed by Mr P using his PhotoShop. Four #2 daughters surrounding me...no wonder I had to have the glass of wine.

Two are definitely enough!

PS. For the concerned amongst you, Arthur reared his ugly 'head' again yesterday for Round 2. I won. I await his resurgence. Although I will miss him when he is gone...

Mr P, Arthur and Me...

It's way too early for me to be awake considering I am not at work, but as it was the longest night in the history of Agnes Mildew-Parsnip in that I had recurring dreams where I kept telling Mr P that the CD-rom I was waving in front of his face was 'both downloadable and upgradeable', I bored myself rigid, got up with him as he made his preparations to leave for that pretty town known as Slough, four hours drive away, and decided to potter until possibly boring myself even further in tackling the massive pile of ironing which sits, in the hallway, waiting to trip me up.

I haven't surfed the Internet for days as my old PC has now been installed in #2's bedroom where I am not allowed to (shouldn't? (shhh!)) smoke (as she is currently holidaying in Spain with the ex, she will never know). Mr P's PC has gone on the fritz and it would appear that all the photos he has taken of the Mildew tribe have been lost to cyberspace forever, much to his chagrin and my semi-relief. There's nothing worse than seeing your phizog staring out at you from a computer screensaver on rotation and it's even worse when it has been PhotoShopped into submission so that you suddenly, falsely, appear on the attractive side. 'Pity PhotoShop couldn't be applied from a bottle', has been my most recent thought. I'd give anything to have my blemishes, shadows, misshapen nose and grey hairs miraculously removed with one morning application of PhotoShop-In-A-Bottle.

I've started noticing that it takes me longer and longer to get myself ready to go out. I now have three moisturising unguents which need to be applied (one of which is supposed to act like Polyfilla and applied delicately to the 'lined areas' of the face. A 15ml pot lasted me one application) and each needs time to set and dry before the application of the next. Then there's the foundation which is 'light and frothy and whipped with a million bubbles'. I feel like I am applying Cappuccino to myself at times, but it doesn't taste as nice. Applying eye shadow and eye liner is a real feat. Where once I had taut eyelids, now they move with the brush, providing great resistance and thus great big clods of 'mocha', 'taupe', 'bandage' and 'anthracite' build up in the crevices. It really is tiring being a female at times...

Mr P has me to groom him and care for his facial features - although his gratitude can be a bit thin on the ground. He tells me he feels like a Science Experiment at times. As he comes round in the morning, his first sight is of me peering over his skin, checking it out for blackheads, whiteheads, spots and anything else I can lay my fingernails on. I pick at his ears, scalp, complexion, back...anything I can reach depending on how he is lying in bed. He thinks that I enjoy this, but I don't. It's horrible for me. Honest...

I have never really suffered with spots - which has been a double-edged sword for me. Obviously, one does not want to parade gloop heads across one's face, but there is a certain satisfaction in extracting the gunge from them. #1 daughter has taken after her father who did suffer with teenage acne, but she is a delight, as she frequently gallops up to me on her imaginery pony and asks me to pick her zits. We can spend hours of quality time together doing this. Thankfully, this is one of the few ways she takes after my ex - who I am pleased to report has, over the last 12 months, become rather aged and fat. I feel like offering a marvellous diet tip to him: how to lose 12 lbs of ugly, useless fat; but that would mean him chopping his head off, so I guess that wouldn't go down too well...

The other day, to my shock (and glee; OK, I admit it), Mr P asked me to check out a lump on the back of his neck.
He went into a (very) lengthy explanation of how he had suffered one of these before and how, rather than trust a doctor to excise it (he has an aversion to needles, scalpels and anything sharp - including my wit - haha!) he decided to attack it himself. I was treated to an amazing description (which still beggars belief) of a 'cone' which he extracted. So, when he asked me to have a squeeze, I proclaimed that although I could feel the lump, there wasn't a 'head' and thus what on earth could I do?

Boy, how wrong could this Agnes be?

With the slightest pressure being gently applied, the dirtiest, foulest pus started oozing out like a massive worm, and my eyes widened in amazement. It just didn't stop! Had it been crude oil, I would now be swanning around my mansion wearing nothing but Gucci furs and Prada heels. I was now getting into my stride and decided to really get my nails working. Unfortunately, when further pressure is applied to something which is already under pressure, that extra force can lead to an almighty explosion.

And I caught it a wallop, right in my left eye, across my fringe and down the side of my face.

I shrieked Jesus Christ!, at the top of my voice and proceeded to retch violently with the smell, which was like Satan's toilet paper. Urgh, Urgh, Urgh!!! You Minger! I cried, not very diplomatically. I flapped around the bedroom like a demented pigeon, wanting to get away from the pong and trying not to bring up the contents of my colon. No matter how I scrubbed, that smell would not go. I felt like Lady Macbeth (Out! damned spot...), washing away at something which could not be seen, but was definitely there.

Mr P was panicking somewhat - he often does when I blaspheme so vociferously - he knows when I take the Lord's name in vain, I am often scared stiff by something: usually #2 gliding up behind me, wraith-like, and making me jump violently out of my skin, or a dirty big spider scuttling across the floor towards me.

Well, I showed him the cack I was collecting and then forcefully shoved my soiled fingers under his nose. He tentatively sniffed, pulled a face, gulped and proclaimed: Stilton cheese.

Very ripe Stilton cheese...one which had been maturing in a hot car for three weeks and sat on by a wet dog with a flatulence complaint.

That was more like it...

Thankfully, I remembered to wash my fingers once more before next picking my nose. There is nothing worse than having a lingering smell stuck up your nostrils. Once, having changed #2's soiled nappy after I had fed her curry, I hadn't quite washed under those fingernails briskly enough. One root of the left nostril later, and I was left with a pong up there for the rest of the day. Not one of my better days if I recall.

Anyway, the boil was drained as much as I could manage. Mr P reckons that is just Round One and within a week or so it will have refilled, ready for me to have some more fun. I have been nurturing it with tender loving care, applying Germolene to 'draw' it out, and poking it each morning, like a lump of rising dough. I have even given it a name - Arthur - and I ask after him every day. I can see Arthur growing with all my TLC and I will have him plucked fairly soon.

All good things come to those who wait...

An Update and Apologies for the Absence...

I have just stumbled across an unmoderated comment from Karen which asks if married life is now so hectic that I do not have time to post. Well, first, Karen, please accept my apologies for not responding, but my Yahoo! mail account, where I receive these alerts, will sometimes work and allow me to see my messages, and other times, it just cannot be bothered and tells me it 'appears to be having a problem loading this message'. I think it may be menopausal to be honest...One type of message it never fails to deliver is an offer to extend my penis. Since I still can't find my penis, despite years of looking, maybe this is a valid suggestion?

Is married life hectic? I guess attempting to get Mr Parsnip's breakfast right in the morning has become a bit of an ordeal...there's not enough golden syrup on his porridge; I have used sugar instead of golden syrup; the dried fruits aren't sweet enough and thus he needs sugar; he doesn't want mackerel...I have since gone on strike and told him he makes his own from now on. You can only kick a dog so many times before it turns and bites you on the bum. (Caveat: he has been so sweet recently, he got an omelette this morning...)

But, it's not so much married life which is hectic, it's being a full-time mother (as well as a full-time whipping boy to my boss, The Fat Controller) to a full-time teenager which is now starting to take its toll.

#1 has become the nightmare daughter. Not only does she do the usual things such as slamming doors, leaving dirty clothes everywhere, turning her bedroom into a filth magnet and decreasing the temperature of the room to sub-zero with her glares, she has now been in detention for kissing her boyfriend (a callow, spotty youth with a mono-syllabic vocabulary), flirts remorselessly with any male of her age, uses her dinner money for chewing gum or chocolate and La Senza underwear (which even I struggle to afford from time to time, hence my George at Asda (Walmart for our US reader) knickers) and lies through her back teeth to me.

Fortunately, I am blessed with one of the most suspicious minds known to man: I trust nary a soul, and can smell a set-up a mile off. You have to get up jolly early in the morning to get one over on me, and since I rise with the birds, you're not likely to get a lot of sleep in your endeavours...

After yet another saga last night which has resulted in two weeks' grounding, a ban from parties/sleepovers/breathing, a ban on the use of the house phone, and confiscation of her mobile once I can find the damned thing, and the application for Boarding School prospectuses, I remarked to Mr Parsnip that I was bewildered at how I could beg, plead, cajole, encourage, or threaten the same things over and over again, only to be ignored repeatedly. I was staring at the kettle at the time.
"Look at that kettle. You ask it to boil. It says, OK, and Bob's your uncle. One pot of boiling water. Simple isn't it? Why can't she be as compliant?"

Mr P, for some odd reason, found this hilariously funny, and shook with laughter so much that he nearly fell off his perch on the kitchen worktop.

She has started to go through my wardrobe and shoes racks (of which there are many, I must confess) and asks if, when I die, she can have X, Y or Z pair of shoes. There are then the 'dumb blonde' questions (she is blonde by nature, but has enhanced with a dodgy dye I did for her last year) such as, 'Mum, if I put on three different deoderants, each with 24-hour protection, does that mean I don't have to wash for three days?'...The mind boggles...

#1 and I are now of similar dress sizes. It is not that she has put on weight, it is just that the weight has fallen off me with worry. (For our American reader, I weigh in at a size 4 and look like Cruella de Ville). She hates me for it, berates me for it, and tells me that I ought to be like all the other Mums. Her friends' mothers are all on the very short side (unlike me); bleached blonde (unlike me); work part-time or not at all (unlike me) and have the propensity to enjoy the occasional pie or double fish and chips. I am deemed 'un-Mumsy'. She still likes to nick my Karen Millen dresses, though...

She has her moments, though - such as when she wants to go horse riding, she will do all the family's ironing, as long as she gets in that car. She will also 'baby-sit' her 11-year old sister for unlimited use of the house phone to call her spotty boyfriend and she can make a mean lasagne.

When I am reincarnated, I will not return as a Mother. I will return as a hedgehog. They have fun...

The Aftermath...

Dear All,

Just a wee postcard from Sri Lanka for you...

Ah well, you were all wondering, weren't you: will she, won't he, will he, won't she? Well, we did. And it was beautiful, and when I get back from Sri Lanka, you will hear all about it, and I may even upload a few photos so you can finally get to see what Agnes Mildew, Charles Parsnip and Daughters #1 & #2 look like...If you want...

So, here we are in the Mount Lavinia Hotel, Sri Lanka. I was somewhat perturbed a few weeks ago, to know that our honeymoon was here, as in February there were a few problems, what with the Tamil Tigers kicking off and deciding to blow up a public transport bus not far from our hotel, killing a number of civilians. Hmm...that is what had put me off coming here with The Ex some years ago. But, ever the trooper, I was determined not to let a few terrorists intimidate Agnes Mildew-Parsnip this time!

We left Manchester on Sunday morning in a flurry of late spring snow. We had both dressed for the prospect of warmer climes and thus, when Mr P suggested a final cigarette outside the airport terminal, I, in my ignorance of the lack of designated smoking areas, declined, preferring the warmth indoors. I was most distressed, after check-in, to discover that a very long, nicotine-free nine hours lay ahead of me, and got somewhat mardy at one point...

The flight itself was very uneventful, excepting the exchange of foodstuffs between me and Mr P. I no longer eat any other meat but fish and the only options were lamb or chicken. So Mr P had my chicken (from Business Class, as Camel Class had run out), his own chicken, and I had two salads and two smoked salmons. He also had two cheesecakes. And two biscuits and cheese. And two bread rolls. Is he carrying twins, I wonder?

Our stopover was in Dubai airport - a place I am very familiar with, due to my sojourns in the Middle East. Indeed, arriving in the Irish Village (the airport pub) was like being home from home. We were a bit fuddled with the time difference, and Mr P started to get agitated by my blasé attitude towards making the gate exactly 37.63 minutes before take-off. I have a more Middle Eastern IBM attitude - In sh'Allah Bukrah Mumkin (Tomorrow, God Willing, Perhaps, if you care to...) and thus ambled along to gate 53. Which happened to be the wrong gate, approximately half a mile in the wrong direction.

Mr P turned a strange shade of red, refused to talk, look at me, or breath properly and strode out like a man possessed towards the correct gate. I hopped and capered alongside him, making reassuring coo-ing noises, telling him things would be fine.

It didn't wash...At all...

I won't describe our first 'discussion' as husband and wife, but suffice it to say, I won.

And so we arrived here, and haven't we done well for ourselves? The Mount Lavinia Hotel is a fine specimen of Colonial architecture and we happily ensconced ourselves in what the Brits abroad do best - bugger all: drinking, eating and getting sunburned.



Mr P is mortified to discover that the Asiatic Crows are so bloody cheeky and will blatantly dive-bomb you as you partake of breakfast to nick your toast and marmalade, and he was horrified when one sat upon his clean shorts and emptied its bowels. I suggested to him, in between bouts of hysteria, that it was either a very poorly bird, or someone had emptied a pot of muesli yoghurt onto his kecks.

He didn't see the funny side...

I, on the other hand, thought it hilarious, and that is because he wet his pants laughing when a pigeon plopped on my head during our four day break to Barcelona (first time round), two years ago. Revenge is sweet, Mr P. So, so sweet...

We haven't done anything but sit around the pool, talk rubbish, read books and buy gorgeous Sri Lankan jewels. Well, I have snuck off to buy jewels, but don't tell my new husband that. He must never know, OK?

So, he is currently pushing out the zeds as he has had such a hard day of it, sheltering from the tropical storm we have experienced, drinking red wine, reading his strange Sci-Fi novel which looks like something to come as a free gift with the Sunday Express, and eating Tandoori Chicken butties. Ah me...such is life.

The hardest part is to ring daughters #1 & #2 up tonight and ask if their day has been as good as ours...

Will keep you all posted!

Wish you were here *ahem*

Agnes x

It's the Final Countdown...

It's been a bit quiet on the old blogging front at HexMyEx. That's simply because I have found myself in the unenviable position of juggling three full-time jobs recently: those of marketing manager, full-time mother (daughters #1 and #2 refusing to see their father) and housewife. I strongly object to being married to a house but it certainly feels like I am chained to the sink at present, so I definitely understand the expression.

I have only ever wanted a quiet life. My idea of larks is to jump out on Mr Parsnip when he is least expecting it and scare him witless...Indeed, I attempted to do this some months ago at our local cinema, by hiding behind a life-size cut-out of Jonny Depp as Sweeney Todd. After standing there, braced and ready to jump for about ten minutes, I pondered as to whether Mr P had fallen down the toilet, so long was he taking. I poked my head around Jonny's and, much to my chagrin, there he was on the other side, wondering where the hell I was. I had missed him leaving the gents' and my ruse fell flat on its face.

So, considering that I am now in my final week of being a single woman (the big day arrives this Saturday, 19th), I am now wondering what has happened to my sanity as daughter #1 screams that she is not coming to this 'flippin', God-forsaken wedding!'. This, dear reader, is because I dobbed her in it at High School. She has been taking £2 each day from me for lunch and then spending it on sweets. So I did what any normal, indignant, but sneaky, parent would do and reported her to her Year Head who is now going to monitor her every move in the dinner queue. The fact that she is being treated like 'a spaz' has left her mortified and hating me for the rest of my life. I can live with it. Really, I can...

The bridesmaids have been the bane of my life. They are daughters #1 and #2. Trying to find something that is both girly (#1) and tomboy-ish (#2) has been a task even Trinny and Susannah would find difficult. Therefore, they are both in cappuccino coloured (brown, for the plain speakers), simple dresses, but with a splash of beading and lattice work to appease #1's girly tendencies.

Despite ordering these dresses before Christmas last year, they only actually arrived in the shop six days ago. My hair has been turning greyer and greyer, I shake like I have the DTs, and I cannot sleep properly for envisaging #2 getting the hump and pitching up in combats and wellies. The seamstress at the bridal shop has a strong, drawling Scouse accent which has served to drive me up the wall: Don' worreeeee, Agnessssssssssssssssss. Ir'll all be all rice.

But #2 goes away for a week on Monday and won't be back till Friday. She doesn't have time for a fitting. What am I going to doooooo???

[It's at this point, that an observer would be reminded of Edvard Munch's The Scream]

Don' worreeeee, Agnessssssssssssssssss. Ir'll all be all rice.

It wasn't alright.

The girls went for their dress fittings on Saturday, and the supplier had sent the wrong sizes. #1 who is a slim 13 year old was fitted in a woman's size 16 which would have swamped me, and #2 who could hide behind a river reed comfortably was fitted in a woman's size 8, which might have just fitted me with a bit of shoe-horning. I was suitably distressed, turned a few shades of crimson, stuttered, came out of the changing rooms to find Mr P looking furtively at posh frocks and wailed. Mr P offered to go out and get some veg from the grocers if that would help...

In order to stop me from panicking about the girls' dresses, the seamstress, Julie, offered to let me try my hoop on. I'd also panicked about that as the last time I had tried one on, the Saturday girl gave me a size 20, so the only way I could walk in it was to spread my legs as far as they could go and take giant strides around the shop floor. I could really imagine arriving at the ceremony to the dulcit strings of Mozart, clomping like a fairy elephant...

This hoop fit me perfectly, thankfully, but it was as I was stepping out of it, still in my jeans and boots, that Julie ducked to her knees to assist me. She had just, at that point, told me not to 'worreeeee' again, and I kneed her in the forehead. It was an accident, really it was, but she was sent flying across the changing room and got up a bit shakily. I hope it served as a warning to her, despite it being accidental...

My work colleagues tell me I am exceptionally cool, calm and collected, considering I marry in four days time. I tell them I am an exterior Ice Maiden, but beneath this frosty surface, I am a nervous wreck. One colleague continually tries to take my mind off things by telling all and sundry that she marries in 87 days, has rubber Calla lillies in her bouquet, and the guests' favours are sample size perfumes she has extorted from one of the perfume suppliers. I ignore her, preferring to keep referring to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office website to see whether the terrorism in Sri Lanka (where we go for our honeymoon) has changed yet from being High Risk to Don't-Go-There-Whatever-You-Do...

It's also throwing it down in Sri Lanka: thunder and lightning storms. Semi-monsoon season.

Great...

Forecast here for Saturday is scattered showers, 7degC and a bit on the breezy side. So, I will certainly fulfil that old wedding rhyme of 'Something Old, Something New...' I'll be the 'blue' and Mr P is the 'Something Old'...He wasn't impressed when I jocularly quipped this to our travel agent, and asked for seperate seats on the plane from me.

Some people have no sense of humour...

So, next time I blog will no doubt be upon my return from Colombo. Unless the Tamil Tigers kidnap me and use me as their domestic for the next five years. I'd be good at that.

Goodbye for now. Next time we meet, I will be Mrs Mildew-Parsnip. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?