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...

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?