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Inside.

I lost my temper today. The type where your fingers shake. The reason wasn’t anything to do with my family nor anything that had happened in the house.

As we are self isolating, we are all in the house so the telephone call I was making was overheard by everyone and repeated to me word by word afterwards by my kids who thought Mam had handled herself admirably.

I didn’t.


I tried to stay calm but a single sentence during this phone call sparked a fury in me that even surprised myself and I’m ashamed to say I erupted and hit the roof.

There really was no justification for my outburst so I removed myself upstairs and I tried my best to do some yoga. The cat cuddles from Renee helped more today but It was nice to do some flows and calm down.

Keeping active is important to me and has helped enormously over the years to help me and has evolved into me realising I am capable of so much more (but that’s a whole other blog).

We had a meat delivery today from a local butcher so we have food again and we are stretching out what we do have. It saddens me to hear that the panic buying is continuing. We all need to eat but we all need to get a little more inventive right now with what we have.

I’m quite down right now but I’m sure five minutes of dog licking my face will snap me out of it.

The kids are great and very positive, I’m very proud but I think today I’ve let my positive crown slip. Tomorrow will be better.

Do not pass go.

We can’t go out. We can’t go to the shops.

I’ve got food in and we can cook.

But it really involves not going out.

Self isolation is four walls and many faces of boredom, many times a day.

Read a book, draw something, mam’s got a raging headache and a face like a tomato.

No school today.

There’s no school today.

We can’t go out darling because I’m not well.

That means we have to stay in just in case, to make sure we don’t make anyone else ill.

It will be ok, Mam is just a bit sick and I’ll be better soon.

And you will be ok too. We have to make sure no one else gets ill so the shops may be shut for a bit.

It will be ok.

It will.

Under house arrest.

I did wash my hands!

But there we are. I’m sweating one minute, cold the next. Throat is swollen, glands are sore and head feels full of cotton wool.

And I’m so very, very grumpy.

Now wash your hands.

So we’re washing our hands at every opportunity as we’ve been told to.
Shops have been stripped of painkillers, soap and bog roll.



Help the aged.

Just come off the phone to my elderly 90 year old neighbour.
I was asking if she needed anything from the shops as you do.
Imagine if we all did that? All of us picked one elderly neighbour who was on their own and asked if they needed anything. Because it’s going to matter a whole lot more in the next few months when they cant get to the shops because they’re too ill to or because they have no bog roll or paracetamol because someones’ bought it all.
So I’m appealing to you, the person who filled up your trolley with toilet roll and pasta in the supermarket. I want you to redeem yourself and pop round to Bob at no 42 and see if he needs anything. Take a few rolls of your precious bog roll with you and see him alright.
That is what will make a difference rather than this utter selfishness I’ve seen over the last week. Do better, please.

Administration.

“I have something for you mum” are words that every parent knows are laced with a few meanings.

The first is innocent and lovely, probably a little handful of daisies or a hug.

The second, however, is something unwanted, sinister and must be approached with extreme caution and cynicism.

“Oh yes?” comes my reply (raised eyebrow). I am the master after years of being tricked, poker face is on and braced for impact,

And there they are in my hand, a scrunched up pile of months and months of school letters, casually handed over without a single drop of sweat shed.

Months of letters.

Suppose it could have been a slug or a dead spider.

Puberty meet menopause.

Puberty one end, menopuase the other. Both made better by hugs.

I don’t want my children to have the same experience I had, we talk and we laugh about things and how rubbish hormones are. We slam doors and shout and cry. It’s good to.


I can’t protect them from the outside world though and it stinks that my daughter is constantly questioned over her decision to have short hair.
She’s twelve and she’s having to already fend off questions about appearance.
I tell her sometimes people just aren’t ready for fabulous but to carry on anyway and to be just so.

If you have a stroppy teen in your house, remember how much it hurt to be that age, it sucks majorly and you as mum are there to keep them going until they are ready to be a big person.

Until then, hold fast and try not to think about the hormonal plughole that you’ve become.

The black tempest.

She may be small, but she’s a little noise machine of fury.
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Bird is the word.

autumn-starlings

I’m dedicating January to the birds that come to my garden. I have no exotic varieties, just your average Joes of the bird world but to me they are wonderful and they think I’m great right now as I’ve hung three brand new feeders from my studio in an attempt to encourage more into my little urban garden.

My house is part of a Victorian terrace built by the miners and their families 150 years ago. A descendent lives a few doors up and says that they were built to house the families who kept chickens and grew their food here.

Fast forward a century or so and the city has grown around these houses and the mines have gone. But the wildlife is still here, hanging on and adapting to the pace of life and the endless rain.

Today’s post is in salute to the starlings that frequent my garden. Sleek and noisy little birds. Starlings are wonderful mimics of sound. They will copy what they hear and repeat it back with relish. Well you can imagine that Swansea is a feast for these little flocks of sound machines. From car alarms, mopeds to mobile phones it is never ever quiet around here and these little birds congregate on the telephone lines in the winter and belt out their whistle and chirps.

In deepest January they are most welcome to strip my feeders, tease my chickens and entertain me in my studio to a Swansea mega mix of noise. Demolishing fat balls within ten minutes and then entertaining me with their sound effects.

One summer morning you could hear the noise of a single alarm clock coming from an open window, within seconds, the voices of twenty alarm clocks were ringing out over the rooftops and telephone wires.

Wakey wakey.

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