I feel like shit today. I’ve tried to shake it off but to no avail. One of those days.

I had to phone the piano teacher and tell her Tessa no longer wanted to have lessons. She’s 78. She’s been teaching her for the past 6 years. It was hideous. She was obviously upset and disappointed. Me, babbling on like a duck. Trying to make it sound better than it was.

I cried at that.

Not on the phone thankfully, but when I came off.

My cold-hearted daughter’s response was, “well I’m sorry, but I’m going to leave her some time, so it might as well be now…”
Oh, to be 12 and tough.

My hair looks like an upside-down mop. Well, a cross between a mop and the nurse from ‘Meet the Midwife’ and I’m not talking about the sexy blonde one. In case you’ve never seen it, the nurse in question is the one whose hair is a cross between mine, and an upside-down mop.

I’m not going to read this blog back as I normally do. I usually write, read and then think God no… I can’t write that, and change a load of things. But what I write today stays.

Rebellious at last. It’s only taken 46 years.

I’ve read about three different blogs today to try and inspire myself. Cheer myself up.

My favourite was one written by a mum, entitled ’46 things they never tell you about raising a teenage boy’.  I sat there and blubbed. Wallowing in self-pity. Wishing my own teenage boy wasn’t at correspondence school for the day. That he was here with me, wiping my tears, promising me that he’ll never turn into a man and leave me.

He returns at 4 o’clock. I shout at him for heading straight to the computer. He says’ I’ve only just walked in the door and you’re getting at me’.

I cry again.

It’s been a crap day.

The elastic has gone in my knickers. They’re only staying up because my jeans are too tight. Frayed bits of grey, worm-like elastic holding onto my baggy knickers.

I feel like an old mop head with falling down knickers. My kids think I’m on my way to the insane asylum. They’ve both retreated to the safety of their rooms. I can hear Tess, skyping her friends. Using an over the top American accent, even though she’s English living in New Zealand.

I am grateful that I don’t have any taxi-ing around to do tonight, and for this reason, I purposely don’t bother wiping the black smudges from under my eyes.

When you are wallowing as I am, it helps to walk past the mirror and see a tear-stained face. This means you can wallow some more. I choose to stare into the glass and cry at my reflection.

I now feel as though a friend has joined me, and together we’re bonding over blub and snot.

Breathe .


I’m done.

This blog has made me smile.

I’ve managed to cheer myself up. Laughing at my own jokes is one of my unfortunate characteristics and one that drives my kids insane.

I am going to wipe this mascara from under my eyes.

Put my jarmies on.

Brush my hair.

And burn these horrific knickers.

There . All better.



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