This will make you cry

Guaranteed. And if it doesn't, you're a heartless wretch.

I wish it was by me but it isn't, it's by Darrah Parker.


Do you know how beautiful you are?

Standing there.
Sitting there.
Waiting there.
Breathing there.

Do you know how beautiful you are?

Pumping gas.
Feeding your children.
Sitting in your cubicle.
Loading the dishwasher.
Running on the treadmill.
Standing in line at the grocery store.

Do you know how beautiful you are?

Wearing sweat pants.
No make-up.
Jeans two sizes too small (or too big).
Spanx hidden beneath your clingy dress.
Pajamas (because you are just running an errand and who will see you?)

Do you know how beautiful you are?

With laugh lines that are forming around your mouth.
Gray hairs sprinkled around your temples.
Ten (or 20 or 50) pounds you’ve been wanting to lose.
Hair growing too much in some places and not enough in others.
Sags and bags and lines and creases.
Pimples and dimples and ripples and rolls.

Do you know how beautiful you are?

As the weight of the unknown rests between your ears.
What should I cook for dinner?
Will I make it to my appointment on time?
How will I pay the phone bill this month?
Will I ever have time for me?
What would happen if I lost my job?
What would happen if I quit my job?
When will I be happy?
How will I be happy?
What will make me happy?

Do you know how beautiful you are?

With all of your hopes.
Joy.
Anxiety.
Laughter.
Tears.
Dreams.
Fears.

Do you know how beautiful you are?

When across the room.
Behind you in line.
Next to you on the elevator.
Is a woman who sees you.
Because she is you.
She sees you and catches her breath
Because she sees who you are
beneath
all
of
it.

She is wondering if you know how beautiful you are
And is wishing she had her camera with her so that she could show you.

Toads

So I started out all enthusiastic with this blog thing, I was happy I was writing again, happy I was doing something creative, but as with so many things, it started off with a bang and sidled off with a whimper. The problem was, the doubt crept in. Why would anyone be interested? That's the thing with your inner critic isn't it? So instead of listening to that old toad, I'll just do it anyway.

Speaking of old toads, I recently cast off the Philip Larkin one. The toad that sits on your shoulder. Work. Not work in general, that would be stupid. But my "proper" job. I was getting so far away from what I was actually good at that I was waving at it as I struggled to keep my head above the water. And I was definitely drowning, not waving for fun.

So I've embarked on the freelance thing again. Confidence wavers from time to time - who the hell leaves their job in the middle of a recession? - but I know that I'm happier. And saner. And healthier for it. And, consequently, so are my kids and boyf. They'll be getting coal and satsumas for Christmas, but they don't mind as long as mummy's not a stressed-out old bag anymore! Eh kids, are you with me? Kids?

Cat ballet from The Luxury Cat

I. Am. So. Gorgeous. Don't you wish your cat was gorgeous like me?

A toast for England

No it's not a call for some patriotic glass-raising. It's the first in an occasional series that I am calling "Funny shaped food".

No. 1 - Premonition or freak of toasting? 

Is my breakfast trying to tell me something about Scotland's bid for independence?

The Passion Flower and the Bee

This little guy filled his pollen-laden boots on the passiflora which climbs the walls of my house. He could barely fly off.

Conception

Picture the scene. It’s February 1998. The nation is still recovering slowly from the shock of the aftermath of the shock of the death of Princess Di. The Spice Girls are at the top of their game (four of them anyway). All Saints are not quite as good but trying their best. Sex and the City is making fans of flat shoes, a pint of cider and an early night everywhere feel inadequate. By the end of the year, an animated chef singing about his “Chocolate salty balls” will be riding high, hitting the top spot in the charts. The must-have item is a Furby.

A reasonably fresh-faced (though slightly hungover) 25-year-old young woman is ascending the steps of Bank station in London, England. She stops suddenly; her companion, confused, asks her what’s wrong.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh my God I’ve just conceived!” shrieks the young woman.

No it’s not the sordid climax to a misjudged night on the tiles that she will come to regret. Her companion is not an unnamed young buck high on snakebite and opportunity. It’s daylight, she’s just come out of a client meeting, her companion is a female workmate (who will become a dear friend), and the conception is the belated colliding of a sperm and an egg, the result of a spontaneous coupling with her boyfriend a couple of nights ago in which the recall of basic sex education and how to avoid getting pregnant fell by the wayside.

Fast forward five and a half years (it took that long to get over the first birth), and the same thing has happened again. You’d think at 31 she’d have got the hang of contraception. But the Pill made her moody and a bitch to live with, the wellies had run out and the Catholic method seemed the only option...

If you haven’t guessed already, that young woman was me. This is the story of my life with two young animals boys (well one is now a teenager and the other is 8 going on 45), their father and my life partner of choice (LPOC), and our two cats. My life partner of choice hates those cats, but I don’t, so they’re staying. The kids can stay too.