My Ya Yas

Names for one's lady garden? 'Lady's promise'(sounds like a type of chocolate box that men swim through sharks and scale mountains to reach)... 'Fan Anne' (sounds like the name of a flight company "Fasten your seatbelts ladeez and welcome to Fan Anne. We will be travelling today at a constant speed arriving at our destination at 9pm"). 'Foof'... 'Hairy Clam'... and it went on. 4 of us old schoolmates, beers in hand in some bustling Vietnamese restaurant on the wrong side of the tracks in Newcastle. 10pm on a Saturday night. We haven't caught up in a while but no matter - our historys are long our memories short. I've known these 3 since early teenage days and they are easy company; Hannah's Mother calls us her 'Ya Yas' (from the Ya Ya Sisterhood book) - we have seen each other through first periods, failed romances, bad boyfriends, parental angst, marriage, birth and sadly death. Things don't need to be said, we just know where we are with each other. Time and distance may have curtailed our meet ups but only enhance the sacred time we do get together.

We had ditched our kids and other halves and had headed north (for Emma - south) and pitched up at Hannah's house with bottles and nibbles and the giddy excitement of having no responsibilities for a whole 24 hours. Within five minutes the fizz was out. Then cocktails, gin, beers and a mad dash for a taxi. A martini to keep us watered and then on to the noisy meal. Two men actually turned their chairs round to eavesdrop on our X rated chat: Caroline grilling me about any lesbian activities of my giddy youth; insisting she knew more about my (alleged) sapphic past than I did. naming our bits. Remembering losing our big Vs to unsuitables. Etc. We gossiped, cajoled and hooted. 'Are you happy?' Caroline asked whilst she could still remember the answers. It was the only Oprah moment. There were no rows, no tears. No old wounds opened. A quiet one for us lot.

We headed for a nitecap. The bar opened onto a terrace with huge sails above our heads as a kind of overhead cover, with plants creeping up the outdoor open brick, fairylights twinking overhead. The rain came down and we all moved slightly to avoid getting wet. Caroline, slightly worse for wear - complained to barman and we scratched our heads as to why. Turns out she though the indoor air conditioning system was dripping on her - but we were OUTDOORS. Cue much laughter and me feeling smug that for once I wasn't the butt of the joke.

Home to tea, chocolate pavlova and recorded X factor. Yes - we are just crazee. It was 11:30. I rang husband who laughed at our 'wild' night out (as I had billed it). No matter that we hadn't danced til dawn and flirted with jailbait - we had had a great time.

I lay in - bliss. Three of us cooked a huge fry up and ooh and ahhed over facebook photos that were less than kind to old schoolmates (the girls you see 'haven't the time' for Facebook but gobbled up the info that one can find there - their husbands have joined so they read through osmosis). Caroline was missing from the table. Emma sympathised (briefly) as for once it was not she who was propping up the toilet in a well of regret.

We disbanded shortly after lunch. Caroline still curled up in a ball on Hannah's bed - unable to move or even speak. Thank god one of us were sick - otherwise it 'aint a proper night out eh?

I arrived home to husband's waiting arms and a black eyed sproglet. They claimed to have missed me. Me - I was having too good a time to miss anyone. Love ya Ladeez - when is the next meet?

Thank you sweet Jesus!

Oh my god - a lie in!!! Drinking gin and tonics (huge measures - bless those Europeans and their free pouring) at midday, lying on the boardwalk watching fish swimming in the clear waters beneath, remembering why I love my boy so much, eating 3* Michelin food as the sun sets across the sea... oh my, mini breaks are fabulous!!!!

I forgot what 'we' were like. Minus the stress of bills, moving house, jobs and all the responsibility that children bring. Who were 'we' without all the baggage? We were/are people who wake up and still kiss before we brush our teeth. People who wander hand in hand and chat, never bored. People who relish great food and even greater wine. Who get excited by bizarre dishes brought forth from a chance booking at a dream restaurant. Who still enjoy time together, in silence, devouring papers and books, occasionally giving each other happy smiles and arm strokes. I relished every moment with husband. Not as a Father or boss or all the day to day things he is - but as my boy, my best friend, the person I most enjoy hanging out with.

Oh it was bliss. San Sebastian in festival week - fireworks soaring into the sky, children running from big headed puppets, music blasting from every available stage or step and cook offs releasing mouth watering flavours in every square. We met a fantastic couple from Chicago on our last night and drank with them under the stars until 2am. By then the buzzing streets had cleared, the warm night air had cooled. We strolled back to our hotel, mellowed by liquor, warmed by laughter and in need of sleep. Up at 7am we ran for the bus to the airport. As it wound through the lush green hills and drove through the hazy morning cloud, husband slept, head on my knee. And I... well I wished we were still there. In our own bubble.

PS I missed sproglet massively - to the point I viewed his pics on the digital camera every day... and yes he was our every third conversation... But we still managed to have fun!

What is the point of men - bar Peter the nice boy at work?

Excuse my mood. It matches the weather. But with a bit more bite - if I had my way there would be thunder and some damn crackly lightening in there too. You know those days - washouts. A bit bleruurgghhh. I had one on Sunday as well. Keener than mustard I was about the Innocent fete at Regents Park - but as we arrived for a day of Pimms, sunshine, frivolity and a spot of Maypole dancing, the heavens opened. I was a drowned rat struggling to eat a £7 (!!!!!) burrito while my nose dripped water like a fountain. Sproglet slumbered underneath a plastic cover and I knew when he awoke he would want to run around and eat anything that didn't move. Sadly open toed shoes don't really go with muddy parks and teeming rain. Cue our exit from the most middle class of events. My mates stayed to savour the beer tent replete with bales of hay and jovial music but crummy mummies have to quit while they're ahead and find drier pastures.

Anyway I digress. I came home today to stacks of washed clothes, piles of clothes washing to be done, a full dish washer and breakfast dishes. Joy. Just what I fancy after a day at work. Oh - and a letter detailing the 3 points on my licence and a £60fine. My second lot in as many months. 6 points and £120 later....Yay! Dashing to pick up sproglet every day after work is playing havoc with my finances. But hey that's cool. I am a woman - ergo a juggler. But men - what are they there for exactly??? Nothing a turkey baster and a DIY manual couldn't fix. An article at the weekend stated that there has been a 40% increase in males seeking counselling for impotence problems and last month a medical study published proved the quality of men's sperm declines at 45 - to such an extent that the chances of their partner suffering a miscarriage doubles. (Ahh at last - the chorus of men bleating about their ticking biological clocks seems imminent - and gone will be the jokes about women over 30 settling for anything that shaves once a week with a pulse). Sales of beauty products for men have leapt 30% over the last decade and more men than ever are opting for plastic surgery. What have we here? A bunch of narcissistic empty-sacked egotistical mirror lickers?

What do men do exactly? Us women - well I could go all hippy dippy and talk of how we bleed and don't die,(on that subject I once knew a woman who made cards for her boyfriend decorated in period blood... ewwwwwwww) how we birth bairns and then be all things to all people for the rest of our lives, but that is just dull. Now-a-days us chicks can buy our own drinks, flats, shoes and sofas - we can jump up a career ladder without having to wear stockings and type proficiently and most of all we can grab a sperm doner or a rampant rabbit to fulfill all things male. Frankly if a man can't change a tyre or wire a chandelier for you - then why bother?

I tell you I am sick of stroking the biggest male member of all - (sadly) the ego. Boys can you not just do it for yourselves? Well the joke is on you after all - we can bat our lashes, put on a sickly sweet understanding voice and boom! you are putty in our hands. Don't get me wrong I believe sistahhhs should be doin' it for themselves and all - its just... aren't those testosterone filled man-childs so easy to play? It almost isn't sport. No wonder Li-Lo turned. Bimboy Callum Best or the talented Sam Ronson... no contest.

No - I am not about to eat from the hairy cup - I just had a crappy day and needed to vent. Husband being incapable of doing one whole job in the laborious house move -that of post redirection. 8 weeks later our post still goes to the old flat. Plus he booked our dirty weekend flights with a stopover. A stopover to Spain?? You gotta be kidding me! So I am venting about men, apart from Peter the nice boy from work who is our tea bitch and never complains. But I wonder if he uses moisturiser?