Revolutionary Rue or Bipolar in the 'Burbs

At the beginning of this week I was in a dark place. From now on I shall refer to these episodes as 'Doom Days'; a time when all I feel like doing (and often do) is cry, feel hopeless, depressed and am naturally an absolute nightmare to be around. Roy can most certainly testify to this.

Yesterday morning I arose early and threw open the shutters, breathed in the early morning air, felt the warm mediterranean sunshine on my face and dramatically declared (to anyone remotely interested): "Today is the beginning of the rest of my life!"

A grumbling sound from beneath the bed covers suggested that Roy was thinking, "Oh God. Here we go again!"

So up I was, humming and singing, tidying up and getting Raffers ready for another fun-packed day with mummy(!), a veritable Mary Poppins.

When Roy finally made it downstairs, 2 perfectly boiled eggs (large, 4 mins) were waiting for him along with fresh coffee and ready made toast. "Sit down," I beamed pulling the chair aside and placing his breakfast on the spotlessly clean dining room table (unheard of in our house).

Roy eyed me suspiciously. Was there arsenic in his eggs? Spit in his tea? Is she having an affair? Unlikely in this part of the universe.

"Are you busy today?" I asked, placing a kiss on his curly mop of hair. "More coffee?"

"Hummm, ummm yes please...yes quite busy, you know the usual."

"I've made a pineapple cake. You know like the one we had in Brazil. The one you loved so much. Anyway I thought I'd make you one seeing as you go on about how great it was. Would you like a piece?"

Bringing the freshly made sponge to the breakfast table like a 1950s housewife on prozac, Roy touched my arm gently and enquired; "Is everything alright? You're acting very strangely? Yesterday you were so low I had to practically scrape you up off the floor, and today, well... you're like that women from Revolutionary Road."

Freezing in mid slice, I turned to him with cake knife poised and ready for action and asked accusingly; "Are you saying I'm f*cking bipolar or something?"

Yikes. Perhaps it's about time I got myself a hobby!

The Swizzle's Last Dance

Patrick Swayze has died after a 2 year battle with cancer, aged just 57.

I'm sure I speak for every woman out there who watched Dirty Dancing as a child or teenager and swooned over Patrick Swayze whilst copying the routine to 'I've had the time of my life'. The man was a legend. It is a very sad day indeed.

I remember going on holiday in the summer of 1989, having received a copy of DD on VHS as a birthday present from my Dad, and secretly hoping our destination would be like Kellermans with a Johnny Castle lookalike teaching the meringue. Alas it was not to be, but we enjoyed reciting quotes from the film all the way down to Somerset in the car. My Dad especially!

Let's not forget Point Break, Ghost, Priscella Queen of the Desert, Roadhouse et al.....but Dirty Dancing made him an icon of the 80's, tight vest and jazz shoes galore. What a star! RIP Swizz.

Toddler Hell

I'm living in Hell-On-Sea. Drowning in a current of screaming, demanding, head-butting and slapping. Jesus Christ, if I knew motherhood was going to be this taxing I would definitely have used protection! ;o)

Here is a typical day. Awake (9am-ish).
9.15am: SCREAM...MILK!....SCREAM....MILK!.....(slap to my leg because I didn't serve it in the right cup. Change cup)......SCREAM (I changed cups, what was I thinking?).....SCREAM.....(Put cup down on table and try to remain calm).....SCREAM...(doesn't want cup on table inside, wants cup on table outside...of course, how stupid of me not to know this!)....SCREAM...TOAST!....repeat procedure until breakfast is out of the way.

Break for 5. In the meantime I make various trips to the loo to contemplate flushing myself down it.

Repeat procedure throughout the day based around various themes, usually - food/drink; thomas the tank engine; getting dressed; bob the builder; dummy; getting in the car; going for a walk; changing nappies.....the list goes on.

Today I will be mostly practicising deep breathing techniques which I've found on an anger management website, crying into numerous cups of coffee, torturing myself with guilt everytime he does something sweet, and fantastising about having a job and watching English telly.