I am, or rather used to be, quite musical. Over the years I have played piano, cello and flute. The Husband once played the oboe. So I've always liked to think that our kids would be musical too. But, as you know, any thoughts I have usually turn out to be a load of old bollocks.
The Tomboy has expressed an interest in learning an instrument and because the last thing we want in this house is a piano, we've opted to let her have guitar lessons A) because a guitar is quite small and can live week in/week out in the back of the car B) it's not very loud and C) all guitar lessons are done at school.
I've also been thinking that if she grows up to be a singer/songwriter a la Taylor Swift, then I can manage her and be quids in. Hell, I don't even mind a bit of rehab if it means that I can retire happily off my daughter's income.
It's been going well. Or so I thought. This evening, our virtuoso daughter decided to treat me to a concert. She has been desperate to show me her playing skills by performing Happy Birthday and Jingle Bells.
This is how it went, a Symphony of five parts:
1. OVERTURE: The Tomboy spends 15 minutes finding the perfect place to sit. (Adagissimo: very, very slow)
2. FIRST MOVEMENT: She refuses to let me tune her (out of tune) guitar. (Bellicoso: aggressive, warlike)
3. SECOND MOVEMENT: There is a scuffle and slight bickering until she is happy with where I am holding up the music. (Affannato: anguished)
4. THIRD MOVEMENT: She plays at a tempo of one (wrong) note every 2.5 minutes. (Gemendo: groaningly)
5. FINALE: I start rocking in the corner and banging the wall. (Col pugno: with the fist)
Thank Mozart there is no ENCORE.
The Husband, is the meantime, is walking around very Vittorioso (victorious) because he's not been invited to the recital. He is con abbandono (free, relaxed).
Beethoven had obviously just heard his kid play the recorder when he said "Music should strike fire from the heart of man and bring tears from the eyes of woman".
Simon Cowell can stick his future record deal where the sun don't shine, for all I care. Because if music be the food of love, I'm happy to starve.
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Monday, 7 November 2011
SUPERMUMMY - MY ARSE
It dawned on me this morning that there isn't, in fact, such a thing as a Supermummy. We, as mothers, think they exist but actually it's a load of bollocks. I think now I've discovered this, it's going to change motherhood around the world. Or maybe not.
We have recently bought a Land Rover Discovery. Actually I say "We" but it was The Husband because let's face it I've got naff all money and I'm an expert at stealing from him. This purchase came about for two reasons:
1) We need the space.
The kids/dog/adults/baggage/snacks/crap/buggy in one vehicle has meant that every car journey has ended in tears/shouting/a slap/me storming out at traffic lights. The only way this family could go forward in a happy manner was to purchase a car that would hold us all for at least five minutes without it kicking off.
2) I had bashed the old car on one too many occasions.
These occasions included slamming wing mirror against various objects, scraping front/back panels about 3287 times and reversing into posts, walls and lampposts. Plus the inside was a toxic waste dump of old sweets, fruits shoots, dog dirt and cake. Basically The Husband could not ever never pick up one of his VIP clients to take them for a power lunch.
So I'm driving around in this car which is like the Holy Fecking Grail of any mother. I've been coverting one for years and I know plenty of mums that aspire to have one too.
But here's the rub - I'm still me.
I'm driving through the village this morning with swanky wanky car, my Ugg boots, my Louis Vuitton bag - looking the part I guess, of that Supermummy we've all green-eyed at - but I feel like a dick. A absolute prize cock. It just isn't me.
Sure I'm grateful that I've got these nice things but I've realised that they are not important - they will not magically turn me into a Supermummy. Because I still have to deal with all the shit of picking up the mess, cooking dinner for kids that moan, digging the whole toilet roll out of the loo, cleaning up spilt juice and wiping bums. And that Supermummy we see around town has to do the same entire thing as well. Looking the part is nothing. It doesn't mean that you will suddenly enjoy being a mum and bake cupcakes and go to the gym. It just means that for maybe a tiny moment, even if it's two seconds a week, you will think you are a Supermummy and for that two seconds I suggest milking it. After all, there'll be a random mum looking at you, wanting to be you and, well, you don't want to disappoint them, do you?
We have recently bought a Land Rover Discovery. Actually I say "We" but it was The Husband because let's face it I've got naff all money and I'm an expert at stealing from him. This purchase came about for two reasons:
1) We need the space.
The kids/dog/adults/baggage/snacks/crap/buggy in one vehicle has meant that every car journey has ended in tears/shouting/a slap/me storming out at traffic lights. The only way this family could go forward in a happy manner was to purchase a car that would hold us all for at least five minutes without it kicking off.
2) I had bashed the old car on one too many occasions.
These occasions included slamming wing mirror against various objects, scraping front/back panels about 3287 times and reversing into posts, walls and lampposts. Plus the inside was a toxic waste dump of old sweets, fruits shoots, dog dirt and cake. Basically The Husband could not ever never pick up one of his VIP clients to take them for a power lunch.
So I'm driving around in this car which is like the Holy Fecking Grail of any mother. I've been coverting one for years and I know plenty of mums that aspire to have one too.
But here's the rub - I'm still me.
I'm driving through the village this morning with swanky wanky car, my Ugg boots, my Louis Vuitton bag - looking the part I guess, of that Supermummy we've all green-eyed at - but I feel like a dick. A absolute prize cock. It just isn't me.
Sure I'm grateful that I've got these nice things but I've realised that they are not important - they will not magically turn me into a Supermummy. Because I still have to deal with all the shit of picking up the mess, cooking dinner for kids that moan, digging the whole toilet roll out of the loo, cleaning up spilt juice and wiping bums. And that Supermummy we see around town has to do the same entire thing as well. Looking the part is nothing. It doesn't mean that you will suddenly enjoy being a mum and bake cupcakes and go to the gym. It just means that for maybe a tiny moment, even if it's two seconds a week, you will think you are a Supermummy and for that two seconds I suggest milking it. After all, there'll be a random mum looking at you, wanting to be you and, well, you don't want to disappoint them, do you?