Friday saw the culmination of several weeks of plotting and planning and the realisation of a four year long dream, a dream I’ve had for a long as I’ve worked in my current organisation. Myself and several of my closest work friends went out for lunch … and didn’t go back. We each booked a half day off work and spent the afternoon in the sunshine in the shadow of our office building, high on excitement, drinking and laughing ’til we ached, and then headed to the Bay for an extended evening of the same, only this time with a view of the sparkling water. It was wonderful. Relaxed. Perfect.

In all there were six of us. Three male, three female – myself, my work BFF and then three of the guys I had so much fun with at Christmas (the third girl I didn’t know so well, but while she didn’t seem quite as attuned with our stupidity and sense of humour, I think she had fun(?)). If you’re a Flickr contact then you might have seen the photo set, and if it bored you … well, that’s okay. I think that for 80% of those photos (and all the videos), you kinda had to be there, you know? :)

It was like the day had been designed for us. A flawless sky, boiling sun, bottled beer on ice and a long wooden table in a sun-soaked beer garden. We ate lunch – stoutly committed to ‘lining stomachs’ before the drinking commenced – and then spent nine hours sinking back Corona and, later on, ice-cold G&Ts. And to be honest? When we first cooked up the idea, the thought of nine hours together … well, there can be too much of a good thing. I’d convinced myself that by six or seven o’clock, we’d be busting a gut for an excuse to make tracks and leave. I WAS WRONG. When nine o’clock hit we were all sat around the table, weeping with laughter, wondering how we could tease out another hour or so. I never dreamed that we could spend that long together and not run out of things to say. :) It was stupid and juvenile and crude and vulgar and UTTERLY PERFECT.

We had lunch again yesterday, ensconced around the same table – hell, the same seating pattern! – as Friday, dissecting the evening over food and trying not to choke when the laughter bubbled up with mouthfuls of food. C regaled us with the tales of how he got home – or, more accurately, how he very nearly didn’t. (We went into work yesterday morning to an email presenting the details of the text message conversation with his girlfriend, the tale complete with drunken typos and misunderstandings and honestly – I was weak reading it.) S was in the doghouse after stumbling in at 10.30pm after promising to be home ‘early’, and E had to deal with housemate hostility after she failed to return home by 5pm as promised. Personally, my evening for fine; we’d booked this night so long ago – and M had been well-informed of my excitement – that he was actually surprised to see me as early as 10pm. Heh.

The one downside? The full details need to be tucked away in a passworded entry (mental note: I must do that), but suffice to say: I.’s fiancee turned up and I.’s fiancee really doesn’t like me. I can pretend I don’t know why, but I suspect that maybe I do. Anyway: she turned up, sober and driving when the rest of us were already on our asses, and I. – drunk and gregariously generous – insisted on taking me home, even though his missus was spitting daggers at him. And you know how it is – he’d already said it, so she couldn’t recant and refuse. So I ended up in the car with them, trapped in the back and by a forced, overly-polite conversation, willing the miles away so that I could get the fuck away. When we did arrive at my place he jumped up to let me out and hugged me in full view. Whilst that was fine, kissing me on the lips – however briefly – probably wasn’t. It was probably pretty fucking stupid of him, actually. But like I said – that’s for another entry.

I have no idea what happened after that as I wasted no time running into the house, but he’s since been unusually quiet and I don’t think she’ll be driving me home again. Which is a shame, cos she seemed quite nice. Girlfriends and wives never seem to like me. :(

So, anyway. Yeah, the last twenty minutes aside, it was such a good night. There’s no way we’re waiting another four years before doing it again!

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Despite S’s poorly eyes (he suffers severely with hayfever, and on Thursday and Friday he could barely open his eyes – no exaggeration – so swollen were they) and a clusterfuck of a hangover courtesy of D and a drunken night in the garden the night before, it was an almost flawless day. I was awoken by my boys with breakfast in bed and a pile of gifts, which included a gorgeous new watch, DVDs, CDs and a heap of lovely new books. My sister-in-law got me things to spoil me – a CD, chocolate, wine, some flowers – and my in-laws more Lost boxsets so that I can re-watch rather than endure the shitorific World Cup. My parents are helping me fund a new iPhone (scheduled for release on 24th June), as is one brother. My other brother’s bought me Naughty Bear, which should hit my doormat next week. Sharon and R. also sent me some wonderful gifts, too, which utterly made my day. Yay!

I worked from home in the morning because of Sam being off school, but I took a half day and spent the afternoon lounging around, watching The Inbetweeners and reading for a bit. M cooked dinner (although he always does that) and he and S bought me a cake and enthusiastically, tunelessly, sang happy birthday. In the evening I met with eight friends and we went out locally to celebrate, which meant copious food and wine and no watered down beer or expensive taxi rides home. After that, four of us went back to my friend’s house and we rocked plastic guitars and mics until 2am. Awesome.

It was a low-key day which made it practically perfect. My friends were astonishingly kind and I went home with bags of cards and gifts, humbled by their generosity. I ate too much Italian food, but drank very little Italian wine due, in part, to the colossal hangover that still draped me. We took lots of stupid photos and they put three candles in my ice-cream and they also sang happy birthday. See? Perfect. :)

Oh – and also? That press pass for Gamescom that I was worrying about? It went AWOL in the post, but my replacement arrived in my birthday mail on Friday. Woot!

Oh – and another also? Our new car came in on Thursday! :) It’s lovely and fancy, albeit cripplingly slow for someone who’s gone from a 1.9 turbo diesel engine to a 1.2 petrol thingy with all the ooompfh of an aging lawnmower. Still, I’m sure the problem’s me and not the car and even if it is the car, who gives a shit – I get a new one again in nine months time and even I have the patience for this. In the meantime, I’m driving a shiny new car with 6 miles on the clock and more gizmos than I can shake a stick at. Whatever that means.

Anyway, yesterday we had a quiet one. I was still reeling from three consecutive nights of restricted sleep, so after going to see Iron Man 2 (yes, we’re late but yes, Robert Downey Jnr – who’s appeal I never understood prior to Iron Man – is so far past hot in that movie it’s insane), I crawled upstairs and passed out for four (FOUR!) hours. When I awoke at 9pm, I read some more until finally retiring for the night at 1am.

I finished the book this morning. It was Twilight, my gift from R. I’d stuck it onto my Wishlist because … well, because I’d been wondering what all the fuss was about, to be honest. I’d not read any of the books before, nor seen the movies, but I’d seen enough people squee over it so I figured it was worth a little of my time. And it was. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite as groundshakingly awesome as I think I’d been expecting, but I did enjoy it, even if I thought that Edward was a complete bellcrease for 90% of the book. The brooding male lead? I have NEVER understood the appeal. Honestly. The angry eyes, the snarled mouth, the shouts the mixed messages … blah-blah-blah. I just don’t get the bad boy thing. And whilst that’s all explained very satisfactorily in the book it’s like … Bella. Seriously. Get some self-respect. Why get turned on by such an asshole? Surely you’re worth more than that? Surely the first time he treated you like something he wiped off his dick was the last time you’d give him the time of day? Surely by then you should’ve told him to fuck off and stick his brooding intensity up his arse?

And it’s not just Meyer – it seems there’s a complete dearth of genuinely lovely guys in a whole ton of female contemporary fiction of late. The last half dozen or so books I’ve read have just featured bastards, mean and moody and monobrowed ones. Ugh. Why?!

Anyway. Yeah. My birthday – the whole weekend – has just been lovely. And now I’m going to finish it in style but shoving a family-sized bag of Maltesers in my mouth and play me a bit of Left for Dead 2.

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That was my plan. To write frequently. With topics. Only it’s almost the end of the day already and a topic still eludes me so instead I’m going to sit here and talk shite to you. Deal? It had better be, dude – THERE IS NO OTHER OPTION HERE.

Let’s see. I’ve spent three days feverishly stalking my brother. It appears that a load of press passes for Gamescom have been issued, and whilst some of my super-fab and awesome team at GGS.com have got theirs … well, I haven’t. :/ (And In case you’re wondering how the bollocks these two seemingly disparate topics come together, it’s ’cause the press address for all things GGS.com is my Dad’s business address – and my brother works there. Make sense?) I’m hoping it’s a postal delay, or that they just send them out in blocks, because I just cannot fathom how my (admittedly awesome) writers got a pass and I haven’t. I really don’t hope that, after filling in the form in pigeon-German, I fucked something up on the form. Because that would be so typical of me it would be hilarious.

Or horrifying. One or the other.

Anyway, I dropped the organisers a line via Twitter and they said they’d get back to me. I hope that’s not a fob off.

Talking of whom – my GGS.com team? They’re so awesome. And I’m so lucky. Much like SHHF, I’ve managed to surround myself with some of the most awesome people, and I’m as much looking forward to three summer nights in Germany with Steve and Sarah as I would be looking forward to a long weekend with RL friends. Yay!

Well. Only if my pass turns up, obviously. Sob.

In other news, I unretired (yes, I think I made that word up) myself from Facebook¹. I deactivated my account in January because … well, there’s a party line about why I quit but the actual truth runs deeper than that, a whole mess of crap and (my) hurt feelings. I’m feeling better now; not quite whole again, but okay, and the funeral this week was a violent reminder of how short life is, how dependent some of us are on it for communication, and how I needed to open up again, stop hiding from people on the off-chance I might get hurt. I feel like a twat writing that – a stupid, insipid, ball-less fool – but it’s true nonetheless. Pathetic, no?

And whilst it’s nice to be back, to see updates and photos and the like, this morning I woke up to updates about promotions in Mafia Wars and carrot watering on Farmville. It’s hard to choke back to desire to hit ‘deactivate’ again …

1 PLEASE don’t ask me to friend you on Facebook. I have exceptionally few online people on my FB profile and that’s because what you get here? On this blog? This is me. Pure, unadulterated, untainted, uncensored, warts-and-all me. Please let me keep this part of me – and you guys – separate from my friends and family and the people I’m expected to work with. They don’t know that I’m writing a book, or that my shiny hard facade is actually made out of crepe paper – and I’d really like to keep it that way. You can talk my BALLS off here – you can comment on anything at anytime and I’ll be glad to friend you. :) So please don’t take offense if I don’t add you back on FB, okay?

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Edit: well, FUCK IT. It didn’t work. Hhaarumph. Although there is a chance that TWO of these will show up if the other post’s delayed or something in which case … just be kind and pretend not to notice, okay?

Obviously, I’ve had a blog for seven years now (longer, if you count the frighteningly inane mutterings in my LJ – which I don’t, for the record) but this is the first time I’ve bothered with this particular feature. I’m trying to keep up momentum with this whole blogging malarky. It’ll probably fizzle away – much like my other most recents resurgences – but whilst I have a mind to update, it’s frustrating as hell when I logistically can’t. And while yes, I can post via the app on my iPhone, it’s a little much to sit there and play with my phone for an hour in the middle of my working day. Whilst sitting right next to my boss. In an open-plan office. Even by my questionable standards, that’s a tad unprofessional.

Trying to lift us out of the depressing note I left for your reading pleasure yesterday, shall we talk about something a little less existential? Something colourful and exciting and weird – maybe even a little outside the box? Like Lady Gaga, for example?

See what I did there? What a seamless link! Fucking hell I am AWESOME.

So, yeah. Gaga. As I think I mentioned, going to see her live was not my idea. D hearts her – hearts the music and the style and the whole WTFness about her – and whilst I don’t turn the radio off when she appears or anything (I am a closet POP Princess, after all), I can’t say that seeing her play live ever crossed my consciousness before. But I’m glad that I went; as I’m sure you can appreciate, the show was every bit as spectacular as you’d expect – amazing sets, crazy costumes and full-on awesome dance routines. Her voice was stunning. Perfect. Plus she said motherfucker, like, A LOT. What’s not to love?

Actually, I’ll tell you what’s not to love: SEWERAGE. Throughout the evening, every ten minutes or so, a hideous stench of fish – rotting, maggot-infested three-month-old fish – came wafting across the arena. Sometimes it was the delightful smell of shit, but for the most part it was dirty aquarium goodness so bad at times places that I had to pinch my nose to keep my dinner down. NOT COOL, O2. NOT COOL AT ALL.

I can only assume that it was a malfunction with the toilets/sewerage and not a deliberate scent piped in by Gaga … but who knows for sure?

Anyway, next up in my Summer of Music – which is what I’ve dubbed June 2010, considering I have four live shows lined up – will be Crowded House, whom we’re seeing perform on Friday. Saturday will be Stereophonics, which is fucking awesome as I haven’t seen them for a couple of years, and then I finish the month up with another visit to see Paul McCartney. YAY! It’s so typical that I’ve – quite literally – waited a lifetime to see Macca play live and I score two concerts within a six month period, but I don’t care. The show I saw at Christmas was beyond amazing and as it’s my birthday mid-month, I didn’t even have to justify the cost to myself this time. I repeat: yay!

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In recent months they’ve ceased being a cushion between the busy working week and Sunday’s laze around and have instead become a nothing but a blur of changing rooms, clothing changes, swimming trunks and football boots. I’m often up by 7am, out of the door by 8.45am, and then rarely back in again until late afternoon. And while yes, obviously, this is preferable than going to work, you’d better believe me when I tell you that this is harder than work. I rarely have to undress people and rub them down with towels in the office.

Unfortunately. Or fortunately – guess it depends on who it’d have to be.

So first up is swimming. S goes because it’s important and I make him, but bless him – I don’t think that there’s a dry-and-won’t-go-under-the-water-for-love-nor-money hair on his head that enjoys it. I’d like to think that it’s because he has, like, ridiculously sensitive eyes, but whilst that’s true I suspect he’d dislike it just as much even if he were immune to chlorine. The only time he seems to enjoy swimming is when he doesn’t have to go. Or when the pool is drained.

It’s not helped by the fact that despite starting off with his bezzie friend A in tow, A is progressing much faster than my little lad. Within within six weeks A got promoted up to the next stage whereas poor S had to tread water (HA! See what I did there?) in the beginner’s class for an additional term. This is further compounded by the fact that despite being only six, he’s currently the height of the average eight-year-old (actually, eight-and-a-half going by Next’s kids’ height chart). This is not a good thing when you already feel self-conscious standing on the side of the pool.

He’s getting better, though. We found out last week that he’s finally moved up a stage, and you can just imagine how proud we were, and how chuffed he was with himself. From us he got an extra £5 pocket money, and from the teacher he got a certificate, a lollipop – for reasons that escape me – a sticker (seriously: who’d put a sticker on in the water? And affix it to what exactly – his nipple? OUCH). Between you and I, I have no idea how it’s possible to progress a kid who essentially refuses to get his hair wet – IT’S A POOL, SAM! WET HAIR IS PAR FOR THE COURSE! – but apparently he met all the criteria, so next week we commence Stage 2.

I’ll wait here for a second whilst you give my son a well-deserved W00T!. It’s okay – I won’t say anything until you’re done.

Finished?

Incidentally, and before I get a barrage of complaints about forcing him to swim … look, I only force him because I care. This is not a bad thing I’m making him do. Not only might it save his life one day, but I started high school unable to swim and nothing he can experience now will match the agony of being a beginner at eleven years old in a mixed swimming class. In front of a boy you liked. Who laughed his ass off at your doggy-paddle.

I essentially blame most of my disastrous high school career on this.

Anyway, next up is football. S goes to a great little club that has 5-12 year olds running about, learning about fitness and training and healthy living alongside soccer skills. Despite initial wobbles (apparently, S isn’t great at hiding his feelings or concealing his dismay when fellow teammates arse something up – I have no idea where he gets it from … :p) he’s settled in great, and despite the odd flare up here and there, he’s learning how to be part of a team. It’s here where A and S invert themselves; S would play football naked and in a blizzard if that was the only option available, whereas A would prefer standing on the sideline with his hands in his pockets chatting to the sideline judge about the weather. Apparently. I can say this with confidence because that really did happen (the weather chat, not the blizzard. That really would be shady parenting, even by my standards).

The sessions lasts an impressive two hours, which means that we – the parents, carers and guardian types – have to leave them. Therefore, his first session back in March was the first time I’d ever left him with another adult I didn’t know and explicitly trust (friends, family and school excepted, obviously). It sounds like something that should be celebrated – WE’RE FREE! WOOHOO! PASS ME THE PINOT! – but it’s actually – surprisingly – not. It’s simply another illustration of how he doesn’t need me as much as he used to, yet it only reinforces how badly I need him. Rather pathetically, I pine the whole time we’re apart and the only reason I don’t feel embarrassed is because D – A’s mother and my BFF #4 – is much, much worse than me. Hah!

So football lasts two hours. At first D and I would retreat to one or other’s house for a cuppa and a catch up, but increasingly we’re spending this time doing crappy chores and errands – think tester pots, car cleaning, clothing returns and birthday card selection and you’ll have an idea of what we usually end up doing – but that essentially means we’re more frazzled when we pick the kids up then when we dropped them off. Surely that isn’t right? Surely we should be getting facials?

Anyway, by now it’s midday and the boys have been active for almost three hours. We’ve fallen into the habit of going for lunch, which as a default is at Pizza Hut, but sometimes we go all out and make it to a Beefeater. I know. I’m living THE DREAM, right? Never thought of myself as a champion of middle-class suburbia, but alas, here I am. My only saving graze is that I am neither a soccer mom nor a over-compensatory parent, and I drive neither a VW Beetle or a pointless city-bound Range Rover. Gotta have some standards, right?

At this point sometimes we split up for the day. Most often we don’t, unless we’re forced to because M is off-shift and therefore able to take S to see City play.

(An aside: D and I have fallen into a friendship that is more sisterhood than anything else, which is weird because I’ve never experienced this before despite having three other best friends whom I love with every fibre of my being and for whom I’d gladly take a bullet. Maybe it’s because we live, literally, across the street from each other, or maybe it’s because the closeness of our kids have forced us into it. Whatever it is, it’s amazing and it’s only now – thirty-three years later – that I realise what I might have missed out on growing up without a sister.)

So. Yeah. Saturdays? Told you they were frantic.

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