Round, round, round, round, I get around

April 29, 2010 at 10:11 pm | Posted in cake | Leave a comment
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I want to do this to my face right now

Today, I have:

1) Washed up;

2) Been to Birchington to pick up ‘1’ and ‘6’ shaped cake tins;

3) Decided against said ‘1’ and ‘6’ shaped cake tins, remembering how they love to stick to the tin and end up resembling a toddler’s rendition of  what they are supposed to be;

4) Watched my bacon sandwich get cold in a cafe full of old people;

5) Experienced an urgent desire to tear down Conservative placards, and been thwarted only by the fact that I was driving past at 50 (it’s fine, I’ll go back tomorrow);

6) Phoned Asher and moaned at him for not leaving a note when he went out (I am embarassed about this: I used to be such a carefree person.  But I had to make these goddamn cakes, goddamnit!);

7) And made enough cake to render the legs of a flamingo obese.

And now I am very, very tired.  So tired I no longer care about food, or Christian and Syed’s future, or what I’m going to wear tomorrow. (Christ, I really must be feeling it.)

It’s time for . Goodnight, dahlings.

I refuse to be a victim

April 28, 2010 at 10:08 pm | Posted in women | 2 Comments
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Prithee do not mock me, fellow internet user: the title is merely a quote from the self-help CD to which Carolyn Burnham listens in American Beauty.  The rain pours, she takes out a gun from the glove compartment……..or that’s how I remember it anyway.  Great film.

What I don’t want to be a victim of is (bad grammar, dahlings, sorry) not the inability to sit on my perfect ivory sofa for fear of soiling it, a la Carolyn, but rather what people choose to call me.  I’m talking about my title.  Women are afraid of being called feminists, but frankly, I don’t really give a toss if not wanting people to keep calling me ‘Mrs’ makes me the next Germaine Greer or not.  I just resent the fact that, from the day women are born, they are defined by their title.  ‘Miss’ can be seen as young and carefree on one hand and labelled immature and committment-phobic on the other.  ‘Mrs’ is grown-up and responsible – or is it old and boring?  Who knows?  Who cares?  The point is, is that men never need to make this choice.  They are always ‘Mr’, and there is never that awkward moment where you risk offending a woman if you get her title wrong.  No wonder women always feel the need to fight their corner – there are too many choices when it comes to female titles.

So I’ve got a suggestion.  Stop calling me ‘Mrs’, or ‘Miss’ or ‘Ms’ (I really can’t stand the latter), and just call me Amy Pirt.  That’s my name: don’t wear it out.

I am insane…………..

April 28, 2010 at 7:35 am | Posted in books, cake, motherhood | 1 Comment
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So mad I wear coats on my head. But only on Swedish islands.

…………..because I am trying, this week, to look after my son, finish an article, read three books, work full-time and bake my niece her 16th birthday cake.  Not just any cake, my friends, but a towering creation designed to feed the five thousand.  Or 40 ravenous, and possibly slightly intoxicated, teenagers, anyway.

Please tell me how I am supposed to eat, wash and smoke once I’ve done all that?

Really? You want to break out the booze and have a ball?

April 26, 2010 at 9:01 pm | Posted in depression, music, party | Leave a comment
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Doesn’t sound like it, Peggy.

It occurred to me earlier that many songs either have upbeat tempos and depressing lyrics, or upbeats lyrics and depressing tempos.  Peggy Lee’s ‘Is That All There Is?’ is a  classic example.  Yes, she’s basically talking about the fact that failing to be impressed by much is a sure sign that the black dog’s at your door.  But do you really take her seriously when she suggests we ‘break out the booze’?  Ladies and gents, would you really want Peggy Lee at your party?

Likewise, was Ian Curtis trying to cheer himself up when his own uplifting guitar chords on ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ were such a contrast to the lyrics?  Or was he merely showing us that life can be sunrise – beautiful one minute and horrendous the next?

I dunno.  They’re great tunes, though.

Impatience is a virtue

April 17, 2010 at 8:49 am | Posted in motherhood, relationships | 3 Comments
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Mammoth multitasking ability, check.  Introduction of books from day one (or thereabouts) so that child becomes as literate as early as possible, check.  Clean home of which Kim and Aggie would be proud, check.  Patient mummy?  Yeah.  You’re funny.

It’s fair to say that the so-called virtue of being patient has never graced me with its presence.  Yes, I can be patient when I really have to (oops, sentence ending in a preposition – bad ungrammatical mummy).  It wouldn’t have been fair to tell the elderly residents in the home in which I used to work (better, but a rather unwieldy construction) to upgrade their snail-like pace to that of a meerkat, say.  Oh yes, I can be remarkably patient when I want to be  – that’s the benefit of being a contrary Libran.  But, in general, patience tends to pop its head round the door, ask if it can stop for tea, and then leave immediately when I give it the look.  If any film character epitomised my inability to wait, it would surely be Miranda in The Devil Wears Prada.  ‘By all means, move at a glacial pace.  You know how that thrills me.’  What a line, dear reader.

‘Get to the point’, my friend Fiona would say.  Well, what I really mean is that, for all its bad press, a little impatience can be a good thing.  For example, if I didn’t sometimes (ok, all the time), lose my perpetually lost rag with Asher, I doubt if he would ever do the washing up (sorry love, but you know you need my influence).  And if I didn’t sometimes overtake the impossibly slow drivers on the A256, I would never get anywhere – literally.  So the real reason for my impatience is high standards.  If I stopped nagging or trying to be Lewis Hamilton (my dad’s nickname for me), I would stop caring.

Indeed, I prefer to save my very small reserve of patience for the new man in my life – baby Jude.  For those of you unacquainted with the lad, he is about 50cm long, has blue eyes, resembles an infant Phil Mitchell in the hair stakes and is incredibly chilled out.  Seriously.  I’ve never known a baby who only cries when he wants something and smiles at me every time I get him up in the morning (sadly, I don’t always return the gesture).  Jude is as helpless as those lovely ladies and gents I used to look after, and doesn’t ask for much, and so it would be totally unfair for me to be impatient with him.  That’s not to say that I haven’t found motherhood ever frustrating, or overwhelming, or, dare I say, a little boring (feeding isn’t exactly the most thrilling thing in the world).  But I would be telling a giant, Pinocchio-style fib if I said that I didn’t spend most of the time being fascinated by my little lad and the new things he learns every day, and going into his room each night to watch him sleep, his hands above his head as if he is saying, ‘Don’t shoot!’.

Ok, my nickname is Croccy for a reason.  I am never going to be earth mother.  Yet each day, I become a little more patient with Jude.  And a little bit more frustrated with the socks on the floor.  That’s just me.

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