Tag Archives: Bacardi

Whistle a Happy Tune

16 Jun

6.30am: I woke to the twittering beaks of calmness. A dawn chorus of complete and utter inaudible noise. I could hear the distant silence beyond the silence. Perpetual tranquility rolled like tumbleweed over my duck-down duvet, filling me with a sense of apprehension and generating an uneasy breeze which tickled the tiny hairs on my face (teeny tiny ones, the non-testosterone-fed type. OBVS).

A shiver rippled down my spine. Goosebumps appeared on my bumpy geese. I felt agitated, uncomfortable, on edge. I raised my head from my pillow, peering owlishly like Mr ‘wot-no’ Chad (only with a much smaller and cuter nose) over the edge of the duvet. I looked all around me.

For a moment, I was unsure of where I was. I was confused. Was this my bed? My house?

I crept tentatively down the stairs, my heart lurching with each creaking step. My head could make no sense of what was happening. I suddenly felt like a visitor in my own life. An onlooker. I glanced down at my hands. They seemed to be mine. But without a Bacardi glass, it was hard to tell.

With bated breath, I shuffled to the end of the hallway, caressing the floor with my bare feet, desperate not to make a sound. I could hear a clinking sound, or was it a clunking? I wasn’t sure. It sounded a bit clinky and clunky.

A whistle. Was it a whistle? Yes, I could hear a penetrating whistling sound. It was shrill. Harsh. Tuneless. My catatonic brain couldn’t deal with its piercing invasion. I winced.

I paused, too scared to exhale. I stood there. Frozen. I needed to exhale. I really needed to un-bate my bated breath. I exhaled. Thank God. I regained my composure – and my breath. My heart was now pulsating so violently – probably from quasi-asphyxiation – I could feel it in the back of my throat.

Curiosity drove me forwards. I felt an innate fear swelling inside me. A tsunami of terror gripped my entire body. I was afraid to see what was clinking. What was clunking. What was whistling behind the white, wooden door.

I placed my trembling hand on the cold wood, not before noticing there was a strange blue crayon mark. It looked like the letter P.

P? P? Was it a code? I mentally noted that a bit of elbow grease would whip that off in no time. No time at all.

I pushed the door. It glided smoothly and effortlessly, like a diaphanous ghost entering the room.

Clink. Clunk. CLINK. The clinking or clunking continued to reverberate in my ears. Whatever – or whoever – was making the noise had not detected the unvoiced, wooden, ephemeral intruder. I closed my eyes, and mustered up all the courage I could, then took one careful and graceful step onto a huge pile of eggshells.

I strained my eyes open.

Seated at the head of the dining table, was what looked like a small boy. My small boy. My small, fully-school-uniformed ( including spade-sized shoes) boy eating his non-hemlock-laden Weetabix, inelegantly made by his own mammoth hands.

I beamed. Still wondering if I could be in some form of parallel universe, I gave him a bear hug and an undoubtedly noxious kiss.

He grinned and fired his opening salvo at me:

Mummy, look at me-I’m dressed-I’ve even got my shoes on-I’ve had my breakfast-I’ve put my jumper on myself-I’ve brushed my teeth-I’m ready to rock-n-roll-Are you proud of me?-Has my x-box game arrived yet?

6:45am: The cynical sun rises.

Day 4 or 5 (I’ve lost count) on loop. Immaculate, impeccable behaviour.

Day 1 or 2 (I’ve lost count) of one hidden Xbox game.

Sssshhhhh! I’ll ‘fess up tomorrow. I promise.


10 Confessions of an Imperfect Parent

27 Apr
  • Vocal exercises: I exercise my voice. Often. Erm…would we call it shouting? *rubs chin. Possibly, at times. I can go berserk over trivial twaddle. I always sweat the small stuff – a breach of one of the cardinal parenting mantras by all accounts. The kids stare in bewilderment, or just laugh at me.
  • Patience: Patience is an effort for me. It isn’t a God-given gift. It requires much thought and concentration. I’ve always been patient with dogs, birds, squirrels, and teeny weeny cutesy bunny wabbits, even other people’s children on occasion. BUT I have sod-all tolerance with my own kids at times. This has improved hugely since Pickle’s arrival. He is helping me to slowly perfect my imperfect patience.
  • Alcohol: Those of you who pop by my blog for a ‘brew’ and a biscuit now and then will know that I’m partial to a shot of Bacardi and a slurp of Rosey. But. In all fairness. Never in the same glass. So that’s good.
  • Profanity: I swear. Yes, as terrible as it is to disclose. It’s true, I have sworn in front of the children. Not out of habit of course, but out of sheer and utter crappy parental frustration. Never intentionally. And always with regret. I have never dropped a ‘feck’ or c-bomb in front of them. Yet! That’s what this blog is for. Put your fingers in your ears now.
  • Façade: I frequently feign interest in what my kids say to me. I flash the sideways glance that, in some kind of perverse way, makes them believe I am vaguely paying attention to the fact that a) Pickle has eaten his fifth bogey of the day, or that b) Gherkin nutmegged a player on the football pitch. I’m a girl for feck’s sake. How do I know what nutmegging is? And why do I remotely care? I don’t even know if I’ve conjugated the verb correctly in that context. How can it even BE a verb?
  • Covertness: I have been known to listen to one of the kids reading, whilst furtively texting with the other hand.
  • Ignorance: I have turned the radio up louder in an attempt to drown out the noise of the fierce and doubtless bloody battle taking place upstairs, rather than acknowledge it/deal with it/split it up.
  • Childishness: Recently, I cowered under a cloak of juvenile embarrassment, sniggering, when asked what a ‘vagina’ was by Gherkin. Of course, that would have been the perfect opportunity to bring out the books and have that all-important grown-up discussion. But let’s be honest, ‘vagina’ is a highly amusing word at the best of times. *sniggers more.
  • Overt falsehoods: I massage the truth, tell half-truths, prevaricate; all entiiiirely different from telling lies, you understand. There is nothing more galling to me than when the kids tell lies. My children NEVER get into trouble for speaking the truth *shuffles in seat. Since I have eyes in the back of my head, and spies everywhere, they dare not lie. If they do indulge in any whopper-flinging, they are fed mivvits for tea and made to sit on a cold wall, which WILL give them chincough!
  • Embarrassment: I am an embarrassment to my kids. I have been told twice, this very morning, to behave myself. I am not to quote any lines from He-Man and certainly not to draw my invisible sword in the playground, whilst dramatically proclaiming “By the power of Greyskull…”. It’s not big, it’s not clever and it just shows your age….apparently!

I confess: I am a thoroughly imperfect parent.




17 Apr

Ahem…wow, woooow, WOW! What can I say?

*holds The Versatile Blogger Award up high in one hand, Bacardi glass in other.

I did have  a speech prepared but of course, I left in on the coffee table, then the dog ate it, just as Pickle was about to put it in the washing machine.

Honestly? I really didn’t think I would win. Wow WOW.

*wafts tears from eyes à la Gwynnie.

Firstly, let me thank my mum and dad for giving me life. Secondly, my manager…

Carried away? Who me? I’m just so nervous. Sorry, let me start again.

I would like to thank all those generous people who voted to bestow this prestigious accolade on me. That’ll be you then, Jen http://lovefoodcookfood.com/. (Check out her fab recipes and reviews)

It shall of course be polished to within an inch of my life, and placed majestically on the back of my downstairs loo.

I am completely overwhelmed that Jen decided to give me this honour, and that at least one person has enjoyed reading the contents of my stuffed-up head.

I started rambling when I was a child. It came quite naturally and has just grown from there, really. I just decided to share these ramblings with you because, quite frankly, I was starting to eat my elbows. And well, you know that old adage: a rambling shared is a…..What is it again? Is that the saying? Did I just make that up?

Seriously now.

The notion behind The Versatile Blogger Award is that it: “is a great way to introduce different bloggers to each other and to promote quality blogs that awardees and their readers may not have discovered otherwise.”

There are conditions attached to accepting this award. So, as much as I hate to follow the rules, it is only polite to do so. And I am nothing, if polite. Erm. *scratches head. I mean, I am nothing, if NOT polite. It’s the nerves, I apologise.

The Very Important Rules:

  1. Thank the person who gave you this award.
  2. Include a link to their blog.
  3. Next, select 15 blogs/bloggers that you’ve recently discovered or follow regularly.
  4. Nominate those 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award.
  5. Finally, tell the person who nominated you 7 things about yourself.
  6. In the same post, include this set of rules.
  7. Inform each nominated blogger of their nomination by posting a comment on each of their blogs.

7 things you wish you didn’t know about me:

  1. I was born a man named Bob.OK, not really, but if I had have been a boy, I was going to be called Robert. So I’m putting pennies on it that, at some point, somebody somewhere would have called me Bob.
  2. My first dog was called Brandy. I think that could be where my fetish for alcoholic beverage names came from (aged 2).
  3. I took extra-curricular physics so I could fit in an extra option in my quest to be a vet. As you can tell from my bio, I made it. I’m very successful, with a special interest in equine dentistry. I just disguise it well.
  4.  I sing. Badly. At karaoke. But I think I’m blinkin’ great. That’s the power of Bacardi.
  5. I hold a Certificate in Orienteering. I do. Except when it was handed to me on a school trip to Bournemouth (aged 10), it read: Claire can read a map. Or something like that. I think somebody Tipp-exed ‘badly’ out. I never told anyone.
  6. I love Gloria Estefan. I rarely admit this, but I do. I think it’s the hair. I once had the very same hair. Except it was mine, not hers.
  7. I gained my Silver Duke of Edinburgh’s Award and achieved a Silver (summat) Award in skiing. Now you see why this award means so much to me. Third time lucky!

And the next set of nominees (winners) are: *drum roll

  1. Raising a Realist http://raisingarealist.com/
  2. Like A Fiery Pussycat http://suzynormanfiction.wordpress.com/
  3. Working from Home http://www.russwrites.co.uk/
  4. BabberBlog http://newbabber.blogspot.co.uk/
  5. They call me betty http://theycallmebetty.com/
  6. The Crumby Mummy http://www.thecrumbymummy.co.uk/
  7. Sally Donovan http://www.sallydonovan.net/
  8. Adopt and keep Calm http://adoptandkeepcalm.wordpress.com/
  9. The Boys Behaviour http://theboysbehaviour.blogspot.co.uk/
  10. Life with Katie http://our-adoption-story.blogspot.co.uk/
  11. The Musings of Me http://knightys.blogspot.co.uk/
  12. 400 Days til 40 http://400daystil40.wordpress.com/
  13. The Family of 5s Journey http://thefamilyof5.wordpress.com
  14. Stephanie Moon http://stephanieharrietwhalley.wordpress.com
  15. The Boy and Me http://www.theboyandme.co.uk/

Bask in the glory peeps, but grubby mitts off my gleaming award!

Back to Blighty

11 Apr

Hola amigos! *waves frantically with one hand.

We’re back. Arrived home safely – in one physical piece at least – this afternoon. Home from our Jollies. Our Easter Jollies to jolly olé España. Did I say Jolly?

[“Jolly” post to follow when I’m less tired, less stressed, and I have had the Bacardi glass surgically removed from trembling, tightly clamped digits on other, non-waving hand.]

So, here we are, back in blinkin’ bleak and bitter ole Blighty. But not without the usual last-minute drama. A quick, pre-departure check of the pre-printed boarding cards – yes, the ones that I (that’s me) printed prior to our Jollies – revealed that one of our small cucumfers (Pickle’s delightful articulation of the word ‘cucumber’) didn’t exist on paper. The main form itself was beautifully printed with a rather introverted layout… AND with all Pickle’s personal details mysteriously absent. Our slightly bigger cucumfer existed in name only, nada más!!!

OK, so I didn’t check beforehand. I always check. It was my fault. I don’t know what happened. I JUST DIDN’T CHECK. I SHOULD’VE CHECKED, OK!

Long story short: Sped down autopista to Alicante airport; queued at info desk; brusquely sent to check-in queue; queued (surprisingly) in ludicrously boring, slowly-inching, erm, queue; Pickle delighted bystanders with his overtly visual and vocal rendition of We Will Rock You, melodiously hammered out on a row of stacking aluminium trolleys; kindly señorita pre-empted my imminent panic attack by smiling (with enviably white teeth) and quickly handing me 4 shiny, brand spankin’ new boarding passes, enabling both cucumfers to embark the big, flying, tin thingy.

And. Get this…they behaved surprisingly well. Very well, in fact. Throughout the entire flight. All of it. The whole thing. From start to finish.

A 9-day holiday and they finally settle down…on the 9th day.

Can’t wait until August. We’re going for 10 days!  *whoops loudly, almost spills Bacardi.

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