Wonderful Wednesday Ten

Wonderful Wednesday Ten Wonderful Wednesday Ten

Guys, I *think* I’ve got a bit of moxie back. I know. Almost certainly helped along by a whole weekend of sunshine with my favourites and the enforced rest of a crappy migraine at the tail end of last week. The migraine was very not cool BUT the two days of having to sit without electronics and distractions was a very good thing: I got a bit mindful and zen and peace, man. I also wept and bashed into things, maybe I threw up in the park – migraines really aren’t fun. But clearly I needed to stop. We should probably listen to our bodies more.

So, the things that are making this week brilliant: Wonderful Wednesday Ten.

First World Problems

Starting off writing this week’s Wonderful Wednesday from my bed with The Night Manager feels like a pretty cracking way to get going. I’m in the throes of the best of all the #firstworldproblems: having to use up my leave before the end of March.  I’ve squeezed in not one but TWO days off this week and the same next week. BOOM!

Lurve

Last night the husband arrived home with a beautiful bunch of petrol station flowers and chocolate eclairs – French not Cadbury – just because. ‘Just because’ might be the two loveliest words there ever were.

Green Goddess

We got all Good Life in the garden whilst the sun shone on Sunday. There’s something ridiculously therapeutic about weeding. Do you ever say things and then wonder who the hell you’ve become? That sentence right there is that for me.

Still, weeding = good, sunshine = goooood. FYI spaniels make excellent weeders, as long as the husband isn’t looking.

Wonderful Wednesday Ten

Lady Love

Canesten asked me to be part of their #shehelped campaign – WAIT, this isn’t a sales pitch!! I had to share a story about being helped and supported by my fellow females and invite you guys to do the same. There’s a giveaway so, spam BUT I’ve seen so many lovely little tales of women building each other up, supporting one another and generally being awesome and it’s made my heart happy as a lark. Come let me know if you have a brilliant woman to share. 

Is ‘happy as a lark’ a phrase? I don’t think it is.

Lemon Meringue Pie

We have not, repeat not, eaten clean this week. The pinacle of being off the wagon was a lemon meringue pie on Saturday – so lemony, so delicious. Later that night I found the husband in the kitchen quietly eating the leftovers straight from the tray with a spoon.

Holiday Countdown

We started the countdown to our holiday WAY too soon, it’s been a few years since we’ve had one ok? We don’t know the etiquette. This week we reached H plus 50 days. That feels pretty damn soon. Roll on May. We’re working our way through a little pile of travel guides and getting obnoxiously excited. Warning: the holiday gushing is going to get so very much worse before it gets better #sorrynotsorry.

Right, I’m off to the moors with my hounds to make the most of this freebie day slap bang in the middle of the week and to avoid any budget news until I’m back at work and cannot possibly  avert my face like a toddler eating stewed veg any longer.

Tell me down below what’s been making your week wonderful? Or join the hashtagging majesty of #wonderfulwednesday on twitter. 

The Wonderful Wednesday bunch is growing all the time, find more jolly with SallyHelen, Nadine and Kate. Reading the merry minutae of someone elses life might be more fun than writing your own, true story. 

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Valentines Schmalentines

 

Valentines Jeremy Taylor

Words courtesy of someone else.

Yesterday, on Valentines Day, the husband and I were woken by the sunlight streaming through the curtains, the gentle chirping of birds welcoming the dawn of Spring, the scent of fresh coffee in the air. Very romance, much love, so smooches. Jokes, it was raining, the dogs were howling at the solitary magpie in the garden and we were out of teabags. 

The husband stretched lazily, opened one eye and leaped up like he’d been shot.

Him: Shit. SHIT! I forgot to write your card.
Me: Oh thank Christ, me too.
Him (cautiously): Erm….shall we save them til next year?
Me: NO! Go and be romantic. Now.

Husband leaves room.

Five minutes pass.

Husband shouts up the stairs: Yeah…have you got a pen?

An unromantic kick off but actually I adored having to go and write something romantic there on the spot. It meant that we started a schmaltzy day neither of us cares much about articulating our affection for our strange selves and this weird little life we have together. With croissants.

I may turn this into a tradition. A. Daily. Tradition. SURPRISE husband!

Valentines Day – whether you love it or loathe it or think it’s a pile of commercialised boohockey, I hope you had love in your day: romantic, familial, friendly or self (snort). Did you?

Don’t miss last week’s posts –

Wonderful Wednesday Four

An Uncomfortable Encounter 

And I Turned Thirty Two, yay for me! 

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Christmas Acts Of Kindness

DSC_0367Every single year I feel guiltier and guiltier that I’m shoveling in mince pies at an alarming rate and buying tangle teasers galore to stuff stockings with (to Step Child Number 2: surprise!) whilst more and more people seem to be less and less fortunate. It hurts my heart, yep I’m a charity marketers dream.  For the love of god please don’t call me, I’ve got zero dollars. But I do have a bit of time if you want that?

At the risk of getting political at Christmas, for one reason or another – pretty much just one reason actually eh Dave? – more people are falling through the cracks and are reliant on charitable donations and the support of strangers to make their Christmas different than every other hard slog of a day. So in the spirit of the festivities here are some Christmas acts of kindness we could all have a crack at.  And some things for dogs because, you know, dogs.

  • Volunteer your time at a homeless shelter, care home or hospice. Extra pairs of hands on deck to cook up the spuds or just spend time with people treating people like people shouldn’t be underestimated. Your time is completely free, even if it is in short supply.
  • On that note, how are your neighbours doing, do you know? Another hour or so checking in or inviting them round for a glug of mulled something and a mince pie would not be time wasted.
  • When you’re doing your Christmas shop, stick a couple of extra bits in your basket and chuck them in the food bank trolley at the door. Most supermarkets do this now but you’re bound to have a food bank nearby so take it straight to them if you need to. A good ol’ tin of roses or a Christmas pud won’t break the bank.
  • Go visit your nan, drink tea, eat biscuits and chat. Tell her you love her too. It’s always nice to hear that.
  • Lend an ear to your local safe haven scheme. Most towns have projects manned by happy shiny volunteers to make sure those who get a bit too merry stay safe. Alcohol removes inhibitions and can make those who are already vulnerable go to some pretty dark places, be on hand to talk it through with them. There might also be some clearing up of vomit. True story.
  • £10 will buy a festive hamper for a homeless dog at Battersea Dogs Home this Christmas. Alternatively you can go and fill a bag or box with all the toys you can and take it to your local shelter. My local Dogs Trust are a bit with it and have an amazon wish list.
  • If dogs aren’t your bag, gather up some toys and books and take them to your local hospital for the poor little tinkers who have to be there at Christmas. Include a mince pie for the mums and dads and doctors and nurses who are also hanging around.

It’s all kind of obvious and all extremely necessary. Do it. Make sure you have a dog dressed as Santa to help. Thank you autocorrect, a dog dressed as Satan would be most unfestive.

Of course this list is not exhaustive, a bit like the need to be charitable. These are just ones that matter to me. Go forth and give to whichever cause strikes a chord. 

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BEDN 6 One Wild Night In Devon

For my valentine

I am surprisingly grateful that step teen number 2 took over my house last night to host a Come Dine With Me thing with other teens. Honestly, it’s a stonking relief that that was the prime time tv she went for  and not some episode of Jeremy Kyle involving a minimum of three paternity tests or turning our downstairs into the Little Crack Den at the End of the Lane. I was marginally less grateful at being chucked out of my house for the night but she was doing weird things with chicken and the screeching. Oh the humanity! Tell me Clarice, have the teens stopped screeching?

Husband and I gathered up our coats and hounds and toddled off to the pub for some peace and quiet. Dinner for four devoured (dogs and humans, obvs. Insert peace sign emoji or whichever one of those things makes me look a lot cooler than someone who double dates with their dogs) and all reasonable marital conversation exhausted – notes dutifully made for future Marriage Chats – we were basking in the romantic eye stinging glow of a log burner and eaves dropping on the sad faced lady and her Man With Two Shirts. He had an unbuttoned button up shirt over the top of a buttoned up button up shirt. Your fancy big city fashion won’t fly in Devon my friend, have a word with yourself. Nor will it fly anywhere with people who have functioning eyes. Seriously, who wears a shirt over a shirt? A shirt over a t-shirt I don’t mind, a shirt under a jumper is alright but a shirt over a shirt? No.

Feeling the burn of the judgmental glare they shifted round the corner. That departure of the entertainment was our cue to leave.*

The dilemma: still 2 hours until we said we’d be home. What fresh teenage hell would be waiting if we rocked up now? No no. There must be another way.

Piddling down, pitch dark and it being Bonfire Night and all ruled out a walk along the seafront. The single legit seaside town activity being off the table, I guess we could have gone to the arcades but we were out of 2ps and Betty doesn’t like the grabbers, we racked our brains for an alternative.  It was at this moment a voice from the dark of the drivers’ side quietly offered ‘shall I take you up the new road?’

Pete let out a single whine and lay down quietly in the boot. An awkward silence fell and went on and on and on: he was patiently awaiting a response, my soul was silently screaming.  ‘Up the new road?’ WHAT DOES HE MEAN?? Is it a new sex thing? How does he know new sex things? Is it an old sex thing? Am I dead inside? Should I have been re-watching old Sex and the Cities instead of The Walking Dead last night? What if it’s weird? Love is….saying ‘no, you’re a freak sometimes’ right? RIGHT? And the dogs are in the car, has he no shame?

I glanced up as my frantic fingers scrolled for mama bears’ number, looking for local landmarks to text her ‘send help, I’m being taken ‘up the new road’ in the car’ only to see….roadworks. And workmen. And diggers. And flashlights. And a shiny. New. Road.

Oh. The New Rooooaaaad.

Right.

Stand down mama, stand down.

After a really quite thrilling ride up the new road, complete with tarmac themed running commentary, I was offered ‘a walk round Sainsburys’ to pass the time’.

But they don’t let dogs in Sainsbury’s so home, to find the house still standing and the teenagers drinking squash and debating the oppressive nature of their school uniform enforcement which, and I quote, is ‘utterly ridiculous for a place of learning’.

Shame. SHAME! Actually I think it was my favourite marital moment to date. Except this one, this one was pretty good.

And you and love? Have you been taken up the new road?

* Oh Christ, I wrote that for effect but what if it was my fault? What if I had sartorial vengeance in my eyes enough to make them shift tables. Like a really naff, adult version of Matilda. Actually, I appear to have talked myself round: that would be an INCREDIBLE superpower.

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BEDN 3 Marriage Chat: The Outfit Post Edition

jeans outtakesSo what I did can’t be called an outfit post, I know that. I have a jaunty hat but no style, those things do not pave the way for an outfit post. But they did allow my husband and I to enter a new stage of our married existence together: the photography stage. You don’t REALLY know someone until you’ve asked them to take photos of you poncing about your garden. And they don’t really know you until they’ve witnessed your most uncomfortably cringeworthy attempts at photographing yourself poncing about your garden. Who knew that free jeans (sorry, not free, nothing is free, value your time and creativity, vive la revolution, yadda yadda) could reveal so very much?


Me (in my best whiny brat voice): I caaaaaaaaant dooooo ittttttt.

Him: Yeah……Yeah you really can’t can you?

Me: What was I thinking? What’s wrong with my face? I don’t need (these incredibly stretchy glorious) jeans that badly.

Him: Yep.


Me (in my best whiny brat voice): Whatcha doing?

Him, doing *insert typical Sunday job here, maybe changing a plug socket?*:  This.

Me: Oh. How long will you be?

Him: Why? And why are you hovering? What’s wrong with you?

Me: Seriously I caaaaaaaaant dooooo ittttttt.

Him: Oh, that’s why you’re hovering.


Him:      Right….

LOSE THE JACKET!

SIT THERE!

WHY ARE YOU PULLING THAT FACE?

LOOK OVER THE WALL!

NO!!! DON’T LOOK AT ME FOOL.

MICHELLE, THAT IS NOT YOUR FACE.

Me: Alright Austin Powers, calm down.


Him, flicking through the camera: Some of these are pretty good >Stumbles across my-self timer early attempts< WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE??? YOU LOOK LIKE A CRIMINAL. Why are you standing like that? Why are you doing that? REALLY, WHAT IS THAT FACE?

Me: I…just….I don’t…..SHUT UP.


This, coupled with the aforementioned style void, is why you don’t see many pictures of me on the blog. More dogs, that’s what I say.

Who takes your photos? Want to borrow my husband?

*I’ve done three posts in three days in November, yay me. Sorry #BEDNners, none of them have been the suggested topics. But there are three and that my friends, is a win.*

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