In which I discuss chipolatas of warm dog shit. And friends. (Strictly not interchangeable.)

‘Urgh’ sums up how I feel this morning, though the sight of my two little girls caught up in their own homemade joy of illicit bike riding in the hallway is making me smile… they sense mummy-distraction as if on radar and take advantage at every given opportunity, as all mischievous children should, because riding bikes in the house is usually a big NO NO. However, this rule now comes with an added codicil: ‘…except when daddy is in hospital and mummy’s too tired to give a hoot about the really small stuff…’

One of the less pleasing aspects that I have discovered of my current lone-parenting status is my subsequent lone-pet owner status. Colin the Wonder Dog is a shit machine, despite only being marginally larger than Stanley the (increasingly fat) Cat in stature. Usually of course one can shirk the dreaded shit shovelling duties by bestowing such joyous activity upon one’s husband… but most disappointingly the loathsome task now falls upon the responsibility of yours truly. And so again I say URGH. Wrapping my hand in plastic and collecting chipolatas of warm dog shit from the garden is not my idea of a pleasing early morning activity. (Nor any other time of day, I’d like to make that clear.) Still, every cloud and all that – as yet I have managed to daintily side-step the turds that Colin hides (on purpose I suspect) in the grass, thus avoiding last summer’s particular low of inadvertently stepping in one, treading it into the kitchen, and then having to use a screwdriver (nearest implement to disinfectant-wipe-covered hand) to scrape the crap out of the grooved sole of my previously pristine white Birkenstock sandal. At the time of course I was able to lay all blame at the respective doors of my dog and husband, the latter being firmly ensconced in his role of Chief Shoveller of Shit. A year on, and I find myself willing to prance barefoot in the stuff on the streets if it meant my husband was home and healthy and happy and well. (Luckily, due to living in Portsmouth under the shadow of Portsmouth City Council, I’d have no difficulty in finding enough to frolic in. Merely venturing from my forecourt should do the trick. As I say, every cloud!)

On that note, my little ones (girls, not turds) are now clad in their swimming cossies, re-enacting the Olympics in the cushion strewn living room, which is my cue to drag my bottom from my chair and reign them in prior to that swift and shocking transformation that is known to parents everywhere and that occurs in the blink of an eye: Total House Destruction.

Before I head off to halt the THD in its tracks, I must mention friends… I love my friends. Every time I reach the stage of lonely exhaustion, I am bowled over yet again by the marvellousness of our mates. Something like this draws a clear line between true and pure friendship – whether friends whom you have known for years or those you have made more recently – and mere acquaintance. I’ve been overwhelmed by the caring attitudes and offers of help from friends whom we have had for years or friends whom we have had for only months. Just when you think you can’t go it alone, you realise you don’t have to. Out rush the friends from all corners of the earth, each holding onto a piece of a billowy parachute of loveliness, ready to pull it taut beneath you and bounce you back up to where you need to be. Thank you friends.

(Dammit. Took my eye off the THD a second too long. Bikes are in the living room and Mavis the Kitten is in the basket of one. Colin the Dog of Eternal Stench is scrabbling at the back door to signal yet another bowel evacuation and I am still in my dressing gown avoiding it all. Time to face the daily music and dance. Right in the dog shit if necessary.)


The one in which my husband is diagnosed with kidney failure…

And so, from one minor operation under a general anaesthetic to, 48 hours later, a diagnosis of kidney failure. Swimming, cycling and playing tennis on Tuesday, followed by fourteen hours of vomiting, a re-admission to hospital, and talks of dialysis within the next 12 hours depending on further blood tests and the effectiveness, or otherwise, of some massive doses of steroids and antibiotics. No clues as to what caused it, but some very admirable staff on the High Care Renal Ward researching their backsides off in an effort to solve it.

I’ve been thinking about the differences between blogging (clearly more room for elaboration and so on) and other forms of social cyber communication in light of my husband being so poorly. Facebook and texting are speedy ways of getting in contact and notifying a quantity of people, but are strange mediums also. I was reading an article recently about how people read certain tweets or see facebook photos or a status update, and become eaten up with envy over what they perceive to be someone else’s ‘perfect’ life. Which strikes me as slightly bonkers… and a tad daft and naive. No-one would post a photo or status of only the miserable events in their lives, and what on earth could be wrong in posting something happy… yet at the same time, the irony is that the one person declaring your holiday/status/activity/achievement/food and so on to be ‘perfect’, is the envious person reading it. A backhanded compliment. After all, I’ve never seen a friend post anything and declare it to be perfection. They simply post it, they don’t comment on its quality. Hardly anyone on the planet could be in the position of believing their life or anything they do to be ‘perfect’, but because they can share it cyberly, some dimwits with IQs that are the size of an ant’s clitoris (no idea if they have them; but then some men forget women do) seem to think that by posting happiness or success you must, by default, be automatically smug about it.

Hmm. So, conversely, I wonder what the effect is when you are in the sad and stressful position of posting a low/sad/non-cheery status. Do the ant’s clitoral dimwits smile gleefully and finally become happy themselves in joyous celebration that all is not right with everyone’s world? Or do they take a little time to think about their actions and blinkered little worldview, and consider an expansion of their shrivelled IQs above the level of tiny insect (is an ant an insect?) genitalia size-comparions…I’ve a sad suspicion it may just be the former.

On a brighter note, I am off to visit my beautiful man and to continue hoping against hope that much becomes right with his and our world very soon. Because I miss it, and him.

Waffle done!

Bloggety Blog…

My first blog… After an initial fiddle about with blogspot I have decided instead to dally with wordpress. So, a short cyber scribble for today:

  • Summer hols lovely thus far (where have they gone??), Olympics fabulous
  • Husband poorly. Has catheter til next week. Grisly. (He’ll thank me for posting that online.)
  • Eldest daughter away with Grandma. Same eldest daughter who told Nanny yesterday that ‘Daddy said your house is a pigsty’. YIKES a.) He didn’t, b.) It isn’t, c.) Mortifying
  • Blissful Brighton day last weekend for Mum’s birthday. Excellent shoppingness. Recommend The Blackbird Tearooms and the sea-salted caramel ice cream from Boho Gelato
  • Vastly tempted to have all hair chopped off a la Dannii Minogue and dyed auburn. (Another thing husband won’t thank me for, heh heh)

So, first blog done. Not vastly interesting, but most definitely experimental. One shall endeavour to improve!Image