Question: When is the ideal time to bump into an old college friend that you haven’t seen for the thick end of 10 years?

 Is it when you are unshowered, unshaven (chin hairs protruding), unmade up without a scrap of make up and totally uninterested in anything that’s happening around you because you are concentrating on picking up your dog’s poo that is far from solid on a public footpath?

No.

Is it when you are sporting unflattering see through black leggings and therefore showing off your wild hairy beaver because in the absence of knickers the little hairs are poking through in the same way they do when you are abroad on holiday in your bikini and you’ve trimmed with the nail scissors in a feeble attempt at being well groomed?  

No.

Lets say , just for fun, that the friend in question is tall, slim, unimaginably glamorous and clad from head to foot in designer wear. More impressively (to me) clean freshly washed designer wear, including a shiny  pair of Hunter wellies with matching socks.  

It would appear that although none of the above are textbook perfect situations, you don’t get to choose so it’s tough shit when all of them come true at once on a family dog walk on a Sunday morning.  My mum doesn’t even go to the petrol station for a pint of milk without a dash of lippy and a bucket full of style, making her look like she has marched straight off the front cover of Vogue, just on the off chance she ever crosses paths with her neighbours’ brothers’ wifes’ cousins’ cat, so if she knew that I’d been caught out in cheap leggings, a dirty coat and the 10 year olds beanie hat she would be mortified.

 It was a beautiful frosty morning, the field at the back of the house was white over and begging to be explored with excited kids and boisterous dogs in tow.  In reality Husband and I had no other choice but to threaten the children in order to make them move out of their bedrooms and cooperate in joining in on family dog walking fun, something we try to make a habit of each Sunday morning.  Amongst cries of ‘’I’m not coming, you can’t make me’’ and  ‘’I hate the outside, stop ruining my weekend’’ we managed to shoo them both up the drive and into the white field.  We had decided to walk across the field  at the front of our house, up the public footpath, passed the farm and back around the country lane to the back of our house.  I do this walk with the dogs a few times a week.

Husband never ever picks up dog poos, it makes him gip so I get lumbered with the job every single time.  We had made it roughly half a mile from our house and I was already carrying 3 full dog poo bags so when our big old American Bulldog squatted for the fourth time  I had to negotiate 3 other bags,  a crazy Frenchie and two of those stupid extendable leads that you could easily hang yourself on.  Husband and the kids had knobbed off up front to do ‘grannie slides ‘ (WTF a grannie slide is I don’t know but it’s what Husband calls them) on the ice leaving me to struggle alone.  Imagine my sheer overwhelming delight when bent over mid poo grab a voice bellowed ‘’ OMG I thought it was you!!’’

Spinning around crap in hand, I came face to face with my best pal from college.  Her looking like a glamorous celebrity not a day over 21 and me looking like a middle aged homeless prostitute in a hand knitted beanie brandishing a dog poo like it was a weapon.

Despite generally not giving a flying fook about what people think about me, all I could think about was how horrendous I looked in comparison to this goddess standing in front of me.  After what seemed like an eternity of pleasantries including an introduction to her new husband I managed to excuse myself and escape.  

Once again alone with Husband, the ankle biters and the dogs. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  My people. 

 I hitch up my mucky leggings, wipe my nose on the back of my hand and look lovingly at Husband, grateful he’s not judging me like I was just judging myself when he says with a huge smile ‘’So that’s what it’s like to have a wife who looks after themselves’’

Fucking unbelievable.

Last year when the first lockdown in March snook up on us and smashed us over the head with a frying pan, I had to stay off work to look after the ankle biters like a lot of mums and dads.  Although it was a strange time which took some getting used to, we all seemed to bed in quite nicely to lazy days of reading, avoiding housework, eating 67 times a day and loosely attempting to keep the homeschooling up and running. I stopped wearing jeans or any clothing that was tighter than a loose jogger or pyjama set, and this included my bra.  Never a huge fan of the brazier anyway, this was the perfect opportunity to set fire to it and never let it near my bangers again, and that’s what happened.  For 7 marvellous months my boobs swung low and free without a care in the world and without apology, so imagine my distress when come September I had to go back to work in a formal situation where the freedom of jiggling boobs and rogue nipples was strictly forbidden.  

Picture this … you have made a special effort to leave your home, taking your life in your hands braving COVID to go and pay a cheque in at your local bank.  You are greeted by the cashier tits first and nearly lose an eye.  Probably not what most customers are looking for. 

 The necessity for a restrictive bra, tights and that little bitch you call a work dress now 2 sizes too small following lockdown was mandatory.  I knew my waistline had expanded slightly as a lot of people’s had but I just wasn’t ready for how much.  I’m now the not so proud owner of middle age spread and I don’t really know what to do about it.  Ideally I’d do nothing and it will disappear on its own but that’s probably not going to happen which is why I had 2 options to choose between.  

 1.Purchase the second hand dress that was for sale on the works internal internet which was 10 sizes bigger than my own and had specially modified extra large sleeves. An ideal addition to accommodate the bingo wings.

 2. Wear a double duvet cover.

I was beginning to think the only viable solution to escaping this fate was to fake my own death. I love work, or rather the girls at work. It’s like getting paid to go and see my friends 2 days a week but we’re not going to mention that to my manager. I have discovered though  that I love home more.  I like not washing myself, not wearing makeup, smelling bad without judgment and most importantly not having to wear a bra.  

Letting my tarts swing and clap together at will is very liberating and not something I want to give up in a hurry.  Maybe I could persuade work to introduce bra free Fridays?  The only other alternative is to meet my end by being involved in a fatal boating accident (because every film I’ve ever watched involving the faking of a death ALWAYS involves a boating accident).  It’s not a decision to be taken lightly, it will require some careful thought. Just know that if you see on the news that an abandoned boat has been found unmanned in the North sea in suspicious circumstances close to where a half burnt woman’s body was retrieved, that I came to a decision.

Firstly, THANK YOU FOR COMING, lovely to have you here!  I decided to start this blog because for as long as I can remember I have always enjoyed a good story.  In fact, in my opinion there’s nothing better, and over the years I have talked the ears off my friends and family with stories which usually begin ‘’ You’ll never guess what happened ……’’, so I thought it was about time I branched out and found new people to talk to death.  Not actual death, don’t panic, to my knowledge no one ever died of being talked at, but then there’s always a first time so watch your back!

Once you’ve had a bit of a mooch through this check out my ‘about’ page to find out all my dirty little secrets.  This is my first blog and there will be many  more so if you like a bit of jackanory time and want to come back then that would be spank me on the arse fantastic. If you are wondering what sort of shite I will be drivelling on about, I can tell you that you can expect to see rantings and ramblings about some of the following things-  

*Stuff that happens to me or things I observe on a day to day basis that make me think, Fucking Hell I’ve got to tell someone right now before my head blows off.  This could be anything from an excellent outfit choice by a random member of Joe Public that i’ve caught sight of, to my youngest child telling the Asda cashier ALL of my secrets. There will probably be more than one or two accounts of little incidents that have occured  like when I nearly ate a floating turd by accident in a pool in Eygpt or got trapped in the automatic door at the bus station.  I may mention Husband when he has done something particularly nice or has annoyed me so much that I am plotting his slow painful demise, and of course I will let you know when my little ones (that are actually not so little anymore – currently 9 and 12) say inappropriate or rude things because anyone who says that inappropriateness (is that even a word?) isn’t funny needs an immediate operation to have a sense of humour transplant. sibling arguments, pets (usually our 2 dogs).  One is quite old and smelly but beautiful and we love him.  The other is a small French Bulldog that we rescued last year.  She is basically mental and has a plan for world domination, despite this we love her too.  The attempt at parenting that Husband and I are constantly stabbing around in the dark at will also be mentioned frequently I imagine.

*Toilet Humour.  It’s my fave and there will be plenty.  

This isn’t an exhaustive list but it gives you a clue. I’m hoping that this blog will attract like minded people that like to laugh, who don’t take themselves too seriously.  I’d like it to be a place that makes you feel better after a shitty day or just somewhere to come when you feel like you want to hear a friendly voice.  I want everyone who visits this page to know that it is a place of support, in particular women supporting women because as a woman I don’t think there’s ever a time when you shouldn’t.  It definitely WON’T be a place that will be full of stories about perfect families that live in perfect show houses with perfectly behaved children, mainly because I have precisely no experience of any of these things.  My house is messy, my children argue and say things like ‘’Mum has a willy’’, which I don’t by the way, and shock horror Husband and I sometimes have a good old slanging match but I wouldn’t change any of it.  I am exactly where I want to be.  I am probably wearing a 3 day old stained loungewear set in a house that hasn’t seen a hoover in a while but that is still exactly where I want to be. I’d maybe like my loungewear to be cleaner but you cant have everything.