Observations from an Isolation - Part 1

As we all seem to have an unprecedented amount of time on our hands I thought it only right that I should probably use some of it to write a blog.

I can’t promise that it’ll make much sense as I seem to have lost my mind since the lockdown began but I’ll try my best.  I’m not quite at the stage where I’ve drawn a face on a football and named it but I’m definitely at the sausage surprise level of madness.

It seems to make sense to write down some kind of lockdown observations. So we’ve got them in black and white.  I feel qualified to do this based on the fact I’ve yet to weave my own hemp sanitary protection, make my own mozzarella or murder my family.  I’ll write quickly because they all feel imminent.  I thought something Bono said was a good idea the other day so my tenuous grip on reality is disappearing faster than the 36 pack of Wotsits in my kitchen.

Isolation Clothing

It would seem that people during lockdown seem to fall into 2 main categories.  The ‘dressed’ and the ‘not dressed’  Coincidentally my studies have shown that there are direct links to those WITH dignity and those who wouldn’t know dignity if it fell out of their bleach splattered leisure pants.

I should at this point say that my observations are based on those people who aren’t going out each day to important jobs and keeping our country running, you are the true heroes and we are more grateful that you will ever know.  This is based on those who are locked down at home, often with our offices set up on a paste table, balancing our monitors on 6 cookery books and a comprehensive guide to needlepoint that has never been opened.

So back to clothing during isolation.  The dressed people are actually dressed! In actual clothes.  I have heard rumours that some of the female dressed people are wearing bras.  That is correct!  During this crisis they have adequately supported breasts.  We’ll discuss the fate of the undressed bosoms in a moment, but brace yourself.  This isn’t going to be pretty. 

The dressed one’s wear jeans and their clothes are ironed.  If restrictions would allow they could be dropped into the middle of a social gathering and not be arrested. They look and act like respectable members of the human race.

Then there are the not dressed people.  Now I’m not suggesting they’re naked. I mean some of them might be I suppose, I’ve read about what goes on down South.  I’m saying they’re not dressed in normal clothing suitable for the outside world.  For the sake of full disclosure I will admit I fall very firmly into this category.

The not dressed people, or ‘pyjama dwellers’ if you will, are wearing an increasingly bizarre combination of clothing each day.  At first it was a novelty and we all wore matching pyjamas and we looked cosy but fairly smart.  In a sort of ‘one off lazy Sunday in winter way’.

We are now 4 weeks down the line and all bets are off.  We are literally wearing any combination of items that we can lay our hands on.  Nothing matches anymore, the pyjama top that you wore when you gave birth is being worn with a pair of ¾ length flowery leggings that you grouted the bathroom in.  You’ve got on a ripped pair of pyjama bottoms that judging by the draught could now very well fall into the ‘crotchless’ category and a t-shirt that you apparently got from a bar in Faliraki called ‘Big Willies’ (even more baffling is the fact you’ve never been to Faliraki) 

Knickers fall into the optional category and Bras are a thing of the past. It’s a new age for boobs. Perky is so last season, this is isolation and we are wearing them long and low.   The not dressed people all look completely demented and should probably be wearing a tin foil hat to complete their look.

Isolation hobbies

According to my Facebook people are really making the most of the opportunity to learn new skills which as a crafty person I think is great.  People are learning to play the piano or the ukele, they are learning to bake or make their own yogurt.  They’re teaching themselves to crochet and knit or they’re dancing in their living rooms and videoing themselves doing it. 

In theory this all seems fantastic but has anyone considered what’s going to happen to us as a country?  How we’re all going to come out of the other side of this isolation.  At some point in the future we’re going to emerge blinking in the sunlight ready to embrace life again however it won’t be the same will it?  I’ll tell you exactly how it’s going to be.

We’re going to emerge wearing completely knitted outfits.  Our shoes will be crocheted out of wool we’ve made from the discarded hair we’ve gathered giving each other haircuts with the wall paper scissors.  We’ll emerge to the sounds of ‘when the saints go marching in’ bashed out on a 22 year old Bontempi we bought off eBay in week 2 because learning an instrument seemed a good idea.  

We'll be freestyle high kicking our way through complicated dance sequences and body popping on our front gardens.  We’ll be at least 3 stone heavier from existing on a diet of home baked cheese scones and rock buns that we have been inhaling every day.   

We’ll all be blind in one eye or have some form of brain damage from drinking the gooseberry wine or rhubarb moonshine we decided to have a bash at at some point during isolation.  Our fridges will be full of homemade yogurt and our under stairs cupboards full of sourdough starters both of which are basically just a yeast infection in a jar.  Our cupboards fronts will be covered in substandard daubing’s probably of bastard bloody rainbows that our little darlings have been churning out at a rate of 300 a day and because we’ve managed to successful grow a geranium in a bucket we’ll all think we’re Capability Brown.

It’s going to be the end of civilisation as we know it.  Just you wait.

Isolation Food

This it would seem is a minefield.  I don’t even know where to start.  There seems to be no rules around eating or drinking anymore.  People seem to eat what they want when they want.  Can you imagine if we’d behaved like this before isolation?    Can you imagine turning up at work and at 9.45am unpacking your lunch bag and bringing out half a bag of prawn crackers, some wafer thin ham, a crab stick, 2 tangerines and a twister lolly and proceeding to eat it with a cup of tea.   

Eating a bowl of cereal and a hardboiled egg for lunch and having 2 bottles of Coors at half past 2 with a handful of Cashew nuts and a cheese scone.   It’s like a giant game of supermarket sweep every time you go to the fridge. 

Some honeydew melon and a Dairylea Dunker?  Don’t mind if I do. 

Left over curry at 11.15am?  The perfect time! 

Warm it up?  No need, this is isolation!  Civilisation has collapsed.  We’re one step away from eating with our hands. 

Well the people who aren’t dressed are!

Flying the nest

I know I don't look old enough, but I have a 22 year old son and very soon he's going to be moving out.  He's engaged so this isn't some grotty house share with 5 lads who couldn't recognize a laundry basket if it fell on them, no, this is the real thing.  They've tightened their belts and they've saved up.  A lot of money actually, enough for a deposit on a lovely 3 bed, new build and brand new furniture, in fact my parents spare room currently looks like Ikea exploded, I keep hanging around their kitchen hoping to be offered a hotdog or a portion of Swedish meatballs but to no avail.  There isn't even a dime bar to be had.

When I think back to my first house it was a totally different story, it was a 2 up, 2 down terrace and the majority of stuff in it was donated from various relatives.  The dining room table was left by the previous owners, and judging by the state of it when I took the oil cloth off, had been used to slaughter goats and perform amputations.  We were given a sofa that we put in the bedroom, which someone may or may not have died on at some point and an aunt gave us a book case which was present at the signing of the magna carta.  There was no such thing as tasteful, pale hues and understated colour schemes, this was 1994, if you didn't have a border in every room you had failed at cutting edge interior design. If your light wasn't being provided by 16 uplighters you hadn't made it. 

If you'd peeped though my scallop edged nets you'd have seen that every room had a striped paper on the bottom half of the room, a contrasting border and a marble effect paper on the top half of the room, the bolder the better, burgundy's and royal blues were where it was at.  Every single room looked like a pub. Betty Turpin wouldn't have looked out of place propped up behind my honey pine sideboard peddling hot pot to unsuspecting visitors.  We could have had a quiz and bingo every Thursday night in the dining room and no one would have batted an eyelid, even when the fish man, in his grubby white coat and mesh trilby tipped up,  selling winkles and crabsticks from his basket.

So the whole moving out thing got me thinking about the things I wouldn't miss.  Now please understand, these things aren't just done by my eldest son, my youngest does them too, in fact I'm willing to bet unless your child is one of these odd breeds who helps out every kid, the world over is guilty of some, or all of them.

I've decided that once they've moved out I'm going to go round and do all of the things that have been driving me mad for the best part of 15 years.  In fact I think we should all do it.  We should give our offspring a taste of their own medicine.

THINGS TO DO:

• Walk around the house turning lights on.  It is important not to turn any of them back off.  In fact, look for more lights, have you switched on all the lamps?

• Find the only packet of chocolate biscuits in the house, take them to bed with you and eat them all.  You must leave the wrapper on the floor yet still deny all knowledge of any such packet of chocolate digestives.  Blame the dogs if you need to.

• Pour yourself a drink, only drink half of it, leave it on the mantel piece, or a window sill, maybe on the floor.  Never finish this drink.  Pour yourself another drink, why stop at two, have three or four.  Leave them in various locations so finding them is like a fun treasure hunt.

• Ask what's for tea then say you don't fancy it.  Never agree to anything before the 9th suggestion. To even suggest that you might fancy salmon when it was your favourite for 6 years is demented, it is obviously not suitable for a Tuesday Tea, you should know this. Demand it for a certain time and be late, or be early, just never be on time. Say it's cold/too hot.

• Criticise everyone.  For you, nothing is good enough, food is at best average, glasses aren't clean enough, the house is either too cold or too warm, food smells too foody, The colour schemes are rank, the furniture is rank, everyone in the house is rank.

• Get a dog.  Say it's your dog and you'll look after it and when you move out you'll take it.  A year later repeat the process only with a puppy that is a few slices short of a loaf.  Decide you don't want your new carpets to get dirty so you won't be taking the dog.

• Never turn the TV off.  It is bad luck.  It must stay on for all eternity playing to an empty room.  The same goes for games consoles.

• Play a game on the Xbox or PlayStation and lose.   Forget entirely that it's just a game and descend into a red mist that makes Mel Gibson look like a reasonable fellow.  Punch the wall/TV/doors, break off your wardrobe doors, burst all the blood vessels in your eyeballs,  swear in 23 different languages. 

I told my eldest and his girlfriend of my plans and they didn't seem too bothered.

'You wont' be getting invited round anyway'

CHARMING!

Instagram stories (my new obsession}

Hello all

Firstly apologies for the length of time I've been away.  Lets not dwell on that though.

So where were we? Oh Yes. I have a new obsession

THINGS I'VE BEEN OBSESSED WITH SINCE WE LAST MET

• Making sock monkeys (intended to sell them all, but then gave them all names and grew very attached.  Moved them all into my parents back bedroom. They now have 63 sock monkeys in there) I wish you could spend time with Derek, Titan, Brenda and Gloria. They're my favourites.
• Growing my nails.  I spent 41 years biting them then suddenly decided to stop. 2 years later and I look that like Indian bloke who hasn't bitten his nails since Woodstock.  Wiping my bottom is a challenge.
• Glossing every door in the house.  Forgetting to tell my family.  Spend hours afterwards washing my husband and kids clothes then dousing them in white spirit.  Wonder where the dogs are and then find them stuck to a door.  Spend a further 3 hours peeling them off the door and a further 3 months telling people they have a form of seasonal alopecia and that's the reason they are completely bald down one side.

Anyway back to the my latest obsession.

INSTAGRAM STORIES.

I've been in love with Instagram, like forever dude (often forget I'm 43 and believe myself to be Bill/and or Ted) but Instagram stories is brand new to me.

So I was in the car with Phil, and he was talking to me about work , so it's highly likely that I was about to slip into a coma (DO NOT RESUCITATE) then he stops talking (thank you higher power) and goes 'listen, it's Chris Ramsey'

REASONS I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR CHRIS RAMSEY'S NAME MENTIONED NEAR ME:

• We had tickets with friends to go and see Chris in Darlington and I got a Kidney infection.  I expected Phil to stay at home and look after me, as I was writhing in pain.  HOWEVER My husband decided it was wasteful not to go.  SO HE WENT!

• When Phil finally got in, his ridiculous face was damp with tears.  To this day he assures me that he was not crying at Chris Ramsey but instead weeping for the pain he knew I was in.

Anyway back to that Bastard Ramsey.  He was mentioning his wife (long suffering I'd imagine, bearing in mind he allowed his gig to go ahead while one of his fans wives was glugging cranberry juice and weeing into a sieve just to catch any stray kidney stones) So I decided to investigate....

@rosemarino1

Oh my god

I'm in love

Okay. So lets be sensible I'm 43 and it's really quite ridiculous to be obsessed with someone you haven't met.  However I'm entirely certain we are in some way connected. I've noticed that we both have eyes, and a head, and even more spookily, we wear headbands on our heads.

Phil (you might recall him from previous stories such as 'when that bastard left me at home dying from a kidney infection to go and see his mate Chris) is apparently sick of me popping up in front of him on a daily basis and singing:

Headband of the day

It's the headband of the day

Push your locks away with the head band of the day

Actually I need to admit that it isn't just my husband who is sick of the headband song.  It's my colleagues. My friends, My parents and my children.

So lets get back to Rosie's Instagram.

I am quite literally obsessed, as are many of my friends, so I've spent a few weeks trying to do the Rosie thing, with Robin and Chris.

I decided to video my children so I could share them on my story

WHAT AN ABSOLUTE DISASTER THAT WAS:

Robin might be the  cutest little thing ever. .However my 22 year old is not so adorable.

Me: Joe, have you had a lovely day? What have you been up to?

Joe: I've been at work. Go away

Me: I'm so happy to see you

Joe: Door closes in my face

I'll try again. This time with my 14 year old

Me: Syd, Hi

Syd: Hi

Me: How are you doing little dude

Syd: Mam, stop being weird.

So I'll try again.  I'm going to be 100% Rosie

• I try to do the talking into the camera thing. Instead of engaging people like Rosie does I end up looking all wide eyed and terrified like I''m being held hostage

• I try to look really cute like Rosie does effortlessly and I obviously struggle to know where to look.  I end up looking like one eye has gone to the shop and the other is coming back with the change.

• I desperately do my best to look all just woken up and dishevelled.  In reality I look like I've just been manhandled through a privet hedge

• I force everyone I know to do the 'Deli Alli' finger thing.  As a result the majority of my friends have bruised eye sockets.

I think for the mean time me and Phil will just continue with our best friend romances.

#teamrosie

Anaphylactic shock!

You can't beat a lovely sunny day when you've got a day off.  Especially when two of your favourite friends pop over and you lay about in the garden gossipping and catching the rays.

Now naturally blonde as I am I have skin that refuses to tan. My blonde hair is coupled with the freckliest skin you've ever laid eyes on. So as we're relaxing in the garden my friends are tanning beautifully I'm cursing my mothers side for the Strawberry Blonde hair and my fathers side for the freckly ginger skin.

After a couple of hours of laying about' they look like they're part of the Jackson Five and I look like Michael circa 1997, they go home.  Much as I love them I actually hate their ability to tan so easily.

I go back inside and remember than Joe, my 19 year old has a little pot of 'tan accelerant' in one of the kitchen cupboards. I move things about a bit and find it. If I didn't already know what it was I'd be a bit worried. It's it in a tiny pot and looks like it might be ready to inseminate something, however I know what it is so I'm comfortable with it.
I
There's a crudely written sticker on the side that says 'Tingle Cream' I have a cursory sniff and it smells OK so I take a lovely big dollop from the pot and rub it all over my chest and arms. I feel a bit of a tingle which I take to be a good sign that the cream is going to do it's job. I'm heading back out to the garden enjoying the tingly feeling the cream has given me when I catch sight of my horribly pasty face in the mirror. Now much as I enjoy being pale and interesting I think it wouldn't harm me to have a bit of colour, facially, you know.

With this in mind I take another big dollop from the pot of tingle cream and slather it all over my face.  I'm in the kitchen at this point with the intention of going back into the garden to relax and tan. The chance of me getting anywhere near the garden diminishes by the second as my eyes start to swell shut.  I'm in the kitchen, in the house I've lived in for 11 years yet suddenly I can't see enough to get out.

MY EYES ARE SO SWOLLEN I CAN'T SEE

I CAN'T SWALLOW PROPERLY

MY TONGUE IS MASSIVE

I find my phone and jab at the touch screen hoping I'm ringing someone who can help me.  Apparently the Co-op bank can give me an emergency overdraft if I press 1.  I'm tempted but there's the fact that I can no longer properly breathe (I do consider pressing 1 so Phil can bury me in a vintage Westwood dress)  I have another stab at my keypad and get Domino's Pizza this time.  They ask if they can help me and I gurgle back at them.  They say 'Hello' I say ' Nrggghhhhh' They hang up.  Much as I'm probably dying from a massive allergic reaction I'm mildly irritated that they didn't enquire what base I required.

THEN SOMETHING AMAZING HAPPENS

My parents pull up outside with Syd in the car.  I dash outside, much as you can when your head is 3 times it's normal size and  ask them to take me to the hospital. My mother looks irritated because at this point she's had to put up with 40 years of me being over dramatic/utterly ridiculous. I try to tell them I need to go to hospital but because my tongue is massive and I'm practically choking on it I can't make them understand. What follows is basically a life threatening game of charades.  You should try to mime the word hospital when every part of you, from the neck up, is swelling up.

Eventually they get what I'm saying.

• OTHIPAL
• LERGIC RACTION
• AM THOKING

At one point I actually think they're enjoying trying to work out what I'm trying to say. This is proof to me that they watch far too many quiz shows.

We finally get to the hospital, I get inside and try to tell the receptionist I'm having some kind of allergic reaction. She asks me my name and I just slobber all over her desk (you want to try and say JOOLS ASPINALL when your tongue is so massive that it's hanging out of your mouth)  She is obviously trained in dealing with 40 year old women with enormous swollen heads and big flobbery tongues because she presses a  bell and 400 nurses appear and dash me to 'resuss'.  (At this point I'm convinced Charlie Fairhead and Duffy are going to appear. Sadly they don't).

Once I'm in resuss they put an oxygen mask on me and cannula's in both hands while asking me what happened.  Are they kidding me? I can't see properly because my eyes are swollen shut, I've got a big oxygen mask strapped to my enormous head and my massive tongue is lolling out of my mouth like a dead slug!

I try to tell them I used tingle cream on my face to help me get a tan.  This is actually what I say:

Hff ooosed inglreem onmafay fotann ammginger avfrecks

Surprisingly they have no idea what I'm saying.  I actually said it and even I'd struggle to understand it.

Then they start to put stuff into the cannula's which seems to help. I can see again but my tongue is still huge.  The doctor who is stood next to me starts talking to the nurse on the other side of me. He's saying that if this doesn't work they'll 'put me under and ventilate me'. I'm outraged at this! Shouldn't someone ask me.  I try to tell them that I don't agree to this course of action and it comes out like 'Unt venthilay meef am fyn ow'

I'm actually surprised they didn't give me a lobotomy at this point.

Thankfully whatever they'd put into the cannula's on my hands started to work and my tongue returned to more of a normal size.  I was relaxing on the bed in resuss when they finally let Phil come in.  I was so pleased to see him and expected him to feel the same. 

Apparently not.

He took one look at my massively swollen head and said

'Hello John Merrick, I'm looking for my wife Jools'

Bastard.

Owning a teenager.

I've noticed lately that my previously mild mannered, sweet 11 year old has started to slam doors and mutter under his breath regularly.  I've obviously been here before with my 18 year old so I'm quite prepared for the years that are about to come.  Then it occurred to me, what about those people who are heading into the teenage years unprepared. What if they really believe that they will handle it because they remember what it was to be a teenager so they'll know how their child ticks.  What if they actually think that at some point they won't fantasise about faking their own death or slamming their head in their car door.

As a parent who has been through these years I feel it is my duty to write a guide to owning a teenager.  I hope it's helpful.

LAUNDRY

How to prepare

• Wear everything you own within the space of 2 days.
• When eating ensure you drop the tiniest speck of food on either your top or your trousers, this must be barely discernible to the human eye but must prompt you to change your entire outfit, including underwear. 
• Never use the laundry basket, it is cursed. 
• Always leave your clothes exactly where you took them off, if possible inside out. 
• If you're out and about don't worry about stains like oil, ink or grease, your mother enjoys the challenge that stain removal brings.
• If what you want to wear doesn't appear in your hands clean and ironed within 30 seconds of demanding it fly into a rage because 'EVERYONE ELSE'S CLOTHES ARE ALWAYS READY TO WEAR'

The experience

• Gather up the washing from the bedroom/bathroom/hall floor.
• Sort into loads. 
• Treat the stains with expensive dirt zapping power spray. 
• Realise expensive dirt zapping power spray is a waste of money. 
• Spend 2 hours googling stain removal and applying increasingly bizarre things to stain to remove it.
• Realise you are no longer trying to just remove an ink stain, you are now trying to remove vinegar, tomato puree and yogurt and repair the hole the white spirit burned in your teenagers favourite top
• Try to dry 16 loads of washing by hanging them over chairs/doors/radiators/pets/younger children 
• Spend 9 hours ironing all 16 loads of washing
• Take them into your teenagers bedroom and hang up them up/place them neatly in drawers
• Drag everything off the hangers and out of the drawers and drop them on the floor.
• Kick them about a bit so they look like they've never been near an iron.

FOOD

How to prepare

• Become obsessed with a favourite food.  The more expensive and complicated to make the better.
• Demand that food for most mealtimes.
• Wait until your parents have bulk bought that food (ie: 32 salmon fillets/166 bags of risotto rice)
• Go off that food.  Refuse to even look at it.
• Tell anyone that will listen that you are forced to eat food you don't even like.

The experience

• Ask your teenager what they want for tea.
• Be happy when they answer 'anything'
• Turn on the radio and cook a family favourite
• Serve your teenager their meal
• Continue smiling while your teenager tells you that they are 'NOT EATING THIS SHIT' and 'EVERYONE ELSE'S PARENTS MAKE NICE FOOD'
• Overhear your teenager on the phone to Grandma telling her that they haven't been fed since breakfast

FASHION

How to prepare

• Decide that everything in your wardrobe is either 'gay' or 'shan'
• Refuse to wear anything
• Consider phoning childline because 'EVERYONE ELSE'S PARENTS BUY THEM DECENT STUFF'
• Blame your parents because you didn't ask to be born.

The experience

• Think about what you would pay for a t-shirt.  Double it and add £35.
• Ask your partner how much he spent on fuel for the car in the last two months. Spend the same amount on a pair of jeans.
• Spend 6 hours trailing round sport shops while your teenager turns his nose up at trainers under £70. Realise your £3 pumps from primark have given you a blister.
• Rip a sanitary towel in half to put on you blister because you can't afford luxuries like plasters.
• Come to your senses and refuse to pay extortionate amounts of money for a pair of jogging bottoms.
• Go out and buy the jogging bottoms anyway because you're worried that your teenager is quiet because they're being bullied for their pitifully inadequate jogging bottoms.
• Laugh cynically when you remember that you were once 'that parent' who said your child would wear what you told them to. 

ATTITUDE

How to prepare

• Remember that your parents know nothing
• Take offence at everything your parents say.  It is absolutely NONE of their business if you had a 'good day at school'
• Be nice to everyone elses parents, they're much nicer and cooler than your parents ever could be anyway.
• Slamming a door or rolling your eyes or kicking the dog/your younger brother says more than words ever could
• Every now and then be nice just to keep your parents on their toes.  Inconsistency is your watch word.

The experience

• Make friends with a bi-polar Rottweiler
• Learn not to ask stupid questions such as 'how are you', 'do you want some tea' and 'I notice you're on fire, would you like me to put you out'?
• Always assume that everything is 'NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS' and unless told otherwise you are either a 'joke', a 'clown' or a 'douche'.
• When people praise your child's behaviour do not show them 400 photo's of your teenager, demanding to know if this is the person they mean.  When they say it is don't ask if they are 'on glue'
• If your teenager is nice to you become suspicious and google 'how to tell if your child is on drugs'
• Resist the urge to bundle your teenager into the boot of the car and drop them off 52 miles from home.
• Have a recurring dream where you give your teenager up for adoption.  Start to think of it as your 'happy dream'
• Cry whilst telling your parents what a horrible time your are having and ignore the looks that pass between them.  You know that you were a fairly pleasant teenager.

So there we have it.  A sort of what to expecting when you're expecting your happy child to turn into a teenager. 

I'm sure we were NOTHING like this.  Just don't ask my mother, I think her memory's going a bit!

The streets of London - Part 1

I have recently become 40. Notice the casual ease with which I tell you this.  I'm 40, it's no big deal, at no point recently have i found myself hyperventilating while exploring my face in a magnifying mirror underneath an industrial strength fluorescent tube, or dyed my hair the same colour Claudia Schiffer uses.  (Claudia Schiffer ALLEGEDLY uses, I can't imagine the Swedish one raking through the two for a tenner dyes in Asda in Oslo, while her basket practically bulges with reduced roll mop herring, lingonberry jam and meatballs).  I was a bit panicky (full blown meltdown) but thankfully Phil convinced me 40 wasn’t a big deal (threatened to leave me/have me sectioned).

What I should mention is that we got married on my 30^th birthday, so my 40^th also marked our 10^th wedding anniversary.  I had been planning to up the ante on my usual anniversary present (Pair of humorous pants ‘Caution heavy load’) and buy something more impressive that said both I love you and thank you for the good times (Pair of humorous pants ‘warning choking hazard’ and some white chocolate nipples) however something happened to me that was quite out of the ordinary for someone who is known for their bad luck.

 I entered a completion AND WON!  The only thing I’ve ever won in my life was third prize in a colouring completion, I won a £5 voucher for Rumbelows.  This was 1982 and the cheapest thing in Rumbelows was a £8.99 toaster.  My mother still brings that toaster up to this day:

• Its hardly a victory when it costs you money Julie

• We didn’t need a toaster, we had a perfectly good eye level grill

• If you’d stayed in the lines a bit more you could have won the ten pound voucher and got a nice clock radio

• That toaster turned your dads head, he wouldn’t settle until he got a Breville sandwich toaster and wall mounted tin opener.

Thankfully this time my win was more impressive.  I won £350 worth of red letter day vouchers.  If you don’t already know red letter days are experiences that you can treat yourself to.  

SOME OF THE THINGS I CAN SPEND MY VOUCHERS ON

• A hot air balloon ride with champagne, hysterical crying and possible urinary incontinence.

• A helicopter flight incorporating a 25 minute panic attack on the floor of the helicopter

• A lap in a Lamborghini at Brands Hatch with fainting fit, free trip to hospital and complimentary neck brace

So you see my point, all of the action/daredevil/being up high options are out of the question due to my 213 phobias so that basically leaves: 
-Gourmet dining experiences (have mental image of Phil poking suspiciously at pan fried pheasant with salsa Verdi and a fennel foam  and asking for chicken popcorn and beans and a beaker of dandelion and burdock)

-Wine tasting (can’t run the risk of them making me spit the wine out)

- A short break for two

So the short break is definitely the only option. I’m deciding where when something else amazing happens.  I WIN ANOTHER COMPETITION.  This time its tickets to see Dallas Cowboys play Jacksonville Jaguars at Wembley.  I’m not a fan of American football (I’ve got more chance of understanding a conversation with Joe when he's been out 'we mushn't shpeak, s'too quiet, shall we swhisper') but Phil is a fan so I decide that we will go to London for the night to see the football and stay in a nice hotel.

First of all consideration needs to be given to the children, as in what to do with them.  Joe is easy, he’s 18 and as long as I leave him food in the fridge. (and instructions how to get to the fridge) he'll be fine.  Syd however is not as easy.  

The law states that Joe,  at 18 is an adult and is technically allowed to look after a ten year old.  However the last time I left them alone together (45 minutes to morrisons) I came back to find Syd in his bedroom with the dog eating squirty cream out of the can and feeding the dog haribo's and Joe locked in the utility room (he'll deny it but I'm sure he'd been eating dog biscuits and drinking fabric softener, he had a wet nose and meadow fresh breath for a week afterwards)

How a 4ft, 10 year old managed to overpower a 6ft 3 18year old I don’t want to know, what I do know if that antics like that make it  impossible for me to even contemplating leaving Joe with Syd. So I arrange for Syd and the dog to go to my parents (think the dog is a 
necessary precaution, can’t be entirely sure that Joe will remember to feed/water/let her out/not kill her etc)

So its arranged we’re off to London to a posh hotel and an American football match.  I imagine a fabulous combination of glamour and fun. I think my  imagination needs to get a grip.

The train isn’t too bad at all.  There’s a slight commotion when the conducter walks past and gets his ticket machine clicked onto my cardigan and drags it a couple of feet before he is catapulted back onto my knee but it’s generally uneventful and when it passes 12 noon we even decide to have a little drink to celebrate the fact that we’re away from home without the children. So when the woman comes along, heralding her arrival by breaking my elbow with her massive trolley we order a couple of beers (I was trying to sound all cool and American then, we really got a can of lager each) There was nearly trouble when she charged us 8.50 for the two cans, I could see Phil toying with giving them back so I opened mine quickly and took a swig so he couldn’t.

Arriving at Kings Cross was easy and so was getting to St Pancras (pancreas?), well they were in the same building so it hardly makes us London underground experts yet does it.  We managed to get our Oyster cards topped up and headed for the platform, this is where 
we encountered a bit of a problem.


MY CRIPPLING FEAR OF ESCALATORS REARED ITS UGLY HEAD

What followed can only be described as pure pantomime.

• 2 mins of me crouching in a corner crying and telling Phil to ' go on without me ' (heroic Scott of the Antarctic moment ruined by Phil calling me a dickhead and telling me to get up) 

•  3 minutes of me shuffling back and forth against a wall trying to see how steep the escalators are, while simultaneously taking my scarf on and off because I can't decide whether I can risk wearing it in case it gets trapped in the mechanism of the escalator and decapitates me. 

• 5 minutes of me walking up to the escalator, getting right up to the edge and then hastily turning round and pushing my way back through the approaching crowd while muttering and sweating, this effect was amplified by Phil following me shouting motivational slogans on the approach (You can do it! Face your fear! Go for it!) and swearing on my retreat.

Phil finally hit upon a genius plan,  I was to pick some people who I thought looked confident and trustworthy and follow them onto the escalator. In hindsight I'm surprised we didn't create a massive security alert as we skulked near the escalators with me heavy breathing and Phil shouting  'Have you seen anyone you want to follow yet?

Anyway to cut a long story short, I managed the escalator by following two old ladies with bulky cases onto it.  (The fact I fell over the smaller of the pensioners at the bottom of the escalator because I still had my eyes shut is neither here nor there,  she was back on her feet in minutes and people were kind enough to step over her)

So a short tube ride later, and we arrived at London Bridge tube, practically in the shadow of the Shard
Me: Isn't it breathtaking,  it's so sleek and beautiful *looks at Phil for his opinion*
Phil: It's very.... pointy.....and tall?

After what should have been a ten minute walk (50 minutes,  I'd switched on car instead of foot on my maps so we were involved in a very complicated one way system for much longer than necessary) we arrived at our hotel and discovered that it had been worth the train, escalator and bus lane fiasco

Because we're very sophisticated and no stranger to boutique hotels we reacted to our room in a very cool manner. So once we'd stolen all the teabags,  coffees, sugars, toiletries,  shower caps, turned on and off all the switches, looked in every drawer and cupboard and bounced on the bed we headed back out to Wembley, NFL and too many Americans....... 

To be continued 

Another reason to be grateful I'm not your mother.

I know I don't look in any way old enough but it's true, I have a 17 year old (was the toast of the Daily Mail having given birth to him aged only 9) and one of the big things about having a child who has just turned 17 is that sooner or later they are going to want to learn to drive.

Well Joe decided that he wanted to learn to drive the second he turned 17. That sadly didn't happen. Having filled in all the forms to order his provisional license and sent the cheque etc they were returned to us. Apparently we had failed on the following points.

POINTS ON WHICH WE HAD FAILED
(I say 'we' I mean 'me' I was the one who was all clever and cocky: It's a government form, how hard can it actually be. VERY! Apparently!

1) Fill in the form correctly

This does not mean 'agree to fill in the form for your 17 then get involved in Coronation Street (worrying about Hayley and Roy) meaning you only do a half arsed job.  'Date of Birth' clearly meant his not mine. (Apparently Joe is now a 39 year old woman!) Here's hoping he can deal with being peri menopausal

2) Send your most recent passport

Ensure you check which passport you are sending.  Apparently the passport I sent was of a 3 year old Joe (I'm certain they all melted at the cuteness, I know I did when they returned it) and it did not correspond with the photo of the 17 year old Joe. (Still melted but only because I could only see his face and not hear his angry, accusing voice) Found the most recent passport later (sent it off, not quite feeling the melty love I felt about the 3 year old Joe)

3) Get a signature of a 'qualified' person

Hairdressers are qualified. FACT!   Bastards.


So we finally got the provisional through (What do they do at the DVLA? You send a perfectly lovely passport photo and your license comes back looking like you are no stranger to strangling prostitutes behind skips)

So we've got the license and we decide to look into car insurance.  Joe's been saving so has enough for a cheap runaround.  A friend tells us about a 1L corsa which is apparently the best car for cheap insurance. We go and have a look and it seems OK. It doesn't have tinted windows, it isn't lowered, in fact it's a very sensible car.

I call our insurance to enquire about the cost of getting Joe his own insurance.


After answering 12500 questions (will he ever give a lift to a friend whose Auntie owns a brown Labrador and has revolting piles?) She gears up to give me the price. I'm quite hopeful here. We've bonded. I'm going to her mothers for summer solstice and her and her husband and their three children are coming to us for Burns night (I've explained that my Dad is Scottish and promised he'll play the bagpipes and set fire to a haggis)

Insurance Woman Wendy:  I've got you a really great price here

Me: *in the style of Mrs Doyle :Go on....

Wendy: You're going to be impressed

Me *already impressed: Yes

Wendy: £3846 a year

STUNNED SILENCE

Mental Wendy: Are you still there?

Me:  What did you just say?

Mad Wendy: 3846 a year, that's the yearly cost however if you want to break it down you can pay a deposit of 1400 and a monthly payment of £366 a month.  (sounding like she'd just offered me the moon on a stick) What do you think of that?

Me: *SHOUTING  Just wait!

Lots of mad scuffling while I locate my Texas Instrument Scientific Calculator. (Slice of Pi anyone?)

Me: *SHOUTING LOUDER Wendy?  WENDY??? Are you a glue sniffer Wendy?Do you inhale lighter fuel on your breaks Wendy?  That's 5792 English Pounds a year! You can buy a house in Peterlee for that Wendy!  Do you hear me Wendy? PETERLEE!!

Demented Wendy: I'm still here Mrs Aspinall, there is no need to shout (She can forget Burns night, the horrible robbing cow!)

Me: *calmly now There has clearly been a misunderstanding Wendy.  This is a 1L Corsa!Vicars drive them Wendy, and librarians. LIBRARIANS!!!

Stupid halfwit Wendy: That is the price Mrs Aspinall.

I was about to shout a bit more but at this point Phil took the phone off me and hung up. This upset me as he clearly had no idea how close me and Wendy had become.  I was about to suggest we all holidayed together on the isle of Mann in June.

Anyway as a result of that, and many similar quotes we decided to insure Joe on our car (still expensive but 'Blimey' expensive, not 'JESUS CHRIST' (collapse and void your bladder) expensive.

So at this point he's had ten lessons and his instructor says he's doing really well; and he is. If we're going anywhere he drives us and he's really calm and confident. Unlike me, I'm a horrible driver (that in itself deserves an entirely new blog post). So as I was saying, he's a good driver so after ten lessons and on the advice of his driving instructor he applied for his theory test.

THIS IS WHERE IT ALL GOES HORRIBLY WRONG.

So today Joe had his theory test. I'd told him not to worry about directions because I was having a decent day (yesterday) so if he walked slow, I'd go with him. However this morning was a different story. I woke in complete agony (stupid fibromyalgia for those who don't know) and told him there was no way on earth I could go with him.  He was great about this (he's a really nice lad) and let Phil drop him at the station.

His test was booked for 10am, and he arrived in Middlesbrough at 8.30am. He called me as soon as he got there and I sent him very clear directions a friend had sent me. 

TURNS OUT THEY WERE WRONG. 

I next heard from Joe (who was following the wrong directions) at 8.40am. He was very angry at this point.

Joe: FFS (we all know what that means, but my parents read my blog so I can't actually say it - yes I am 39 but I get wrong if I swear!) I have no effing idea where I am. I'm in a field with a church in front of me.
Me: Are you sure it's a church
Joe: Well it has a steeple and it's a church so I'm FAIRLY SURE IT'S A BLOODY CHURCH!

At this point I could sense his anger so I re-sent him the directions I'd been given and politely suggested that he'd gone wrong somewhere. 

APPARENTLY THE DIRECTIONS I HAD GIVEN HIM WERE NOT JUST WRONG. THEY WERE HORRIBLY WRONG!

Another phone call:

Joe: I'm on the A66 (the dual carriageway that runs through Middlesbrough)
Me: Surely you mean you're near the A66
Joe: No, you fool! Your directions have sent me to the A66. I'm on the hard shoulder bit.

At this point I started to panic.

Me: Joe *shouting* JOE!!! Stay where you are I'll send you a postcode. Put it in your map thingy and follow the route.
Joe: OK just hurry up I've only got 55 minutes

At this point I did what I do best and googled it. I found the postcode within seconds and sent it to Joe. He text me back to say he'd got it and it had given him a route to walk

At this point I was quite calm and confident he was on his way (THIS IS PRECISELY WHY NOBODY SHOULD EVER BE CALM AND CONFIDENT ABOUT ANYTHING I'M INVOLVED IN)

Yet another phone call:

Joe:  Mam *getting angry* MAM!!! The app on my phone says I've walked 4 miles, you said it was only 15 minutes away
Me: I'm sure you're nearly there just keep following the map.  What are you near?
Joe: A railway track, and the A66.
Phil: *annoyingly interfering in the background* Jools.....JOOOOOLS (this is the way he pronounces my name when I've irritated him - all the time).....JOOLS...he's no where near the test centre, let me speak to him.
Joe: I can't, I have to cross the A66

At this point he was actually crossing the A66 Which if you're from the North East is tantamount to crossing a motorway. WHICH HE DID!

THINGS YOU DON'T EVER WANT YOUR CHILDREN TO DO:

1)  Play 'Mummies and Daddies'.In our group of friends this would involve drinking too much wine/gin and getting involved in a conversation which involves violent recriminations about the time Daddy looked at a picture of Linda Lusardi for 3 seconds too long or mummy bought a rug off QVC that really wasn't needed. (IT WAS NEEDED, IT WAS A WELCOME ADDITION TO THE HEARTH, DON'T LISTEN TO WHAT THAT ARSE TELLS YOU) N.B Sorry! I've just been defending that purchase for 9 years now!

2)  Eat food off the floor. My children, when they were younger were like rabid dogs, if anyone in our house dropped anything on the floor. Syd at 2 could sniff out an M&M at 60 paces. The dog would still be looking for it and Syd would have snorted it up his left nostril. Things like this are why we're well known at A&E (A&E staff: Hello Aspinall family, who's fallen out of a window/shoved something up their nose/eaten a wine glass tonight)

3)  Write about you at school.  When Joe was six he was asked to write about his 'special place at home'. He wrote about how he was asked to sit in his wardrobe at home when he was noisy. I had no idea about this until his 'open evening' when his teacher voiced concerns that he was 'FORCED INTO A CUPBOARD'.  When i asked the six year old Joe about this he told me he'd made it up so he looked interesting (would have been even more interesting if Social Services had taken cupboard boy into care!)

So back to Joe on his quest to get to the test centre on time. I ring him again.

Me: Joe where are you

Joe: I'm following the directions, I can't talk now, I'm in a bush.

HE'S IN A BUSH! WHY ON EARTH IS MY 17 YEAR OLD SON IN A BUSH?

There is clearly something wrong with him, why can't he just stick to pavements like normal people, instead of scurrying through the undergrowth like a demented stoat. (turns out this was also my fault read on...)

At this point it was well over an hour since he had arrived in Middlesbrough and he was not answering his phone.  I was getting a bit panicky when my phone rang; I was Joe

Joe: Mam, I'm totally lost. I've followed the directions to the postcode you've sent me. I've ran most of it and I'm now 8 miles outside of Middlesbrough.

Me: You can't be Joe. I sent you the right postcode.

Joe:  I'm in the middle of an industrial estate.  I've had to cross the A66 four times, it's a miracle I haven't been crushed by a lorry.

Me: Well I don't know what to say......(at this point Phil took the phone off me and spoke to Joe)

Phil: Joe what postcode did she give you (Joe tells him). (Stupid clever Phil-face googles it!)
She's given you the postcode for the TA testing centre, you're near Stockton, stay there I'm coming for you! (At this point they conspiritorily laugh -I make a mental note to blow my nose in their pants/socks before I put them in their drawers)

YES THAT'S RIGHT.  I'd sent the poor lad 8 miles out of his way by giving him the wrong postcode.
Phil spent the next hour driving round Teesside industrial estates looking for him.

Neither of them spoke to me for the rest of the day.....Needless to say I'll be paying for his re-sit!

Anyone need directions?