Three & Four

Trouble comes in threes, yeah? Well last month, trouble came in two – ie washing machine and fridge freezer both blowing up in the space of fortnight – thanks life! After we’d somehow managed to get new ones and we had clean clothes again, (THERE ARE NO LAUNDRETTES ANYMORE! ANYWHERE!) and didn’t have to keep bottles of milk in cold bowls of water but all the relief that came with that, I knew I was shagged.

What was the third installment of trouble to come along? Bean hurting himself? TV braking? Laptop? Phone? Stupid cat doing an impromptu skydive from a tree (think the other cats are sponsoring her) and having to pay scary vet bills AGAIN? I waited with bated breath and tiptoed around like a crazy superstitious woman, looking out black cats, ladders, keeping Bean away from umbrellas in the house so on and so forth. And nothing happened. Ha, you don’t fool me universe, I know your game, you crafty cow. You’re merely hatching something immense to proper shit us up. So what did the universe do?

She killed my toilet.

Ha. Funny. I get it. You fucking BITCH!

Three days. Three days and no toilet. Three days, three people, and no toilet.



I shan’t go into details, I’m already deeply ashamed of myself, let’s just say the other half and I will never look at each other in the same way again, and there may be a patch in my garden (private, mind) where we will NEVER GO NEAR EVER AGAIN.

Living in Essex and needing a tradesman is ridonkulous, they are always in London or Kent. WTF? There are no plumbers, builders etc in London or Kent already? Or are the London and Kent plumbers all working in Surrey or Sussex and so on? No people, just stay where you are and then I won’t need to wait 3 days for someone with very precise tools to fix my bog and be forced to pee in a bucket like a hobo. What? Don’t judge me What was I supposed to do? *Rings bell next door* OH HAI, I’ve never been in your house before and likewise for you, I know we sometimes have a nice chat over the garden fence and we’re friendly enough etc – BUT I REALLY NEED A PISS, PLEASE GOD I’VE BEEN BUSTING FOR HOURS AND I THINK I’M GOING CROSS EYED FROM HAVING TO HOLD IT  SO LONG HELP MEEEE?


I have some dignity.

Hence I peed in a bucket.

Add the fact that the gas company have thought this an appropriate time to dig up huge holes in the road outside my house with big fuck off drills, and then just stand around looking at said hole, and not do much else other than nose through my front windows while Bean and I are making sheds out of Lego for his animals. Plus Bean has some kamikaze compulsion to get as close as he can to the holes when we’re going out, the little weirdo.

It’s not on universe. It’s not on.

All fixed now though, my already precarious bank account has nose-dived to the depths of oblivion and it sure as hell ain’t coming back any time soon, but Christ right now I don’t give a stuff.

And obviously, last night, me and other half, oh fuck it, for the purposes of the blog I’ll call him Rob, (it’s not his real name, it’s really Robert – ha!) realized what the date was and remembered it’s our anniversary today.

4 years.

And we forgot. We’re SHIT.

Because of the shitting bastard special circumstances, we’ve decided rather sensibly to postpone it a few days this year.

What I’ve learnt over the past few days;

  • If you need an emergency plumber or similar, call one in the county next to yours, it cuts out the middle man.
  • Gas men are nosey bastards.
  • Ice lollies / biscuits / promise of chocolate is the ONLY way to keep your feral toddler under control while dealing with the above.
  • The universe is going on my naughty list.
  • I need to buy a new bucket. Preferably a glittery one, or one with pictures of  cats on it.

What’s your troublesome three? What’s gone wrong / broken for you recently? Or am I just cursed? Come on, make me feel better here, I just wrote on the internet I pissed in a bucket FFS.

The Armed Police That Came To Tea

I shit you not people, the stuff you are about to read really, truly happened. FOR REALZ.

So a couple of weeks ago, there I was sitting with Bean at the dining table while he happily ate his dinner. We were having a good old chat, mostly nonsensical rubbish, but we were having fun. He had a few of his beloved “Nee Nors” (police cars, fire engines, ambulances etc, for those of you not in the know) on the table, it was all good, for once I wasn’t having to resort to bribes of ice cream to get him to eat his food, lovely lovely.

Through a mouthful of peas Bean shouts “Mummy, look! Mummy! LOOK! NEE NORS!”

“Yes dude, I know. They’re great aren’t they?” I say, manoeuvering a particular police car through an assault course of scattered crumbs on the table.

“NO!” he shrieks, manically pointing in the direction behind me, “LOOOOOK! NEEEEE NOOOORRS!”

“Eh?” So I turn around, and there directly outside my house are two mean looking police cars, and as I watch, four uber mean looking policemen get out of the cars. Hmmm, shit’s kicking off, I think.

Now before I go on, the area I live in ain’t the best. There have been a few situations in the few years we’ve lived in this road that have seen people being taken away by the filth. Nothing I’ve been involved with I hasten to add, my only involvement has been surreptitiously peering from behind the curtains trying to work what’s going on, and reporting back to the other half in dramatic whispers.

Anyway. As I watch the mean looking policemen emerge from their mean looking police cars they begin to strap up with MOTHERFUCKING GUNS. Handguns. Machine guns. And bloody shitting grenades. *Um, I think we have a situation here*. I don’t know what the flip is happening, but I quickly grab Bean, who is loving the excitement and I lock the patio doors. Other half keeps watch, and I have a horrible heart-beating-in-mouth thing happening while I try to control Bean as he desperately wriggles around in my arms to see what’s happening.

*Loud banging on front door*

Oh shit, fuck, fuck, fuuuck.

*Answers door*

“Hello madam, we are armed police,” the very polite yet massively scary policemen says holding his machine gun inches from me and my 3 year old.

Gaaah. Yes you fucking are.

“We need to gain access to your back garden, someone has been reported to be in possession of a gun to the rear of you property.”


I reply with something completely unintelligible and show them where to go, the four of them nod hellos and march through. Bean is having the time of his bloody life, “Mummy! Look! Policemans!” The policemen even make a comment on his impressive array of Nee Nors left abandoned on the dining table. They tell me to take Bean upstairs and to sit on the floor, “In case any shots go off.” They then stomp through my garden and start aiming their guns over the fence at the house that backs on to mine.

I sit on my bedroom floor, cradling Bean, numbly answering his constant “Why are the policemans in our garden, Mummy?” questions for half an hour, half a shagging hour. Other half is toing and froing upstairs and downstairs, not quite sure what to do. In that time there is lots of muffled shouting, a dog squad turns up, with an Alsation the size of a small horse* which join the officers in my garden, and when I quickly have a peek outside my front bedroom window, I see all my neighbours are looking straight back at me bemused / scared. Oh Christ, they think it’s US that have got a gun.

After what seems a flipping lifetime, we get called down by the officers to say the Nutter With A Gun has been arrested on the other side of the house by another team of police, so they’ll be on their way. My eyes glance down and notice one of them has set down their machine gun on Bean’s BLOODY CLIMBING FRAME. Gaaaaaah. Too much, too too much. Off they go, giving Bean High 5’s as they stomp back through the door. And *poof* they’re gone**.

See this? See where my son’s innocent tiny bottom is sat just casually enjoying a Mini Milk? Few days later, THERE WAS A MOTHER EFFING MACHINE GUN RIGHT THERE! *points*

Still shaking, “Erm, OK darling, shall we finish these fish fingers, then?”

And that my friends, is how the armed police came to tea.

And it was also the exact moment I realized where we live probably isn’t the healthiest place to bring a child up.

I’m not mega friendly with some of my neighbours, so I’m totally certain some of them still think we’re gun-toting badasses. But I shan’t correct them, I like to keep a bit of fear in my back pocket, ya know, just in case.

*Kitty the cat was most fucked off with the dog / horse situation, she sulked for daaays. Of course not bothered by anyone’s safety, just annoyed another animal dare go in her house.

**Not quite sure what actually happened, apparently the Nutter With A Gun had just escaped from prison that morning, and decided to wreak some havoc, just for shits and giggles, you know how it is.

Come on people, let it out, fess up with your neighbour from hell stories!

Knocked Up

I knew I was pregnant before I did the test. Bloody knew it. From having to get up in the middle of the night for wees (for once not caused by late drinking seshes) to MUST. EAT. EVERYTHING. NOW. WITH. ADDED. CHEESE. compulsion. Of course the unprotected sex thing a few weeks before didn’t occur to me once as the catalyst.

I did a test. It was one of those standard one line = negatory, two lines = your Mothercare Membership Code will posted out to you shortly jobbies. After getting the pee off my hand, and sitting on the toilet lid looking pensive, I definitely had one line, and another very, very faint second line, “OK,” I thought, “I’m not going on a journey up north to Duffland, then.” Until a friend pointed out that even though it was faint, it still counted as a line nonetheless*. “Oh… OH! This is gonna get interesting.”

Unplanned pregnancy, you say? Young mum? Not in proper relationship with the father? OMGZ HOW CAN YOU BE SO IRRESPONSIBLE?! I hear you hysterically shriek. My answer? Stuff happens. And that’s OK. Not everything works out to the grand Life Plan that girls my age seem to believe it will. Sorry to disappoint. Not for one nano second did I or do I think that my son was a mistake. He is a beautiful, life changing, life saving surprise.

Imagine the film Knocked Up, Katherine Heigel as a brunette, with a bigger bum, fewer neurotic siblings, with an additional side of commitment issues. Seth Rogan but less hairy and pathetic, and more tattoos. Pretty much sums it up, it all worked out in the end, and it’s OK that we did things a bit mixed up, I never liked conformity anyways.

Do you think plans are all they’re cracked up to be? Or do you like to see where life leads you? Answers on a postcard, pls. Or ya know, just that comments box down there will do, I guess.

* I still have that pregnancy test. That’s not creepy is it? You can still see the tiny faint line that (eventually) told me of Bean’s existence. Weird you say? Pffft.

Men In White Coats

When I was pregnant, over three years ago now I was terrified. Fucking terrified. Yes, I was scared of my baby’s health, I was scared about my health, and money, and if I was ever going to be OK at this parenting lark. But there was something else lurking that was causing me to figuratively shit my pants.

Men in white coats.

Allow me to elaborate; I’ve been struggling with depression and it’s derivatives for more than half my life now. I’ve seen more mental health professionals than I’ve had proverbial hot dinners. I’m on that radar. Add in the factors that I was 21, on anti depressants (which my GP deemed safe to take during pregnancy), had very little family for support and at the time I was also single.

Therefore when I was seeing the kaleidoscope of midwives, health visitors, GPs etc while my bun was in the oven, there was always, always always, the awkward question pop up after being prodded and poked:

“And um… Your… Um mental health…?”

To which I’d answer honestly and say something along the lines of, “Oh, yes I’m fine, thanks. I’m really looking forward to it, I’m feeling very positive.”

They’d nod and type something on their computers and that’d be that, I’d leave feeling a bit ashamed and panic as to whether they were going to suss me out as an unfit mum to be and chase me down the road and say, “Oh sorry, there’s been a mistake, you didn’t actually think we were going to let you keep this baby, did you?!”

It was advised for me to have an appointment with a social worker to see if it was necessary to have them involved when my baby came along, that was the terrifying part. Social workers? They’re the MONSTERS that take people’s babies from them! OMG OMG OMG all irrational thought took over and the meeting I had went pretty badly, me answering questions to a very nonplussed, bored looking social worker that would convince them I could keep my baby.

I am absolutely not knocking social workers, or the work they do whatsoever, but the woman I saw did NOTHING to settle my fears. She made dissapproving noises at everything I said.

“No partner? Tsk tsk.”

“You work in a pub? Tsk tsk tsk.”

“History of depression? Oh, this won’t do at all, tsk tsk tsk.”

Of course, the prospect of taking my baby away was never mentioned, but being as vulnerable as I was, I just felt that this was a given. The social worker’s offices were scary, they were official, the waiting room was full of people screaming and shouting at each other and the staff, banging on the perspex partition of the reception desk and fruitlessly attempting to pick up the bolted down seating with the intention of lobbing it at one another in the face.

The meeting ended with an ominous, “We’ll be touch soon,” and even when my son was a few months old, I was still waiting for the men in white coats to come a-knocking and demand evidence that I was doing OK or off they’d go with my swaddled newborn under their arm.

To be frank, the whole affair was rather unpleasent to say the least. Add in the mental healthcare guy I was put in contact with by my health visitor when Bean came along, who I saw once and became a bit Creepy McCreepsville by texting me, and trying to arrange meetings for coffee which I found wholly unproffesional and odd.

And do you know what? Nothing happened. No follow up, no letter to say, “Ah, we think you’re alright actually, it’s all good.” Nothing. Zip. So the entire process was all mouth and no trousers. Which  I just find strange and unsettling TBF.

Have you got any experience on this? Any thoughts? Would any of the above make you feel the same as I did, or am I really just a proper nutbag?