I simply cannot believe it is the middle of December already. Twelve months ago almost to the day I was celebrating being offered the best job of my career so far and was on cloud nine. I only wish the joy could have lasted a bit longer but no sooner had the ink dried on the contract and I had put the finishing touches to the plans for my team than we got the news that our department was going to suffer some serious cuts. I knew instantly that I would be affected. I even got into a bit of trouble for saying so (naivety on my part) but had I drawn a picture of our new structure and put it in a sealed envelope it would have looked remarkably like the one that eventually came into existence in July. As foreseen, my role was going. Funny really, I usually like being right! The crap didn’t exactly end there and following a farce of an ‘alternative role’ (which I would add I was grateful to them for trying seeing as it was an effort to keep me) a few weeks ago I had confirmation that once again my job was to be redundant.
It’s hard spending all year not really having a purpose at work. It’s harder when you had such high hopes going in. I feel I’ve lost some confidence and need to get my mojo back (sorry, but I cannot even type that word without hearing Cheryl Cole’s voice – mooojooo). On the flip side I’ve spent more time with my daughter this year than at any time since I was on maternity leave. She starts school in September and my husband and I have the task of selecting our choice of school. I can already see her in her little grey skirt and blue sweatshirt so she better get in down the road! She’s turning into even more of a character and constantly makes us laugh, particularly when we really shouldn’t. Oh, how I laughed when after bellowing at the TV during a Spurs Arsenal game she quietly told her father to ‘calm down’. Priceless.
This year we got a new niece, Abigail. That makes a full house as both of my husband’s brothers now have children. We had our first gathering at the grandparents last weekend and it was wonderful. I can only imagine what Christmases will be like. The kids adore each other and genuinely seem to get a lot out of playing together.
Our world seems to be full of babies at the moment. Several more came along this year courtesy of various friends. Some took their time and some came far too early, scaring the bejesus out of everyone in the process, and one even turned up precisely on schedule but then her mum always was a pretty good project manager.
As is customary, and because I intend to have a much improved 2011, I thought I would have a go at some early New Year’s Resolutions. Given we’re a couple of weeks away from Jan 1 I’ll call them Draft Version 0.1 but they’re pretty much there I think.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to everyone. Let’s hope 2011 is a belter!
Jec
x
I will make a curry from scratch (this has been on my list for 4 years)
I will cook at least one new meal each month (this has been on my list for about 10 years)
I will use fewer supermarket carrier bags
I will remember to take with me the ‘bags for life’ and cotton carrier bags I have bought to achieve previous resolution
I will invite friends round to dinner more often
I will remember everyone’s birthdays
I will open my post on the day I get it
I will endeavour to tell the truth in the moment and not wish I’d told it afterwards
I will not resolve to lose weight because that is a waste of time
I will put some money in a tax efficient savings thing and not have it languish in an account where it does bugger all for me
I will weed my flower beds more often
I will buy things for my house that I like and don’t necessarily come from high street shops (Kirstie Allsopp gushes with pride)
I will go to an antiques auction (see above)
I will read at least one whole book (you thought this would be ‘per month’ didn’t you, but I will settle for the whole of 2011)
I will change the towels and bedclothes in my house more regularly
I may get a cleaner
I will colour my hair more often to avoid looking like a grey old hagbag as it doesn’t take that long and isn’t too annoying
I will see more of my side of the family and not just because it’s someone’s birthday
I will smile a bit more and cry and bit less
I will remember what I’ve got and how lucky I am
xxx
7 Nov 2010
I used to adore taking a bath. I loved luxuriating for ages, listening to some tunes and going through a little beauty regime that I’d honed over the years. Bliss. These days I sneak a few baths in where and when I can but it’s usually more of an in/out job than a long, pampering soak. Nine times out of ten my daughter, who is nearly four, comes in to ‘help’ me. This involves using far too much shower gel on the one part of my body nearest to her, my left boob. Not particularly relaxing.
Things have been a bit tough lately and the stress of an uncertain work situation and some personal stuff had got to me, so a good friend and I decided to spend a day and night at our local spa. She’s an old hand at it so was a good person to go with. I’ve driven past the entrance many times but never been, in fact, I’ve never done the spa thing at all so was a total pamper virgin.
Largely because I don’t make a habit of spa visits (and also because my husband offered to treat me)I thought I ought to make the most of the experience with a decent treatment. I seriously considered a luxury pedicure before concluding it was the wrong time of year given my feet will most likely be encased in boots for the next five months. No, this was about stress relief so I reckoned a massage would be the best option and had a good look at their website to see what delights I could select from. Frankly I needn’t have bothered as I didn’t understand a word. What the buggery bollocks is ‘Media Vespers’? And a ‘Mediterranean Float’ sounded more like something unpleasant you’d find on a bad summer holiday. I decided to go on price and duration. An hour’s full body massage would be mine.
We checked in to our room which was very nice and my friend located the obligatory white towelling robes. We changed into our (in my case newly purchased) swimming stuff, slipped on said robes and headed off down to the spa. With the exception of a badly timed fire drill this was the first time I have ever wandered around a hotel in a state of undress and proceeded to giggle like a school girl.
We entered the spa, complete with more fluffy white towels, and were met with a vision of ancient Rome. I wasn’t entirely sure why it had to Rome and why it had to be ruined rather than newly constructed but no matter, it was quite a sight and presumably added to the sense of luxury and escapism. The Jacuzzi, spa pool etc were fab and an excellent way to let off excess wind unnoticed, I would imagine. There were only a few other occupants, mainly women who were all older than us and therefore more lumpy and bumpy (yay!) but annoyingly also a young couple with alarming body confidence who insisted on taking hundreds of photos of each other prior to what I can only assume would be some earth-shattering hotel shagging. Bastards.
We swam a bit and steamed a bit before drying off a bit in readiness for our treatments. We entered a very dimly lit reception type area where other be-robed woman sat waiting to be summoned for pampering, various. We all looked like we were inmates of some institution and I began to wonder what they were all in for much ones does in a doctor’s surgery. Did I mention how dark it was? It really was dark. Absolutely no natural light, a pleasant enough smell and some appalling but oddly appropriate mood music which stopped short of including whale calls but only just. The staff, dressed in black uniforms so hard to see, scurried silently from room to room like Geishas. With each entrance you sat wondering who would be called next. My friend was duly chosen from the line-up for her pedicure and I sat waiting. One of the multiple tall, young, blonde girls appeared and asked for the ‘Guest of Cooley’ which I took to be me and was shown along an even darker corridor (seriously, it’s a wonder the staff don’t turn into moles) to a small room with a flat table and instructed to strip to my knickers. Having come from the spa I still had my swimming costume on so was offered some paper knickers instead. I could choose between a thong or full briefs. I chose the full briefs – the thong looked like it could have induced a pretty heavy duty paper cut.
Some strategically placed towels spared my modesty and repeating the words ‘she’s probably had her hands on far worse’ in my head, I was prodded, poked and generally pummelled. My shoulders were rubbed, my legs were rubbed, each toe and even at one stage my jowells got the full 'drift away' treatment before all too soon she announced in a floaty voice that it was the ‘end of treatment’. She handed me a ‘prescription’ which included details of all the stuff she’d used on me in an effort to extract more money from me no doubt and I checked myself in the mirror. From what I could see (still VERY dark) I resembled an eighties soap star such was the effect of chlorine swimming pool water and massage oil in my hair.
We had a lovely meal, quite a lot of wine and thoroughly nice time. I removed all available product samples from the hotel room and reacquainted myself with daylight over breakfast the next morning (still dressed in my robe – weird!) and then it was home time and back to the one-boob baths of normality.
Oh well. It was nice while it lasted...
Jec
x
Things have been a bit tough lately and the stress of an uncertain work situation and some personal stuff had got to me, so a good friend and I decided to spend a day and night at our local spa. She’s an old hand at it so was a good person to go with. I’ve driven past the entrance many times but never been, in fact, I’ve never done the spa thing at all so was a total pamper virgin.
Largely because I don’t make a habit of spa visits (and also because my husband offered to treat me)I thought I ought to make the most of the experience with a decent treatment. I seriously considered a luxury pedicure before concluding it was the wrong time of year given my feet will most likely be encased in boots for the next five months. No, this was about stress relief so I reckoned a massage would be the best option and had a good look at their website to see what delights I could select from. Frankly I needn’t have bothered as I didn’t understand a word. What the buggery bollocks is ‘Media Vespers’? And a ‘Mediterranean Float’ sounded more like something unpleasant you’d find on a bad summer holiday. I decided to go on price and duration. An hour’s full body massage would be mine.
We checked in to our room which was very nice and my friend located the obligatory white towelling robes. We changed into our (in my case newly purchased) swimming stuff, slipped on said robes and headed off down to the spa. With the exception of a badly timed fire drill this was the first time I have ever wandered around a hotel in a state of undress and proceeded to giggle like a school girl.
We entered the spa, complete with more fluffy white towels, and were met with a vision of ancient Rome. I wasn’t entirely sure why it had to Rome and why it had to be ruined rather than newly constructed but no matter, it was quite a sight and presumably added to the sense of luxury and escapism. The Jacuzzi, spa pool etc were fab and an excellent way to let off excess wind unnoticed, I would imagine. There were only a few other occupants, mainly women who were all older than us and therefore more lumpy and bumpy (yay!) but annoyingly also a young couple with alarming body confidence who insisted on taking hundreds of photos of each other prior to what I can only assume would be some earth-shattering hotel shagging. Bastards.
We swam a bit and steamed a bit before drying off a bit in readiness for our treatments. We entered a very dimly lit reception type area where other be-robed woman sat waiting to be summoned for pampering, various. We all looked like we were inmates of some institution and I began to wonder what they were all in for much ones does in a doctor’s surgery. Did I mention how dark it was? It really was dark. Absolutely no natural light, a pleasant enough smell and some appalling but oddly appropriate mood music which stopped short of including whale calls but only just. The staff, dressed in black uniforms so hard to see, scurried silently from room to room like Geishas. With each entrance you sat wondering who would be called next. My friend was duly chosen from the line-up for her pedicure and I sat waiting. One of the multiple tall, young, blonde girls appeared and asked for the ‘Guest of Cooley’ which I took to be me and was shown along an even darker corridor (seriously, it’s a wonder the staff don’t turn into moles) to a small room with a flat table and instructed to strip to my knickers. Having come from the spa I still had my swimming costume on so was offered some paper knickers instead. I could choose between a thong or full briefs. I chose the full briefs – the thong looked like it could have induced a pretty heavy duty paper cut.
Some strategically placed towels spared my modesty and repeating the words ‘she’s probably had her hands on far worse’ in my head, I was prodded, poked and generally pummelled. My shoulders were rubbed, my legs were rubbed, each toe and even at one stage my jowells got the full 'drift away' treatment before all too soon she announced in a floaty voice that it was the ‘end of treatment’. She handed me a ‘prescription’ which included details of all the stuff she’d used on me in an effort to extract more money from me no doubt and I checked myself in the mirror. From what I could see (still VERY dark) I resembled an eighties soap star such was the effect of chlorine swimming pool water and massage oil in my hair.
We had a lovely meal, quite a lot of wine and thoroughly nice time. I removed all available product samples from the hotel room and reacquainted myself with daylight over breakfast the next morning (still dressed in my robe – weird!) and then it was home time and back to the one-boob baths of normality.
Oh well. It was nice while it lasted...
Jec
x
25 Aug 2010
Proud 'mommy' moment
My daughter has been at nursery since she was about 7 months old. I’m not even sure she was crawling when she started in the ‘Baby Room’ and leaving her there for whole days was harder for me than it ever was for her. She had been passed around to all the family since birth so thankfully was never a clingy child and daily separation was a walk in the park.
In time, as other smaller babies arrived, she became one of the older children in her room and as she began to walk she was more able to show her own will and independence. If she wanted to go from where she was sitting to the other side of the room to get whatever book or toy took her fancy she was bloomin’ well going to, so there!
One evening I arrived at the nursery to collect her and got the usual update from one of the girls. She’d eaten everything ‘well’ as they put it, and produced some artistic masterpiece from paint and glitter that I would have to take home and attach to the last remaining part of the fridge to have escaped adornment with her work. But there was also something else to report. One of the smaller babies had been crying in their bouncy chair so my daughter, who was not yet 18 months old herself, had crossed the room, given the crying child a gentle bounce in its chair, kissed its forehead and popped a dummy in its mouth.
Wow. How wonderful I thought this was! My child, not much more than a baby herself, had shown a part of her personality that we’d never known was there. Yes, she’d always been expressive and kept us entertained. She never really gave us any problems, she had always slept well and managed to produce teeth without any drama, but this was the first time any sense of who she was and might turn out to be had been observable. She seemed to possess a soft, caring side which at this age I am happy enough to state had probably not been taught to her by us or could be possible to teach. Of course children learn in many ways, through play and observing the behaviour of those around them. Our household, whilst not without many flaws, is a happy one and her influences would have been solid and cheerful. But it can also be quite manic, noisy and bustling (especially at family gatherings), so calm, collected caring traits were not something I would have expected her to have seen in abundance.
Before she was born I had naively assumed that I would forever have a sense that I had ‘made’ her and therefore ‘owned’ her so to speak. I foresaw arguments between us that would feature me shouting that she must do as I said because her father and I had created her. Nonsense, of course. From the moment she arrived she was a distinctive person and almost a stranger rather than an entity crafted by me and consequently known wholly by me. I had not enjoyed the phenomenon of an instant bond with her which might have been the result of a slightly difficult labour/c-section and subsequent inability to move or do anything for her for the first few days. It might just have been down to my personality too. I will never know for sure.
As it turns out I’m not unhappy about our start in the mother and daughter relationship world as our bond has grown less out of need and more out of pleasure. I agonised at the time that I wasn’t feeling like I had been led to expect I would when she was tiny, but I don’t love her now because I feel I should, but rather because of the fabulous little person she is; her wit, her brains and of course her compassion.
As she continues to grow up (she’s three and a half now) these insights into her personality continue. She can change the words to familiar songs to be funny, she puts on accents, imitates her friends and gives them clever nick-names. She’s also incredibly crafty and turns on the charm to get something she wants, often prefacing requests with ‘You’re sooooo handsome, Daddy!” Only yesterday she adopted what in sales training would be referred to as an 'alternative close' when I refused her request for any more food.
“Mummy, you have a choice. You can choose what I have to eat, a ham sandwich or some crackers.”
Pretty smart stuff.
We’d like another child at some stage and thoughts naturally turn to what he or she would be like. As my husband put it, you assume that your child represents your ‘recipe’ for making children, but how many people do you know who produce a series of identical siblings?
Whatever the result next time I hope my daughter will show the same compassion to her brother or sister as those babies received when they cried. If she doesn’t then I fear we’ll be looking at a distinctly less convivial household in a few years time.
Jec
x
In time, as other smaller babies arrived, she became one of the older children in her room and as she began to walk she was more able to show her own will and independence. If she wanted to go from where she was sitting to the other side of the room to get whatever book or toy took her fancy she was bloomin’ well going to, so there!
One evening I arrived at the nursery to collect her and got the usual update from one of the girls. She’d eaten everything ‘well’ as they put it, and produced some artistic masterpiece from paint and glitter that I would have to take home and attach to the last remaining part of the fridge to have escaped adornment with her work. But there was also something else to report. One of the smaller babies had been crying in their bouncy chair so my daughter, who was not yet 18 months old herself, had crossed the room, given the crying child a gentle bounce in its chair, kissed its forehead and popped a dummy in its mouth.
Wow. How wonderful I thought this was! My child, not much more than a baby herself, had shown a part of her personality that we’d never known was there. Yes, she’d always been expressive and kept us entertained. She never really gave us any problems, she had always slept well and managed to produce teeth without any drama, but this was the first time any sense of who she was and might turn out to be had been observable. She seemed to possess a soft, caring side which at this age I am happy enough to state had probably not been taught to her by us or could be possible to teach. Of course children learn in many ways, through play and observing the behaviour of those around them. Our household, whilst not without many flaws, is a happy one and her influences would have been solid and cheerful. But it can also be quite manic, noisy and bustling (especially at family gatherings), so calm, collected caring traits were not something I would have expected her to have seen in abundance.
Before she was born I had naively assumed that I would forever have a sense that I had ‘made’ her and therefore ‘owned’ her so to speak. I foresaw arguments between us that would feature me shouting that she must do as I said because her father and I had created her. Nonsense, of course. From the moment she arrived she was a distinctive person and almost a stranger rather than an entity crafted by me and consequently known wholly by me. I had not enjoyed the phenomenon of an instant bond with her which might have been the result of a slightly difficult labour/c-section and subsequent inability to move or do anything for her for the first few days. It might just have been down to my personality too. I will never know for sure.
As it turns out I’m not unhappy about our start in the mother and daughter relationship world as our bond has grown less out of need and more out of pleasure. I agonised at the time that I wasn’t feeling like I had been led to expect I would when she was tiny, but I don’t love her now because I feel I should, but rather because of the fabulous little person she is; her wit, her brains and of course her compassion.
As she continues to grow up (she’s three and a half now) these insights into her personality continue. She can change the words to familiar songs to be funny, she puts on accents, imitates her friends and gives them clever nick-names. She’s also incredibly crafty and turns on the charm to get something she wants, often prefacing requests with ‘You’re sooooo handsome, Daddy!” Only yesterday she adopted what in sales training would be referred to as an 'alternative close' when I refused her request for any more food.
“Mummy, you have a choice. You can choose what I have to eat, a ham sandwich or some crackers.”
Pretty smart stuff.
We’d like another child at some stage and thoughts naturally turn to what he or she would be like. As my husband put it, you assume that your child represents your ‘recipe’ for making children, but how many people do you know who produce a series of identical siblings?
Whatever the result next time I hope my daughter will show the same compassion to her brother or sister as those babies received when they cried. If she doesn’t then I fear we’ll be looking at a distinctly less convivial household in a few years time.
Jec
x
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