What Are Weekends For?

Can someone tell me what the secret is? I mean, has anyone got the hang of enjoying weekends?

Twas not always thus. From the cobweb-drenched depths of my memory, something stirs. It's something we use to call That Friday Feeling. Chris Evans even had a TV show about it.

Ah yes, it's slowly coming back to me. That feeling that the week's toil was over and two days of relaxation, respite, sleep and Doing What You Feel Like lay ahead of you.

Nowadays it's the housework, children and ManChild constantly crying out for my attention. If I'm not cleaning and cooking I feel guilty. If I'm not playing with/reading to/helping the GirlChild with her homework or overseeing educational games on the internet, I feel guitly. Whatever I do, there's that constant niggling sense that no one's quite satisfied. There's no escape. No respite. By Sunday, I'm done in.

These days, a slow feeling of dread creeps up on me from Thursday onwards. What are we doing over the weekend? Other people seem to have plans - visiting friends, going to or inviting people for lunch/barbeques, days out at theme parks or museums. Not us. We wing it. This is not my choice. The ManChild is notoriously difficult to pin down when it comes to making arrangements. Advance booking jars with his penchant for spontaneity. Usually we don't do much. It pretty much boils down to the park and the supermarket. And watching the ManChild nurture his pond. So much for spontaneity.

But have you ever noticed how happy the parents look when you see them dropping their sprogs off at school on a Monday morning? Give me that Monday feeling every time.

Life in Brief

Weeks passed since last post: 2 and a bit

Job applications completed: 2

New jobs acquired: 1

Coursework assignments completed: 4 (out of 5)

Coursework portfolios assembled: 0

Childcare disasters caused by dippy childminders averted: 1

Sports Days attended: 1

Rooms in house in serious need of dusting: all

To-do lists compiled: lost count

Blog Posts written: 0

If you call it a 'life'...

Living With a Greek - the LWAGs fight back!

Recently announced to the ManChild that I was going to start a support group for people who live with Greeks (must check if URL livingwithagreek.com is available) - LWAGs everywhere, you know what I'm talking about. The challenges of having a Greek in you life - where do we start? Greeks are like Marmite...

The main issues I have encountered include:

1. Always knowing a better way of doing something than your way. If you've ever stopped a local in a Greek village to ask for directions, you'll have come across the phenomenon that resurrects Harry Enfield's Mr You Don't Want to Do it Like That character. Greek A will be directing you up the road and left, when up will pitch Greek B who will disagree, sending you down the hill and right. The ManChild (even though born in London and therefore more Greek Lite than the full-blown indigenous version) can't help his genes, 'advising' me to brush my teeth before I floss, even though I prefer the other way round, telling me I'm cutting a tomato incorrectly ("you don't want to do it like that!"), querying my ironing technique (er, excuse me, when did YOU ever actually use an iron?) and on and on it goes. Greeks know better. Apparently.

2. The volume control is set at 'deafening' - if the ManChild is in a temper and I tell him to stop shouting, he shouts all the louder in frustration: "I'M NOT SHOUTING!". He actually gets very cross when I speak quietly. Greek don't do quiet. Apparently, it's to do with passion. They use that excuse a lot...

3. The tendency to supersize everything. Send the ManChild shopping and he'll return with 24 loo rolls, a crate of baked beans, a 10kg bag of rice. It's all very well until you try to find room for his haul. 10kg bags of rice don't fit into any cupboard we own. To the Greek this is not a problem, since the floor is considered a perfectly usable storage area. That the ManChild has serious hoarding tendencies could be just a quirk of his personality, a feature of his star sign, rather than a national characteristic. But when you come to think about it, have you ever been in a Greek shop that wasn't packed to the rafters with piles of dusty stock?

LWAGs the world over, let us unite in a common purpose, smoothing the path of Living With a Greek for all those in this challenging position. Anyone?

Picture by Watanga http://www.flickr.com/photos/7473854@N05/2260105377/sizes/s/

What are Weekends For?

Can someone tell me what the secret is? I mean, has anyone got the hang of enjoying weekends?

Twas not always thus. From the cobweb-drenched depths of my memory, something stirs. It's something we use to call That Friday Feeling. Chris Evans even had a TV show about it.

Ah yes, it's slowly coming back to me. That feeling that the week's toil was over and two days of relaxation, respite, sleep and Doing What You Feel Like lay ahead of you.

Nowadays it's the housework, children and ManChild constantly crying out for my attention. If I'm not cleaning and cooking I feel guilty. If I'm not playing with/reading to/helping the GirlChild with her homework or overseeing educational games on the internet, I feel guitly. Whatever I do, there's that constant niggling sense that no one's quite satisfied. There's no escape. No respite. By Sunday, I'm done in.

These days, a slow feeling of dread creeps up on me from Thursday onwards. What are we doing over the weekend? Other people seem to have plans - visiting friends, going to or inviting people for lunch/barbeques, days out at theme parks or museums. Not us. We wing it. This is not my choice. The ManChild is notoriously difficult to pin down when it comes to making arrangements. Advance booking jars with his penchant for spontaneity. Usually we don't do much. It pretty much boils down to the park and the supermarket. And watching the ManChild nurture his pond. So much for spontaneity.

But have you ever noticed how happy the parents look when you see them dropping their sprogs off at school on a Monday morning? Give me that Monday feeling every time.

It's Still a Con

So, you give in to this nagging feeling of neglect and head for your blog, only to discover that, in the weeks since you last posted, you have actually LOST a follower! Whoever you are, I'm very sad to see you go. I have few enough of you and need all the encouragement I can get! Of course, my lament is pointless since you are no longer reading my rubbishy ramblings... can't say I blame you. (See, you are now to blame for my low self-esteem).

So what's been happening? Well, the election happened and was duly declared null and void. No winner, all losers. Hah!

So what did we get? Well, it's what PC types might call the equivalent of a 'blended family' and what less PC types might call '****-up'. The Con-Lib hybrid is like the unwelcome product of a seedy one-night-stand. For the sake of creating a harmonious 'family' unit, David Cameron now has to spend quality time with Nick Clegg - someone who looked OK in the dusky half-light but a lot less attractive in the sober morning gloom. Like reluctant ex-lovers, they pose shoulder to shoulder for the cameras, trying desperately to hide the embarrassment of their grubby union being discovered.

And, like the automotive equivalent, this hybrid fails on all counts - neither looking desirable nor achieving the 'good' credentials it claims to champion.

Can't wait for the fan to get hit. It won't be long before Cloying Clegg is slamming doors and saying he never wants to see Dastardly Dave's PC Plum-alike face again. How long before they try a make-or-break weekend away (a love-in in Brussels perhaps?) and can you imagine the chaos of a family-bonding week in a French gite, complete with high maintenance wives and mega-brats?

There's still a 'con' in this marriage of convenience.

Reasons to be Cheerful

Sometimes it's good to be poor.

If you'd had the money (and not been sick), you would definitely have been up for an Easter break somewhere warm and sunny.

Just think - you could still be on holiday.

Or rather stranded abroad with no clean laundry left.

With the kids.

And the ManChild.

On a family holiday that never seems to end.

Sometimes it's good to be poor.

Picture courtesy of martindaveyillustration

Be Careful What You Wish For... or There's Nothing Good About This Friday

A couple of weeks ago, you remember thinking aloud: "Wouldn't it be great to spend the whole weekend in bed." What you had in mind was something along the lines of a John-and-Yoko: food, sex, papers, dozing, more food...

What you didn't have in mind was succumbing to some flu-type bug that laid you low in a sweaty heap under the duvet for two whole days. Shivery, feverish, throat like you'd swallowed two golfballs. Ha! That's wishful thinking for you...

But, typically, things had to get worse. The BoyChild crawled into bed with you, mumbling plaintively that he felt sick. That's OK, you reassured him, we can stay in bed together. But his illness was something entirely different, as it turned out, a stomach bug. Next thing you know, the bed's covered in vom and you're calling the ManChild because you don't have the strength to clean it up yourself.

Not only that, but the washing machine, the NEW washing machine that just arrived two days ago - DOESN'T WORK! Passed the test cycle with flying colours then gave up the ghost. Customer care tell you they can send an engineer on TUESDAY (it being bank holiday and all that...)

The BoyChild pukes five more times. The washing piles up. The ManChild scoops up the laundry and heads for the local launderette. Closed. Bank Holiday.

Because he's not well, he wets the bed (the boy, that is). Twice.

The house starts to resemble a slum. And stinks like one, too.

To rub salt in it, you were supposed to be going to friends for lunch today.

But it's never all bad news. You've lost a bit of weight. It's the ManChild who's the first to notice. "You look emaciated," he informs you.

Bless him.

Picture by AJ Nguyen