Bemoaning Untalented Hair Washers

Goddammit I've been boiling about this for months now, and I've decided to vent my spleen about it.  I had my hair cut last night. It was at least a week overdue - I was tripping over small children and having to wring my fringe out after drinking a cup of tea it was so overdue, so I was really looking forward to being shorn. But I never know what I'm gonna get...

Sometimes I'm lucky and I'm allocated a little trainee - complete with a tattoo and nose ring of course - who sidles up to me and inspires no confidence whatsoever - but man can she massage a scalp! After a day of looking after one business, one husband, one house, the laundry, the shopping, two children, one set of homework, umpteen pishy pooey nappies, three lunches for tomorrow and general housework, I tend to look forward to a good head massage - it's the only sleep I get these days!

But no! Last night was not to be, and it hasn't been for a while now - I got Laura. Laura The Destroyer. Oh my poor scalp. I've encountered Laura before, and my heart sank and my neck vertebra quivered when I saw who was on duty, and for good reason. As I sat back against the basin I silently wished my hair follicles a fond farewell - not such a fond farewell for the grey up risers amongst them - but you get the picture! And off she went, scrubbing my head for all she was worth. What the hell was she trying to achieve? Carry on like that for long there'll be nothing left to cut woman. It was simply beyond invigorating and relaxing was a proposition too far! And then came the "massage", which on Planet Laura involves pressing down so hard on her finger tips that she actually pushes my fully grown adult head into my neck - I was being pushed off the seat at one point and had to hold on to the arm rests for fear of scooting across the floor. Her biceps were bulging and sweat was pouring from her forehead, but on and on she "massaged" - she was relentless. All I kept thinking about was the £38 I'd recently spent on an osteopath to realign my cranium, and how I may as well have just given the money to Laura so she'd stop! This went on for two shampoos and a slavering of conditioner - oh how the hours ticked by like days. But it ended eventually and I was released into the stylist's chair - the same stylist who I believe to be surreptitiously growing my hair - she denies this, but I know this to be true.

Like so much in life, Laura must learn that power is nothing with control.

Oh! That can't be good...

It may come as some surprise that I don't do spicy - or anything that could be considered interesting and flavoursome. In the culinary sense you understand?! It was only when Sarah came home from nursery - nursery! - aged 2, telling me all about the delicious curry they'd given her for lunch, that I thought perhaps I should give it a go - besides, how bad could it be? We have been enjoying the blandest Korma's ever since; until, that is, I was unable to purchase our usual brand of Korma sauce last night in the supermarket - so I decided to be brave and buy a Tikka Masala instead.

Two hours have passed since Keith and I finished our meal, and there may be trouble ahead. The outlook is not good. You have to understand that my constitution demands yogurt be served with Worcestershire Sauce crisps, and Pickled Onion Monster Munch are for only the brave or insane in my book. My gastrointestinal system is a delicate and sensitive little darling, which can - if disrespected and provoked - turn into a lethal and unstoppable force of evil. And tonight is that night ladies and gentlemen. Evidently I have overstepped the mark - I have disrespected my guts. It has begun: houseplants are dead, newspapers are combusting, eggs are sizzling in the fridge - even the glass jar the sauce came in has melted. I foolishly bent over to empty the dishwasher, let out what I thought was an innocent seeper and the lounge door was gone! Come to think of it, I haven't since Keith since I came round; I wonder if he made it?

Tomorrow looks like it's going to be one of those days where I'll be glad we have the bath and basin on either side of the loo - I'm gonna need to take hold. I'm always complaining that I can't even have five minutes peace - not even on the loo. With the whole street evacuated, at least I'll get my five minutes peace!

Inevitable Signs of Aging

Well, it had to happen sometime I suppose: I'm at the stage and age in my life where I've realised that not only is time marching on, but it's marching all over my face! I have developed what we all call laughter lines - although frankly nothing's that funny - and when I bend down to pick something up off the floor, I ask myself if there's anything else I could be doing whilst I'm down there.

Keith - who is three years older than I - has for a while now spent considerable time in front of the mirror pulling out the grey hairs he can see from the front and side of his head. I haven't the heart to tell him of the Mallen streak at the back!

Although I too am greying distinguishably, I have taken solace in the fact that my grey hair has not yet ventured south. Imagine then my horror when I happened upon the longest, thickest and whitest pubic hair imaginable - I was simply beyond consolation; heartbroken I was - wailing like a banshee. I spent the afternoon drinking cocoa and ordering myself a big slipper from http://www.youareoldnowhaha.com/. All I had to look forward to now was a moustache, hairy warts and inexorably long and yellowing toe nails, oh the despair. I always thought old age was for other people; and I got zero sympathy from Keith, who impatiently told me to pull myself together as my singular big, long, thick and white pubic hair was in fact a tampon string. Oops.

I'M BACK!

Yes, I know you've all missed me but I've been very busy completing our company website, surviving the school summer holidays and enduring a camping trip in the most luxurious tent money can buy. Keith loves camping. No really, he LOVES camping. I, on the other hand, loathe camping. Why did God invent spa hotels if we really were meant to piss in a bucket? It's just not right. The damn tent took us 8 hours to erect and 8 hours to put away, and we were only away for four days! Then the swimming pool had to be filled (not to mention emptied), and the servant's quarters decorated. The butler kicked off because he didn't like the shade of green we'd chosen for his en-suite and the whole thing just got ugly. Honestly, it was more trouble than it was worth.

The school summer holidays were excruciatingly long - seven weeks! Seven weeks = 49 days = 1176 hours = 4233600 seconds! But it felt longer! Believe it or not Scrabble got me through the darkest of days, and I even conscripted Olga into playing - badly - but bless her she tried her best! This is the type of online Scrabble with words you've never even heard of permitted - and even the expletives you have heard of are permitted. In no fewer than three moves I had managed F.U.C.K O.F.F W.A.N.K.E.R. to a creepy guy who thought he was God's gift to anagrams - and I Triple Worded him too, which was cause for a little Running Man boogie around these parts.

The Shaggers next door are no more - he's gone - so we're left with a solitary Shagette whose fingers must be worn out bloody stumps by now - I can't imagine how she's coping without the delights of the male anatomy. Perhaps I'm judging everyone by my own standards, but it may be just as well to invest in Duracell now before the rush. I caught a good glimpse of Shagette and her son Igor over the holidays (they're reasonably new to the area), and never a more bizarre duo have I had the displeasure of looking upon. Speaking as a stunning natural beauty myself, Shagette has the highest and most pronounced forehead I've ever seen, but at least the top of her head is domed. You may now be wondering why I've just remarked upon her domed head. Well, it's because Igor's head is pointed. I kid you not, the sides of his head go up and up from his high pronounced forehead and then collapse to form an apex - I have no idea how his mother finds hats for him, but she clearly considers it important to do so, as the beastly Igor has many. Perhaps his misshapen head frightens his class mates, who knows - I shall keep an eye on the local headlines and let you know.

Well, I think that's enough of me for now. I'm sure it's been a pleasure and I'll try to update more frequently now that life has settled down. Please feel free to leave your comments - I'd love to hear from you.

Diet Tips

Never eat more than you can lift in one sitting!

Damn the Government! Part 2

I'm so sorry but I'm just going to have to vent my spleen. Seriously, if we don't have a general election in the next 30 minutes I'm going to have an aneurysm - we have to clear these bastards out of office and sharpish, otherwise what little grey matter I have will spew straight out of my ears!

But worry not because I have an idea - see what you think to this. Vote for me. Yes, I know I'm a married mother-of-two, co-owner of a small business during a global recession, and it is hard to understand where I'm going to find the time to run a country, but those of you who know me, know what a demon multi-tasker I am, and that I haven't slept since February 2008 anyway. I'm serious. Vote for me and I'll clear out and/or jail all of the corrupt, money-grabbing, expenses defrauding, inept, self-serving arseholes and represent each constituency myself, but for one term only, coz' I'll probably be knackered after that.

This country needs me, it really does.

Damn the Government! Part 1

As we run a small family business we thought we'd apply for a £90billion fiscal stimulus, you know - just to tide us over the current economic crisis, but the bastards have turned us down! So all that remains for me to do now is to scale Big Ben in protest and march on Downing Street - who's with me?!

Just What The Psychiatrist Ordered!

Apologies to the throbbing millions of you who have been waiting patiently for my next blog update, but I've simply been too busy to put weary digit to key - but hey, I'm here now! I've just put the phone down from my dear friend Olga, who I've not spoken to in many moons, and I feel like an alcoholic falling off the wagon.

You see Waldorf and Statler (some lesser friends of mine) just don't cut the mustard, and Waldorf has a particularly annoying habit of turning every topic of conversation back to her or hers. For example, if Bart has just cut a tooth her son has cut two in the shape of Disney characters: if Keith farted in bed last night and left me with a centre parting, her husband farted and followed through whilst humming "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen - you get the picture?! It's so exasperating I'm seriously contemplating telling her that I've spent the entire evening wanking myself into exhaustion - just to see what she says. It may backfire and we end up comparing bicep density, you never know. Olga has almost dared me to do it, and I wouldn't put it past me, but I'll have to get back to you and let you know.

Olga on the other hand is a feat of friendship engineering, knows just what to say and when and isn't in the least bit perturbed with anything I tell her, however hard I try. Yes, Olga baby I know you're reading this, which is why I wrote it - thanks for the laugh tonight, I really needed it, and I couldn't have done it without you.

Email Me Baby, Yeah!

In response to the thousands of requests I've had, I have finally got round to setting up an email feed, so that all the beautiful people who read me can initiate their friends too! This is not quite how my world domination plan was going to begin, but it's a start!

All you have to do is click on the little envelope icon with an arrow through it at the bottom of every post - then insert the email addresses of all of your friends. For those of you who know exactly who "The Cast List" really are - for God's sake think before you email! Could an emailed post fall into the lap of an undesirable? Maleficient is not omnipresent, contrary to popular belief - that's just her breath, feet, and the bullshit that comes out of her mouth, you can smell. I'm hilarious people - now go spread the word!

Why are you still reading?! Be gone.....!

The Howling Sexual Antics Of Those Next Door!

OH MY GOD - NOT AGAIN?! Our relatively new - adjoining! - neighbours are almost always having sex as though (a) they're trying to kill each other, (b) experimenting with garden implements, (c) they've introduced a highly sexed hyena into the proceedings, or (d) all of the above!

You could be forgiven for dismissing me as simply being envious, and it's true, I was envious of the free time they seemingly have to express their "love for each other" - right up to moment last night at 12.30am when their 7 year-old son could be heard shouting repeatedly: "MUM! ..... MUM! ... MUM! I'M TRYING TO SLEEP!" I laughed so hard I almost fell off the chandelier!

I don't know about you, but I can accept being cautioned by the police, tutted at by night fishermen - but told off by your own son ... well, that's just not right. Evidently they went off the boil after that, and never got to where they were going. Such a shame...

Website

Am trying very hard to design our new company website, but I'm concerned that the internet may be obsolete by the time I'm done!

Olga visited & bought gifts!

Olga visited on Tuesday and bought Sarah a karaoke High School Musical microphone that plugs into the TV and allows my little tone deaf darling to caterwaul her way through the entire song book - many, many times. She sounds like a bag of cats being slammed against a wall, and this is a picture of what I look like now, having previously looked remarkably similar to a young Jennifer Aniston. You can run Olga, but you can't hide - I will get you for this!

Ratty and Ferret visited Maleficent's at the weekend and we were summoned, along with Jabba and Plank, for an audience with them. Thankfully Thing was visiting those from afar, and so there was some food left for those of us who use cutlery as opposed to garden implements during our dining experiences. It was a civil enough exchange, but Maleficent couldn't help herself with her snide remarks and comments. Oh how I long to tap dance on a newly settled mound of earth!

Hair

I was complaining to my hairdresser recently that my hair felt straw-like, as opposed to the high gloss tumbled-dried Mink feel it usually has. It came as a revelation to me that my hair may still be feeling the after-effects of my recent pregnancy, even though Bart is now 7 months-old. Kelly, my hairdresser, then rootled through my bale to show me Exhibit A - small tufts of new hair. Never one to be reassured needlessly, I stated this hair was more likely to be what was left after five days of looking after two kids during half term, but no - said Kelly - if that were true, my small tufts would be more fist like in shape and size. And there I was reassured after all. Regretfully however, my hair is likely to resemble a badly coiffured thatch for up to 18 months! Honestly girls, what are the benefits to having babies?

School Holidays - DAY 4!

Well, here we are; DAY 4 of the Easter Holidays and I still have a surprising amount of hair left on my head - albeit greying faster than the speed of light! It's amazing just how much stuff kids want, and the metronomic frequency in which they want it. I have started noticing a pattern though: every time my arse is within 3 inches of a seat, Bart will either throw up in a manner befitting an "Exorcist" audition, or Sarah will want a) a drink, b) some food - 30 minutes following her last meal, c) some paper to cut into shredletts and scatter liberally around the house, c) a poo or d) for me to drive her across town to play at a friend's house, or all of the above. Sarah is especially good with the guilt thing; she's a smart girl who is fully aware of Bart's routine, and will wait until I'm in the middle of feeding/changing/bathing him before she asks if I can play a game with her - or even more guilt-worthy - help her with her homework. Then the delightful little darling is so well versed on my likely responses that she has a special "...it's okay Mummy, I understand why you have no time for me..." face. Another aspect to this pattern is that whenever James is napping, or in bed for the night, all motivation towards homework and parental interaction is gone baby - now Polly Pockets are infinitely more interesting than I, where they were just merely boring before. Anticipating these ploys from the manipulative mindset of a five year-old, I had my guilt button surgically removed before she was born, seasoned to taste with urea and sprinkled over Maleficent's sour lemon and piss flavoured breakfast cereal, which explains how she manoeuvres her facial features into their default position, I guess. As time and five year-olds wait for no one, I must be away to see (as if I didn't already know) what DAY 5 brings me. Remember me fondly!

School Holidays

School holidays should be reclassified as crimes against humanity, as they serve only as a cruel and unusual means of punishment for some heinous past-life atrocity that I'm consciously unaware of! How will I ever survive this fortnight, these next 14 days, 336 arduous hours?! The horror, oh the humanity! I REPENT!!!