I'm going out

Well, that weekend seemed to fly by rather fast.

Look, I'm camouflaged against the greenery in the garden.

 

 

That's Charlie and his little buddy Caspar frisking about in the tree.

 

 

 

On Saturday, while the girls went out with their dad, I took the opportunity for some one-to-one time with Seldom Seen. 

 

Over a latte (one shot for him, two for me), we discussed homework, and agreed a system whereby he takes responsibility for it rather than me having to nag/bribe/threaten/cajole him. Honestly, homework causes more conflict between the adults and kids in this house than almost anything else. I cannot stand it. 

 

With reference to my last post, and This Be The Verse, I asked him if he thought his dad and I were fucking him up. He thought for a bit, then said "Yeah, but it's OK." 

That's my boy.

 

 

 

 

 

1970s DL Barron maxi dress - flea market

Denim jacket and most of the bangles - charity shopped

Peacock bangle - gift from dearest Tania

1970s cameo pendant - from my friend's mum's collection

Sunglasses and sandals - retail 

I had a lovely evening round at my friend Sue's on Saturday.

Trace, Karen, Sue, Lois, Joanne, Chris and Liz. The dream dinner party.

Lots of wonderful food, free-flowing wine, great company, and so much laughing my face ached.

The conversation ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. Education, parenting, community projects, health issues. Pelvic floors, tics in unmentionable places, the use of olives as fake nipples, and the delights of Vagi's Flavours.

Who wouldn't want to dine at this restaurant?

 

Tracey demonstrating the incredible boob-enhancing power of Greek food. 

 

Sue went to Zakynthos last month, and had been inspired to make some delicious spinach spanakopita. 

She is also an inspirationally good writer, and has given me permission to reproduce this poem of hers, a caustic ode to domestic goddessery, and proof, if further proof were needed, that fuck is a perfectly legitimate word to use in poetry.

Fuck Broth

Fuck broth.

And apple crumble made from scratch

and chutneys and jam

from the windfall rot

long overdue in the preserving pot

and the high-rise town of pans and plates

twinned with musty laundry mountain range

And dead mice under the fridge

and desperate plants snided with flies

and handmade cards

and homemade pies

and unframed photos

unanswered messages

call backs, get backs

knock backs, set backs

notes for class

and broken glasses

and cat piss on the sodding mattress

and rising dough

and half written poems

and other stuff I wish I'd never started

and catching up and knuckling down

and cracking on and getting ahead

and all of it.

All of it.

Fuck broth.

I'm going out.

 

I did say to Sue that I was going to pretend I had written this, since it describes my own thoughts and feelings with frightening accuracy. But I admire her talent far too much to be dishonest and claim it as my own, though I can't say I wasn't tempted. 

 

 

I know such an interesting bunch of women.

Liz, another of the raucous diners, was talking about the street piano she had arranged for her road. 

 

 

 

It was lovely to see so many people gathered around the piano in the sunshine this morning (it's situated right opposite school). This little boy was enjoying a play, and his mum said it was OK for me to take his photo and put it on the blog.

 

So here's to friends, to laughing till your face hurts, to going out instead of making broth.

 

Here's to music in the street, to poetry, to fucking up and being forgiven.

 

To pelvic floors, and to flavours, many, various, and Vagi's.

 

 

 

Despite blending in with the greenery, I'll be joining Patti for Visible Monday. Even if I'm camouflaged, you'll definitely hear me; I'm the one with the fuck-peppered language of a navvy and the cackle of a hyena. 

 

Now don't you just want to invite me to your next dinner party?

xxxxxx