I like to think I take critisism well.
That is, constructive critisism. I don't take rejection badly either; it comes from my being a little conceited...I've learned to discount comments I can live without and continue in a confident manner, the task in hand.
What frustrates me is when I cannot change something, case in question:my natural speaking voice**.
When I was younger, the hardened, "cool" teenagers that I most wanted to impress spoke a certain way, so I followed suit...I went from being "the posh kid with the expensive clothes" to "the kid with the expensive clothes" with just a week's worth of mimicing the accents of nearby Basildon* girls.
Let's face it though, no one fakes anything forever and as I grew up, slowly, back came the plum in my mouth. Not something I have ever since considered a problem. Until Now.
Voice over artists each have their own sounds/mannerisms/accents. I have long been a believer that the Queen's English is not the only voice we should hear on our television sets and radios, favouring a more "relevent" sound for the listener so that they feel they are being spoken to instead of being spoken at.
As with most things, though, political correctness has gone mad. I dread the highlights of the football, because I have no way of knowing what is being said, such is the broadness of the Scottish accent being used by a man whom I can only guess is very knowledgable...I'd truly like to know what he has said!
The only way to get a record deal this year is to have a distinctively "Northern" accent...Leeds, Manchester, Liverpool...if you hail from any of these, and aren't ashamed to sing exactly as you speak, feel free to chuck a demo on the table. (Not a problem with me, I loved the Proclaimers myself...no, really, I did)
So as not to exclude any major denomination of accent; onto the Welsh: the Welsh accent no longer gives people the impression that your life's ambition is to farm sheep for many long hours, deep in the valleys. A colloquial Welsh accent is much sought after in British Television these days. It's quirky. Apparently.
I have nothing against the Welsh. "Himself" (my man) is in fact a fine specimen of a sexy Taff, and Steve Jones, presenter of T4 and Transmission is another very good reason to visit "the West" in vain hope that you might glimpse his manly Welsh self.
Surely with all this diversity, however, there is room in the voice over world for a well spoken Essex girl without a hint of the cockney wannabe about her! I take exception to being told that I might do better to "east end" my accent up a little...the cheek!
Anyway, must dash, toodle pip..over and out daaarlings. Hmmmn.
*for those that dont' know, Basildon being the sort of place that you get beaten up for being "posh"/educated/well spoken***.
**Oddly, however, if I try to sing "Diamonds are a girls best friend", I turn into a very nasal cabaret singer from Hackney ... all that is required is a clapped out old piano and Ethel from Eastenders and we could 'ave a right ole knees up.
*** or pretty/ clever/ not in a velour tracksuit.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
All is Well on the Western Front
I just returned from picking my big brother up from Heathrow airport which [still] has inadequate parking, too few arrivals screens and a heady aroma - a mixture of coffee and carpet cleaner (which gave me a headache a record 5 minutes into my hour long wait for Big Bro to get through the custom controls).
I collected him and couldn't take my eyes off him - that's what it's like whe you live thousands of miles from your kin - you soak in every detail when you see them as though it were your last (or first - whatever). He looks really good. No older than last time I saw him; more tanned; plenty relaxed (turns out that was the bourbon on the plane to be honest) and totally wired to be in the UK. It made me wonder, I've gotta tell you, what the hell he thought when he saw his little sister grinning like a mental patient at the arrivals gate...baby on hip, "handbag"* spilling out all over the shiny white floor, hollow eyes from too little sleep and hair two days past it's "wash-by date"; vying for a place near the railing to shout "babe, babe over here babe!"...
How is living in the UK taking it's toll on me so hard that he looks younger than me I ask you?! (he's got seven years on me!).
Last year I was in September drizzle in Perth, WA. Even in the rain, the streets were paved with possibilities. Cut to September, England this year, the rain lifts the stink from the filthy pavements to my nostrils whilst my [curly] hair goes frizzy before I have even unlocked the car.
My aussie work visa can't come soon enough.
* who am I kidding? Handbag? It was a baby sling crammed with nappies, wipes, wallet, keys and enough toys to keep Hamleys in stock for a week (all of this for the walk fron the car to Arrivals).
I collected him and couldn't take my eyes off him - that's what it's like whe you live thousands of miles from your kin - you soak in every detail when you see them as though it were your last (or first - whatever). He looks really good. No older than last time I saw him; more tanned; plenty relaxed (turns out that was the bourbon on the plane to be honest) and totally wired to be in the UK. It made me wonder, I've gotta tell you, what the hell he thought when he saw his little sister grinning like a mental patient at the arrivals gate...baby on hip, "handbag"* spilling out all over the shiny white floor, hollow eyes from too little sleep and hair two days past it's "wash-by date"; vying for a place near the railing to shout "babe, babe over here babe!"...
How is living in the UK taking it's toll on me so hard that he looks younger than me I ask you?! (he's got seven years on me!).
Last year I was in September drizzle in Perth, WA. Even in the rain, the streets were paved with possibilities. Cut to September, England this year, the rain lifts the stink from the filthy pavements to my nostrils whilst my [curly] hair goes frizzy before I have even unlocked the car.
My aussie work visa can't come soon enough.
* who am I kidding? Handbag? It was a baby sling crammed with nappies, wipes, wallet, keys and enough toys to keep Hamleys in stock for a week (all of this for the walk fron the car to Arrivals).
Friday, September 08, 2006
Sorry Folks
Yesterday was a bad day. A really really bad day. There was red mist (mine); bedroom wrecking and bedtime tantrums (the children's) and pulling hair out (C's Junior School Teacher and probably my parents respectively)...I reverted yesterday to behaviour reminiscent of a strange era of my teenage life, where EVERYTHING was wrong and NONE of it was my fault.
I cried and berated, shouted and flounced around and then stayed up too late. I scowled and was pedantic, sarcastic and utterly horrid. I was, in short a 14 year old version of myself; which, even in the rear view mirror of life, was not a pretty sight the first time around.
To anyone I spoke to yesterday: I apologize.*
*apart from the prick from the bank who saw fit to telephone after 8.30pm at night - more fool you, you won't call here again in a hurry now will you?!
I cried and berated, shouted and flounced around and then stayed up too late. I scowled and was pedantic, sarcastic and utterly horrid. I was, in short a 14 year old version of myself; which, even in the rear view mirror of life, was not a pretty sight the first time around.
To anyone I spoke to yesterday: I apologize.*
*apart from the prick from the bank who saw fit to telephone after 8.30pm at night - more fool you, you won't call here again in a hurry now will you?!
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Film Industry Widow
I wasn't the first woman to be left to raise children whilst their father was away for months at a time working on film sets hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles away; far from it, I was one i a long line. My mother was the first "industry widow" I knew, which I guess makes me the first industry "orphan"* I knew.
When my mother and father were married in a registry office, one morning in the rock and roll days of the seventies, with me present in an illegitimate love child/flower girl type role; Daddy signed where the Xs were, gave my mother (I like to think) a heartfelt kiss and flew off to film some highly important event or another . It was just how it was. My mother never felt the need to complain.
My father eventually made the ultimate career sacrifice for his family. He turned his back on film and signed a contract to work on a local television show. Now he was home every night (albeit after my baby sister and I were in bed some nights) and we had a normal family life...or so I thought.
Turns out that growing up in the shadow of the television OR film industry makes you different from other kids. For starters, television doesn't move you quite so much when you have been on set watching it being shot. the magic is not lost, but for me, it is a different kind of magic.
Since I can remember, I have been called on to have an opinion on the lighting/direction of any given shot on any given programme or film that my father happens to be charitably and cheerfully pulling apart. I have dissected, analysed, berated and applauded duly, since I could talk.
When, as a chld, I cried because my favourite horse, Black Beauty, was hurt, Daddy gallantly dried my tears and explained that they had used a product called "Technicolor R" to imitate the effect of blood and that Black Beauty herself was not a single horse, but a selection of Reg Dent trained Stallions, merely "acting" whilst Daddy filmed. Junior Me was now calmer but cynical.
Grotbags always scared me however. Still does. To this day, I cannot stand to be around fat, green people.
I didn't plan to work in the same industry as my father, it just happened that way, because I guess you gravitate towards what you know.
I didn't plan to have children with a man in the Film Industry either. In fact when I met the father of my eldest two children, he worked laying tarmac; I wouldn't have been interested if he was just another Cameraman or Director...I liked how far removed from my world he was.
With a little help from the well documented nepotism of the industry, he too forged a (now very successful) career as a Key Grip. fair play to the fellow (who is now my ex)...the business is not a kind one and the path not an easy one.
There was a week many years ago when we lived entirely on the various flavours of Farley's Rusks, havng no money for anything but the bulk baby supplies bought at the beginning of the month; all because a film hadn't started when it was scheduled to, and we were too young to care to budget for such eventualities. There were other times when a film job wasn't even on the horizon and he modestly went out to earn money on the bins. he worked hard for his career, no doubt about it; what most people don't realise is just how hard most freelancers work in this fickle world of motion picture, and how very few survive more than a couple of years without the support of others around them.
So...I kept the world turning back at home whilst he went off a made movies; explaining to the children "don't worry darling, she's not really hurt...it's just Technicolor R".
*if you bend the definition oh so slightly (!)
When my mother and father were married in a registry office, one morning in the rock and roll days of the seventies, with me present in an illegitimate love child/flower girl type role; Daddy signed where the Xs were, gave my mother (I like to think) a heartfelt kiss and flew off to film some highly important event or another . It was just how it was. My mother never felt the need to complain.
My father eventually made the ultimate career sacrifice for his family. He turned his back on film and signed a contract to work on a local television show. Now he was home every night (albeit after my baby sister and I were in bed some nights) and we had a normal family life...or so I thought.
Turns out that growing up in the shadow of the television OR film industry makes you different from other kids. For starters, television doesn't move you quite so much when you have been on set watching it being shot. the magic is not lost, but for me, it is a different kind of magic.
Since I can remember, I have been called on to have an opinion on the lighting/direction of any given shot on any given programme or film that my father happens to be charitably and cheerfully pulling apart. I have dissected, analysed, berated and applauded duly, since I could talk.
When, as a chld, I cried because my favourite horse, Black Beauty, was hurt, Daddy gallantly dried my tears and explained that they had used a product called "Technicolor R" to imitate the effect of blood and that Black Beauty herself was not a single horse, but a selection of Reg Dent trained Stallions, merely "acting" whilst Daddy filmed. Junior Me was now calmer but cynical.
Grotbags always scared me however. Still does. To this day, I cannot stand to be around fat, green people.
I didn't plan to work in the same industry as my father, it just happened that way, because I guess you gravitate towards what you know.
I didn't plan to have children with a man in the Film Industry either. In fact when I met the father of my eldest two children, he worked laying tarmac; I wouldn't have been interested if he was just another Cameraman or Director...I liked how far removed from my world he was.
With a little help from the well documented nepotism of the industry, he too forged a (now very successful) career as a Key Grip. fair play to the fellow (who is now my ex)...the business is not a kind one and the path not an easy one.
There was a week many years ago when we lived entirely on the various flavours of Farley's Rusks, havng no money for anything but the bulk baby supplies bought at the beginning of the month; all because a film hadn't started when it was scheduled to, and we were too young to care to budget for such eventualities. There were other times when a film job wasn't even on the horizon and he modestly went out to earn money on the bins. he worked hard for his career, no doubt about it; what most people don't realise is just how hard most freelancers work in this fickle world of motion picture, and how very few survive more than a couple of years without the support of others around them.
So...I kept the world turning back at home whilst he went off a made movies; explaining to the children "don't worry darling, she's not really hurt...it's just Technicolor R".
*if you bend the definition oh so slightly (!)
Friday, July 28, 2006
Why?
I have a friend who works in Security. He's an undercover security manager or something like that. I had to tell someone what he had to spend time doing today, as to keep it to myself seemed selfish; so here I am typing it for all to see.
Today my friend was searching through in store CCTV footage for images of a middle aged woman taking a poo on a shop floor.
No I am not joking.
It begs the question WHY?
1/ Why was she relieving herself in the store?
2/ Why did the store want to find the footage of the event?
There's more.
Around three o clock he sent a text to say that he had found the footage that he had been required to find. He gave me the following details:
She walked into store and stood (not squatted - apparently this was relevent) and pooed.
She was wearing a skirt with no underwear...(well, that's the HOW? question out of the way then)
She then went to a counter in the shop and asked if they sold tissues. She bought tissues, went outside of the shop and in plain view of any passers by, relieved herself again, this time hitching up her skirt and wiping, then throwing the tissue on the floor.
She re-entered the store and continued with her shopping.
Just had to share that. I have no further information about her state of mind, clothing or whether any charges have been made. so I guess like me, you will be left wondering. WHY?
Today my friend was searching through in store CCTV footage for images of a middle aged woman taking a poo on a shop floor.
No I am not joking.
It begs the question WHY?
1/ Why was she relieving herself in the store?
2/ Why did the store want to find the footage of the event?
There's more.
Around three o clock he sent a text to say that he had found the footage that he had been required to find. He gave me the following details:
She walked into store and stood (not squatted - apparently this was relevent) and pooed.
She was wearing a skirt with no underwear...(well, that's the HOW? question out of the way then)
She then went to a counter in the shop and asked if they sold tissues. She bought tissues, went outside of the shop and in plain view of any passers by, relieved herself again, this time hitching up her skirt and wiping, then throwing the tissue on the floor.
She re-entered the store and continued with her shopping.
Just had to share that. I have no further information about her state of mind, clothing or whether any charges have been made. so I guess like me, you will be left wondering. WHY?
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Stay at Home Mum
So, a little background.
I have four children. The youngest (J) is four months and the eldest (C) is seven years; inbetween are L and L Junior who are six years and three years respectively. Himself goes off to work at around 5 am and returns around 7.30pm to keep us in the comfortable lifestyle we have become accustomed to and he works his balls off, let me tell you.
My role is the varied one of housekeeper (not so strong at this to be fair); entertainer; taxi driver; stylist; hairdresser; laundery lady; ironer; bill payer; wound/ills healer; entrepeneur (running an e-commerce company - more on this at a later date); impromptu Thesaurus / Dictionary; music teacher; peace keeper; television programme censor; world affairs educator and chef/nutritionist i.e. I'm a mum who is lucky enough to work from home.
What I have failed to mention is that we are also eighteen months into the Emigrating process (to Australia); this means that my further duties include being the family solicitor and immigration/relocation agent which involves staying up to date with the DIMIA rule changes, requirements and Visa charges amongst other things.
I am not complaining.
Far from it - I consider myself very fortunate to live as I do and I acknowledge that there are numerous perks to my position for example:
...so...only one real drawback (not including that fact that some days it would be nice to have to put on full make up and a suit without fear of being sicked on if I did!). Other people. More specifically other childless people who seem to think I have opted out by being at the beck and call of my offspring 24 hours a day. Yeah...it's a real easy option. NOT.
I have had total strangers look at me pityingly and ask when I plan to go "back" to work. I have lost count of the times that I have said "well, actually I work from home" - seriously, why the fuck should I explain myself? I'm not a "stick em infront of the TV whilst I drink incessant cups of coffee" type of mum, I work damn hard from Morning to night, making my babies' lives lively, educational and fun and for now whilst baby is still breastfeeding, I work right through the night too. It astounds me that because my primary career doesn't command a wage, it is judged so poorly.
At the risk of this becoming a full on rant, I must say that the assumptions made by other people is not confined to strangers; I had the pleasure of visiting a close friend for a weekend with only L Junior in tow last year, whilst I was pregnant with J. We had a lovely time doing all of the things that are really tough with three (and now four) children with me - taking the bus across London, kicking a ball around the park, flying a kite, feeding the animals, stopping for snacks on the way and then making cakes when we got home. My [still very close] friend remarked that she would bake cakes every single day when she has children.
"If only I had time" I said.
Her reply? "How do you not have time? What on earth do you do all day?"
...it was time to smile smugly and pull out the patronising tone: "you'll see" I answered.
I have four children. The youngest (J) is four months and the eldest (C) is seven years; inbetween are L and L Junior who are six years and three years respectively. Himself goes off to work at around 5 am and returns around 7.30pm to keep us in the comfortable lifestyle we have become accustomed to and he works his balls off, let me tell you.
My role is the varied one of housekeeper (not so strong at this to be fair); entertainer; taxi driver; stylist; hairdresser; laundery lady; ironer; bill payer; wound/ills healer; entrepeneur (running an e-commerce company - more on this at a later date); impromptu Thesaurus / Dictionary; music teacher; peace keeper; television programme censor; world affairs educator and chef/nutritionist i.e. I'm a mum who is lucky enough to work from home.
What I have failed to mention is that we are also eighteen months into the Emigrating process (to Australia); this means that my further duties include being the family solicitor and immigration/relocation agent which involves staying up to date with the DIMIA rule changes, requirements and Visa charges amongst other things.
I am not complaining.
Far from it - I consider myself very fortunate to live as I do and I acknowledge that there are numerous perks to my position for example:
- not having to wear a suit or uniform/full make up on a daily basis;
- not having to sit next to other people (whom may or may not have terrible body odour) at my laptop;
- not having an unexplainable crush on my boss who flirts outrageously but is strangely unattractive;
- also the option to wear my hair whichever way I choose (most notable for two years when I had beautiful cyclamen coloured dreadlocks and was the envy of many a frustrated hippy working the nine to five)
- not having to smile through bile inducing office bitching;
- more importantly: four pairs of little arms to hug me at any given time of the day; oh,how I would miss that if I were stuck in an office with only a photo of my babies to get me through the day.
...so...only one real drawback (not including that fact that some days it would be nice to have to put on full make up and a suit without fear of being sicked on if I did!). Other people. More specifically other childless people who seem to think I have opted out by being at the beck and call of my offspring 24 hours a day. Yeah...it's a real easy option. NOT.
I have had total strangers look at me pityingly and ask when I plan to go "back" to work. I have lost count of the times that I have said "well, actually I work from home" - seriously, why the fuck should I explain myself? I'm not a "stick em infront of the TV whilst I drink incessant cups of coffee" type of mum, I work damn hard from Morning to night, making my babies' lives lively, educational and fun and for now whilst baby is still breastfeeding, I work right through the night too. It astounds me that because my primary career doesn't command a wage, it is judged so poorly.
At the risk of this becoming a full on rant, I must say that the assumptions made by other people is not confined to strangers; I had the pleasure of visiting a close friend for a weekend with only L Junior in tow last year, whilst I was pregnant with J. We had a lovely time doing all of the things that are really tough with three (and now four) children with me - taking the bus across London, kicking a ball around the park, flying a kite, feeding the animals, stopping for snacks on the way and then making cakes when we got home. My [still very close] friend remarked that she would bake cakes every single day when she has children.
"If only I had time" I said.
Her reply? "How do you not have time? What on earth do you do all day?"
...it was time to smile smugly and pull out the patronising tone: "you'll see" I answered.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Massive Red Bill
I recently got a massive red bill from the bank of friendship.
Friendships change.
As our lives move on and our interests alter:
From boys... to men;
From recreational drugs... to ones that will legitimately heal our ills;
From boyfriends with fast motorbikes... to our own little boys' monumental first ride in the park on a pushbike without stabilizers
From white cider whilst sprawled on a park bench... to red wine perched on a glossed park bench in a tapas restaurant...mmm the debatable "rustic" look.
You get what I am saying. My life is ever changing and evolving, which is great; but inevitably, some things get left by the wayside.
For me, these "things" are for the most part, friendships. I am just abysmal at keeping them going. Some of my friendships have been mutually outgrown; some I've neglected; some I've run from at pace. It's those that I have neglected that influence what I am writing today.
My friend died just a few weeks ago. I hadn't seen her for some time and her death didn't seem real to me for ages. When the inevitable "personalising" of the whole situation kicked in, I had difficulty in breathing whilst carrying the weight of my guilt about the things I should have said and the things I shouldn't have said.
The time I could have stopped for a drink, but I had to get back to the exciting task of finding my wayward drummer best friend who was at the time off his face in the middle of a festival before he went on stage...
...you see that was the last time I saw her.
I didn't go to the funeral.
This would make me a bad person apart from the enormous list of reason and excuses that I have listed in my head ever since, including having my four young chldren to care for who couldn't attend the funeral of someone that they didn't actually know (hell, I kept them away from their paternal grandfathers' funeral due to a distinct lack of contact for the preceeding year or so); the fact that one of the afore metioned brood is breastfed and I don't like the idea of a wet - nurse, I think it strange and wrong (...hmmn, perhaps subject matter for a future blog?) other entries on the list include a 300 mile journey each way and a dreaded fear of bumping into other not so nice cast member of my past.
I have rationalized my feelings for my friend and her early departure. She'd have kicked my arse for having not turned up to the funeral. So no excuses will do. Some how that makes it ok with me, our relationship has the same dynamic that it always had. Me feeling guilty about not expending time for her. Her knowing that I am just a rubbish friend.
So. Anyway. There are very few things that I believe in, but recent events have catapulted me into an Earl Hickey Karma-conscious type of existence. I am righting the wrongs ahead of time. No scrappy afterthought list for me. No, I made a point of NOT watching a movie in bed on my son's confiscated TV so that it did not blow up and set the house alight in a fit of Karmic rage; I sent an email to a friend I have been meaning to mail for a while instead of doing my washing up last night, because the washing up was still here this morning, but I couldn't garuntee 100% thast she would be (she's not ill, I 'm just being "careful"); I didn't lie to my two eldest sons' teachers when I took them out of school for a day trip, I told the truth that their birth father lives in Dubai and could only see them for one day in the UK, on his way to L.A or wherever he was jetting off to next...it was working I was sure.
I have been a shining example of all that is good, wholesome - ish and honest, loyal, environmentally sound, kind etc and my life has been peaceful and positive and really very enjoyable. But then, my six year old son ran into the road and was hit by a car*. So I am going to start taking two sugars in my tea again for starters, because being so wonderful, pius, clear concienced and serene didn't make him hold my hand by the road, but being shouty, scary mummy that won't tolerate messing around on the pavement does.
* He's fine
Friendships change.
As our lives move on and our interests alter:
From boys... to men;
From recreational drugs... to ones that will legitimately heal our ills;
From boyfriends with fast motorbikes... to our own little boys' monumental first ride in the park on a pushbike without stabilizers
From white cider whilst sprawled on a park bench... to red wine perched on a glossed park bench in a tapas restaurant...mmm the debatable "rustic" look.
You get what I am saying. My life is ever changing and evolving, which is great; but inevitably, some things get left by the wayside.
For me, these "things" are for the most part, friendships. I am just abysmal at keeping them going. Some of my friendships have been mutually outgrown; some I've neglected; some I've run from at pace. It's those that I have neglected that influence what I am writing today.
My friend died just a few weeks ago. I hadn't seen her for some time and her death didn't seem real to me for ages. When the inevitable "personalising" of the whole situation kicked in, I had difficulty in breathing whilst carrying the weight of my guilt about the things I should have said and the things I shouldn't have said.
The time I could have stopped for a drink, but I had to get back to the exciting task of finding my wayward drummer best friend who was at the time off his face in the middle of a festival before he went on stage...
...you see that was the last time I saw her.
I didn't go to the funeral.
This would make me a bad person apart from the enormous list of reason and excuses that I have listed in my head ever since, including having my four young chldren to care for who couldn't attend the funeral of someone that they didn't actually know (hell, I kept them away from their paternal grandfathers' funeral due to a distinct lack of contact for the preceeding year or so); the fact that one of the afore metioned brood is breastfed and I don't like the idea of a wet - nurse, I think it strange and wrong (...hmmn, perhaps subject matter for a future blog?) other entries on the list include a 300 mile journey each way and a dreaded fear of bumping into other not so nice cast member of my past.
I have rationalized my feelings for my friend and her early departure. She'd have kicked my arse for having not turned up to the funeral. So no excuses will do. Some how that makes it ok with me, our relationship has the same dynamic that it always had. Me feeling guilty about not expending time for her. Her knowing that I am just a rubbish friend.
So. Anyway. There are very few things that I believe in, but recent events have catapulted me into an Earl Hickey Karma-conscious type of existence. I am righting the wrongs ahead of time. No scrappy afterthought list for me. No, I made a point of NOT watching a movie in bed on my son's confiscated TV so that it did not blow up and set the house alight in a fit of Karmic rage; I sent an email to a friend I have been meaning to mail for a while instead of doing my washing up last night, because the washing up was still here this morning, but I couldn't garuntee 100% thast she would be (she's not ill, I 'm just being "careful"); I didn't lie to my two eldest sons' teachers when I took them out of school for a day trip, I told the truth that their birth father lives in Dubai and could only see them for one day in the UK, on his way to L.A or wherever he was jetting off to next...it was working I was sure.
I have been a shining example of all that is good, wholesome - ish and honest, loyal, environmentally sound, kind etc and my life has been peaceful and positive and really very enjoyable. But then, my six year old son ran into the road and was hit by a car*. So I am going to start taking two sugars in my tea again for starters, because being so wonderful, pius, clear concienced and serene didn't make him hold my hand by the road, but being shouty, scary mummy that won't tolerate messing around on the pavement does.
* He's fine
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