Our discussion had already been heated as we thrashed out our differences.

He doesn’t think it’s right for me to spend ‘hours’ on the pc when I could be ironing, washing, cleaning, scrubbing and doing the trillion other chores that exists in any Stay At Home Mum’s life.

I, on the other hand only go on the PC when the girls are sleeping and use it as very precious Me Time. (At about 16.30 I suddenly realise I’ve been on here far too long and go into stupid mode completing an afternoon’s work in record time!)

My blog has become more and more important to me as each post is submitted and comments start to dribble through and after 6 weeks just when I’m starting to get the hang of it, THIS.

He doesn’t read or write classing it as a chore rather than a favourable pastime. He cannot see the pleasure one gets from slowly coming to grips with something new, making it work for you and seeing your own improvement as the days pass. A practical man who believes that dreams should remain belongings of the night.

When he asked me the question above, I took a sharp intake of breath as it registered on my brain (What did he just ask me?) and in a nano second my blood raised to 100 degree celsius and exploded against my skull, my heart was almost crashing out of my rib cage and it scared me…

Where had all this anger come from? We were merely discussing my new blog.

My hands were shaking at the end of my arms and my whole body was trembling, taken over by the most massive wrath ever. I was impressed! I didn’t know I could get this angry and I certainly didn’t realise how much this new project actually meant to me.

I think I scared him too. I saw a flicker in his eyes, the flash of concern fleet across his brow and the quick calculation in his brain ‘Uh-oh, I shouldn’t have said that!’

NO you shouldn’t have bloody said that.

Then unable to stop this incredible rage in its tracks I did my usual; I shouted hurtful, horrible words I could think of.

Why didn’t I reply…

‘Well actually, seeing as we’ve both decided that I should stay at home with the girls whilst they are small and concentrate on bringing them up properly, I thought I’d try to have a go at writing. My dream for a long time has been to write a book and in order to do that successfully I need to practice my writing. A blog is the perfect place to do so. Who knows? I may be able to make some money along the way too?

Oh no, not me. I crashed around our front room like a bull in a confined pen anxious for release.

I said all those awful things to my soul mate, to the man I love most in this world. The man who holds me tenderly all night long. The most honest and kind man I have ever met. The man who has been there every step of the way holding my hand through our heart breaks and kissing the world back to better when I thought it could no longer be a place for me to live.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I want to continue with my blog as I’m discovering so much about myself. I will not deprive the girls of fun time and I would never see them come to any harm.

They are our life and you are mine.

This post has been written for Josie’s 15th Writing workshop I chose prompt 4 – Recount a time when you erupted.

 

 

tea india

I have found throughout my life so far that there is nothing like a cup of tea to start sorting out even the most knotted situations.

Frequently on soaps, films and in books, when the going gets tough and the need to get to the bottom of a problem arises, on goes the kettle and the comforting sounds of cups, teaspoons and the tea caddy start to resonate around the kitchen. Allowing the tea maker valuable seconds to think clearly.

Let’s face it, a cup of tea has magical qualities that a continental espresso just cannot compete with. Our brothers and sisters over the other side of the Channel may find it ‘quaint’ our love of tea, they find it amusing our five o’ clock ritual (which they still seem to think exists) and they laugh at us behind our backs for being so different.

They try to copy us and attempt at going one better by using fruit teas, green teas and tea with lemon even but they just don’t get it. Milk? They ask with an upturned nose and an expression telling us we must be insane.

Brits don’t stick to the five o’clock tradition, we haven’t for years. We drink copious amounts of tea starting from wake up right through to the 10 o’clock news.

Each mug patiently waiting with a dash of milk and a teabag for the kettle to boil. Long gone are the days of a delicate china tea-cup – we have evolved to enormous mugs so as to draw out the experience even longer.

When Cheryl found out about Ashley playing away again, I bet her mum put the kettle on.

When Sarah Brown saw in the press her husband being accused of bullying, I bet she put the kettle on.

When Kate Moss heard the devastating news that Alexander McQueen had taken his life, I bet she put the kettle on.

You see every blow we take in life is accompanied by this ritual which doesn’t solve the problem, or take away the pain but it gets people sitting down and comforting each other, it starts you thinking about your next step and which is the best way forward and slowly slowly by the time you reach the end of your mug a plan has started to form and once again you feel a tiny bit better, a tiny bit stronger and a smile albeit weak is hiding in the creases of your mouth.

This post was inspired by Maternal Tales from the South Coast as her first paragraph made me want to make her a cuppa…do check out her video it’s amazing.

I have been reading with sad interest the recent news surrounding John Terry and Wayne Bridge and I was sorry yesterday to see Wayne take the decision to step down from playing for England in the World Cup compromising his own football career.

I hope with two months ahead he may overcome this and change his mind but I do understand his confusion and possibly dislike of being close to a man, once called a friend, who betrayed him on such a deep level.

We’ve been talking about friends on the blogosphere recently and how some come into your life share wonderful experiences with you and then vanish never to be seen again and others stay around for the whole long haul. Each one of these encounters, we imagined, were to enrich our lives and show us new angles from which to analyse yourself.

Trust, I believe, is fundamental in any relationship and when that trust is broken it is incredibly hard to patch up and move on. It can be done but requires enormous amounts of input from both parties.

So why is it that all of us at some point have been betrayed by a person we called a friend? What is the lesson to be learnt here?

Do as you would be done by.

A powerful statement that I try to live by. I don’t want any of my friends having a fling with my man so I don’t flirt with their men, not even for a joke but freshly arrived in Italy at the tender age of 19 and madly in love with my very own Italian I was horrified to see how girls would hang around him very obviously looking for his attention fully aware that he was ‘in a relationship’. This didn’t seem to bother them in the slightest and yet there was such a strong enforced rule I had learnt growing up here in the UK.

If he’s ‘spoken for’ you don’t mess.

So why didn’t the Rule count out there? I came across this time and time again  it caused endless arguments until eventually it wore me out and I surrendered.

Vanessa Perroncel is French, I believe she grew up there and came here to work a few years back. So is it a continental thing? Or does it also exist here in the UK and yet I, thankfully haven’t bumped into it yet?

What makes a woman go with a man when she knows he is a husband and father, when she realises that her actions will have dire consequences on an entire family? Greed? Ignorance? Lust?

When I was 18 I worked in a famous restaurant in Mayfair London as a receptionist. On handing in my notice my manager suggested we had a leaving party, me and him, he would book a room at the Ritz Hotel and we could spend an afternoon together.

A mind-boggling suggestion let there be no doubts at what he was hoping for, but I knew he had a wife and two little boys and coming from a broken family myself I couldn’t do it. I declined.

If you were the other woman do you think you would be able to stop yourself and turn away before it was too late?

Yes, maybe this is the way forward in today’s slack property market.

Mum sent me an article from the Daily Telegraph on Sarah Beeny’s website Tepilo.com and as I normally do I shoved it on my To Do pile and promptly forgot about it but with nothing happening for the sale of our house (currently on the market with TWO agents) I decided to investigate Sarah’s option and after weighing up the ins and outs, I realised I had nothing to lose.

Tepilo.com is free to use, you upload your photos and descriptions make sure you have a valid HIP – we have – and voila’ all done. So I have now uploaded our details and will wait to see if anything comes of it.

You see I find it impossible to do nothing and wait for a buyer to turn up. I always feel that I have to try to do everything in my power to make it work. I have also got into the habit of consulting Mystic Meg to see if she foresees I’ll be moving in the near future! So far she hasn’t said so…but once those planets shift around a bit well then the ‘Time will be right’

Do you think it’s a case of ‘Che sara sara’ or would you also be proactive?

stirling cooper blouse

Have a look at this blouse will you?

I found it in my wardrobe and I thought to myself …with all the flowery stuff around at the moment and bright colours it could be useful again…I’m following on from my Wreck post if you hadn’t noticed.

Well I thought back to where and when I had bought it and started to tot up the years…

This blouse is older than my first son Tommy who will be 22 at the end of March!

How is that for hoarding stuff?

I want you to keep in mind that I bought it in London in approx 1985, when I had finished college, was working in London and living there too. Please also take into account I moved to Italy in 1986 and lived there on and off till 2003. In that period I probably moved home more than 10 times. (I’ve moved three times since I’ve been with Paul and that’s only 5 years!)

This Stirling Cooper blouse (it says on the label) is made out of a very light chiffon kind of material, in fact there are places on the back seam that runs from one shoulder to the other where the stitching is starting to fray and it still hasn’t been put into a charity bag. The print is a kind of Andy Warhol with Marilyn and James Dean clear to see.

I could probably count on one hand the amount of times I have worn it and yet it has survived, umpteen house moves, 4 children, 2 dogs, 4 cats, 2 men’s opinions (maybe more but I’d have to think carefully) and some raucous night’s out.

Wow! I am impressed and if anyone can give me a tip on how to repair the fraying chiffon seam at the back I’d be very grateful and maybe give the shirt an airing in the near future.

If you dug deep into your wardrobe, could you come up with some vintage?