my dishy man

He is dishy, of course. But that misleading title belongs to a little diatribe all about my man and his relationship with our dishwasher.

If you’ve ever read the first ever blog post I wrote – written back in the days when blogs hadn’t been invented yet (1996), but published here on this blog in 2007 – you’ll see that the washing machine and my husband don’t see eye to eye. That relationship deteriorated to the point that he was banned from touching it before we were even married. I’d be surprised if he even knew where it was these days.

The washing machine might be out of the picture, but the dishwasher has struggled on, trying desperately to please. It’s never been a good relationship, but he’s never managed to flood a neighbour’s kitchen with it, which is always a plus…

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Don’t tell mum!

  • By Alison
  • 13 February, 2011
  • Comments Off on Don’t tell mum!

When I was at university, I made sure I learned everything I could about social interaction and cultures. I’m not talking about my course – I’m talking about what you do when you’re not studying. I excelled in this regard.

I also had some quite adept mentors on my side. 

My mother used to get a pained expression on her face when I told her about nights out that I had when I was at uni. With her lips pressed together like a pinched nerve, she’d warn me that the longer I stayed out, the more chance there was that something would happen.

I used to think… GREAT! I’d love something to happen…

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Saling through the seasons

No, I didn’t mean to type “Sailing”, and yes, that is a word – I just made it up, but it’s still a word. Because it was all about the Sales. Department store Sales, New Year Sales, January Sales – whatever you want to call them. They were up in my face, and I wasn’t happy about it.

I’m a really “with it” type of person when it comes to fashion, and when I say with it, I pretty much mean totally without. I like what I like, and I don’t notice what is going on around me. Being in fashion is either an accident produced by dressing in dark, or retro fashions that I am still wearing rolling around for a second coming.

Early on this winter I did notice however, a trend amongst the chavvy set for the wearing of massive puffer jackets with fake fur trip on the hoods…

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distorted reality

  • By Alison
  • 9 February, 2011
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Only mad dogs and Englishmen (go out in snow)

The recent snowfall in England has successfully done its job once again, in bringing pretty much most of Great Britain to a complete standstill. Airports closed, network rail halted, and roads gridlocked with abandoned cars.

Of course, only the crazy and stupid people would choose to get in their cars and add to the problem when the snow is falling and the gritters are still stabled. The warnings come thick and fast to NOT drive unless you absolutely have to.

Which of course, is why we found ourselves driving through Saturday’s blizzard, both dressed in wedding finery, and going nowhere fast…

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Not too impressed

  • By Alison
  • 21 December, 2010
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body dump

Before I had children, I had a flat stomach. Well, almost. I never actually had a FLAT stomach, more like a kind of little bubble let’s say. But I could suck it in really well. For ages. Until I had a beer, then I’d forget, and just flap about down there.

And I had shapely thighs. Because sausage shaped is a legitimate shape. 

And a pert bottom. It could hold up a pencil. And probably the notebook to go with it. Somewhere there was a black woman who wanted her booty back.

And in short, I had dancers legs – which is a not so subtle way of saying my calf muscles could probably crack walnuts.

I went to the gym, I worked out, I ran, I cycled and I played softball. So I was always fit. And yet… my body never managed to make it to a revered status in my mind. I never loved it.

Then I hit 40…

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Running for royalty. Sort of.

  • By Alison
  • 4 November, 2010
  • Comments Off on Running for royalty. Sort of.

When last we spoke I was training for the Royal Parks half marathon – well, the big day has come and gone. I find it hard to talk about though, hence the pregnant pause between my last entry and this one.

The bald fact of the matter is that I was beaten by both Ernie AND Bert. And an oil drum. And also The Stig.

It’s a hard truth to face – I was completely unable to overtake two men wearing fleecy head masks representing two of my favourite Sesame Street characters…

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Run until my legs fall off

Ten years ago, when I was young and fit (ten years younger at any rate) I ran 13 and a bit miles along some jolly Newcastle roads with a few other crazy people in the Great North Run, and had three distinct thoughts when I crossed the finish line.

They were – in quick succession, and this order:

  • Never again. Ever.
  • This is half way in a marathon? Never doing THAT! EVER!
  • I think I’ll train more next year.

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Don’t call me mummy

On the back of the mummy blogging issue, I was thinking a lot about my “status” as a mother, and the fact that I get annoyed if I am wedged into a predefined genre of “mummy blogging”, purely because I happen to have children.

Am I defined by being a mother?

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