Playing House

Now readers I am at that age where it would be safe to presume that I might live on my own. Just like people could presume I was married, with children, a good job and a few friends. But the living alone thing is probably more plausible let’s face it. Now I have always thought that I would like living alone, because for most of us living with other people is just a pain in the arse. You walk downstairs into what was a perfectly clean kitchen to find it has been desecrated by the heathens you live with. Or at 3 in the morning you need a wee, too much tea before bed again, and half asleep, with eyes pretty much shut, you sit your bare arse down on the loo. But because you live with three boys the loo seat seems to have gone missing and you are brutally awoken by the awful reality that you are in fact stuck down the shitter with cold water brushing against your inner thighs. One of the many positives to living with men. If I ever get married, I will be having my own bathroom, in fact I may just have a separate house.

So anyway, I was spending a few days alone in my aunt’s home. They had all skipped merrily off to the city of love, Paris. That name was soon to be tarnished by the screaming my aunt was going to inflict upon it. Soon it would be known as the city of hearing aids. So I ended my day with a cup of tea, a few biscuits (packets) and The White Queen, lots of blood, people in bad outfits and questionable staging. I brushed my teeth, shut all the curtains, turned off the lights and got into bed. I closed my eyes and the deathly silence that filled the house started to play tricks. But I knew it was just me so I tried harder to sleep. Now this is when living with three boys comes in handy, any noise being made is always them. I heard something, or as my imagination was inflicting upon me, someone, tapping at my window. So I did what any respectable, mature, intelligent 22 year old would do. I hid under my covers and hoped it would go away. You know the people you scream at in horror movies who don’t leave the house and have all the lights off? That evening I proved myself to be one of those idiots. Now as my mind was racing, firmly under the covers I looked out and saw what had been troubling me, a moth. A large moth!! So I did the humane thing and let it into the open air, where in all likelihood it would be eaten by some kind of bird.

So if any of you are like me and want a clean house and not to fall down the loo but don’t want to live alone, either find equally clean people to live with or hire a cleaner. Problem solved x

Foul Language

I have been looking for a ‘real’ job, the kind that includes an annual salary and isn’t a 0 hour contract. Now this process has meant a lot of emails being written, a lot of emails being discarded and absolutely no responses. So the usual when applying for jobs. However, out of the sky shone a beacon of light! I received a phone call offering me an interview for an administration job ten minutes down the road. Wonderful! I literally jumped for joy, as did my step father who I have steadily been putting into financial debt from about the age of 8. Now I know ‘administration’ sounds shit dull, but this ‘office based, fast paced, no two days the same’ job would allow me to extend the abundance (a synonym for lack of) of skills I already have on my CV. The job I applied for asked for the minimum of a 2:1 degree, an ability to communicate and organisational skills. I had those so I believed I stood a good chance. Now this belief was destroyed after about a minute of entering the interview room.

“Florence?”

“Yes, hello, Mr Gold?”

“Yes, Yes. Come on in.”

Now at this point I still wasn’t completely sure why I didn’t feel very welcome, but I was definitely not comfortable. I think the main issue was Mr Gold’s appearance, he resembled the kind of man you could imagine having done some time as a sex offender.

“So Florence, I have read your blog.” Now this sentence I have heard a lot, and usually people have two reactions, 1) It’s a bit shit but keep trying! And 2) yeah it was funny. Mr Gold’s reaction was neither, and he was looking directly into my eyes. In the dog world this is seen as a sign of aggression, so I think Mr Gold was trying his best Rottweiler, and unfortunately for him I don’t think it took too much effort.

“Really Mr Gold. What did you think?” Now the Rottweiler was slowly turning into a Doberman as his nose was jutting forwards and his yellow teeth (a lack of dental treats I fear) were barking these words at me.

‘Florence, I DETEST foul language in the public forum. It was truly shocking. I have never read, heard or seen anything so rampant with expletives. I think you should remove it from the internet.’ Now I am all for saying your opinion, but fuck me! Has he never watched Nip & Tuck, Game of Thrones, or any kind of reality television show? Just watch someone reading the Daily Mail and from all the spelling mistakes you can’t stop ‘stupid bastards’ from coming out of your mouth. In Sex and the City Samantha physically sexes men to death, and here I was be chastised for a few less than civilized words.

Well to give Mr Gold his due it was a strong opinion, not one I was going to take a bit of notice of but still, I respected him slightly. But with his matted hair, moth eaten jumper and stuffed fish on the walls, my respect was starting to disappear. At this point his wife entered, the duo were suddenly transforming into a pair of under groomed Poodles, as her hair had clearly never seen a bottle of Frizz Ease. She piped in with a voice like she’d been inhaling helium ‘Oh no, how terrible, what sorts of words’. At one point I was genuinely scared they were going to turn around and start sniffing each other’s middle class, boring as shit arses, but instead they just stared at me. At this point I decided that I had no intention of working for Tweedle dip shit and Edward Scissor Hands.

To all of you job seekers out there do not let this put you off, it was an experience I will treasure and it gave me another story for this blog of mine. If people don’t like what you say, tell them not to listen, if they don’t like what you write, tell them to stop reading and if they don’t like you, two little words … Fuck off.

The ‘F’ word

‘Henry, Henry, I am not going to say this again. Yes we all pass wind.’

‘No mum it’s called farting. Everyone’s farted some time.’ My aunts face is pink with anger, disappointment and annoyance that she is about to have to say the f word ‘fart’. In our family you can say fuck as much as you like, but you say ‘fart’ and you’re suddenly walking on thin ice.

‘Right Henry darling, so everyone farts (muffled, definitely doesn’t count) but that does not mean that 1) we need to be made aware every time you do this 2) that you make other people, especially strangers aware that they have done this, and 3) no more telling strangers that you or I have just done the thing that we are discussing. Do you understand me?’ My cousin is looking blankly at my aunt.

Now readers to put this enjoyable conversation into context, my aunt, her husband, their two kids and I are all driving to Spain. It’s going to take two days. We have been in the car for about 7 hours, when the two apples, 1 packet of sour Haribo, a handful of blueberries and a carton of orange juice is causing havoc with Henry’s youthful stomach. I have the joy of sitting in the back with this child and I am continually being gassed into the realms of the unconscious. My aunt is trying desperately to teach Henry the social niceties concerning bathroom habits. And as she keeps relaying ‘the best way of dealing with what happens in the bathroom is to pretend it never happens.’

‘Mum its better out than in. Remember that’s what the BFG said and he’s met the Queen. The Queen farts, you fart too I heard you earlier.’ At this my aunt turns to my uncle and seethes.

‘I told you not to let him watch that bloody film! It’s about a giant with flatulence issues. I mean come on! It is hard enough as it is! He let his teacher know last week that he had managed to pass wind 5 times and when exiting the bathroom he told the teaching assistant what he’d flushed! He’s 8 years old! There is no need for anyone to be told this information, and it is deeply embarrassing when strangers inform me that my son needs to eat more fruit to help with his ‘system’.’

‘The BFG is a classic, and it’s not about a farting giant!’ My uncle’s statement may seem simple enough to you, but he has used the dreaded ‘f’ word. Blasphemy in the eyes of my aunt.

‘Ahhhhohhhahhhh, For fucks sake! I cannot believe you just said that. I am trying so desperately hard to manage Henry’s bad language and look at you using it so casually! You should be very ashamed!’

I of course by this point have rolled the window down and am laughing hysterically. For those of you mulling over the idea of a road trip, please yes go ahead, they can be fun! But I will warn you that if for some unknown reason you have decided to have children and are considering taking them with you, just don’t do it. The magic of seeing Paris may seem wonderful whilst your tucked up in bed with the Sunday Times and a cup of coffee, but when your child has to pee in a bottle because there is nowhere to pull over, and he then tells you that he can’t hold off his number two any longer that beautiful dream becomes a shitting nightmare.