Last week was manic. One of those weeks, you know, when you turn 38, catch a burlesque show, have a million kiddy play dates, eat cake for breakfast, cope with an exploding freezer, get hassled in the ladies toilets at BAFTA by a transsexual,are asked for kiss by a cab driver when you have a mouth filled with tuna sandwich (does that mean I've still got it? Not that I ever even had it, but... you know what I mean...)and have to read a book a day for some tv work you said you'd do in a moment of complete madness.
Husband was off work, Sproglet was off school, Sproglette was teething, had a raging cold and got 3 nasty big jabs in her chunky thighs - all of which conspired to make me CRAZZZZEEE. But I managed to escape 3 times - Tues night was a screening/discussion about the diversity film I worked on for the BBC last year - when I was a waddling - 2 weeks shy of Sproglette's birth. I went along with the writer who wrote the script and had a ball - charged at the free bar, gossiped with the director, caught up with some folk I haven't seen in ages. Oh and got told by a transsexual woman in the loos that the film was rubbish because the characters in it (from the soap I used to work on) didn't feature a transgender person. 'Which is because we don't have a transsexual character on the show' I politely replied. 'Well you should do' was her retort. How am I having this conversation I thought as I dashed to the safety of a cubicle. Afterwards I staggered to my train and then chatted the ear off some squillionaire who sat opposite me. I know he be rich as he lives in one of the footballer-esque mansions alongside the golf course - the kind of house you go 'ooohhh lottery win' when you drive past and try to get a better view through their enormous iron gates.
Thurs - I was thirty fucking eight. How is that even possible? Sproglet gave me a cake and Husband presented me with envelopes containing the printed out receipts to the gifts he had bought me that very morning on line. Then I had to dash out to complete a report - as I mentioned, I agreed to read chick lit novels with a view to 'would this make a good drama series?' and write up a report on my conclusions. Sounds fun - is fun - but takes f....o...r...e...v...e...r. The amount of work it took I reckon I made 10p an hour or so... Had a facial which was soooooo average - a 23 year old girl with a sing song voice talking about her Jane Austen inspired wedding and giving me a facial which I later found out she likes best for her skin. Yes her youthful skin... Really? Is this what I need as I race towards 40?? That night I went to the Hurly Burly show - fun frisky and fucking depressing glittery extravaganza, watching women with a-ma-zing bods strip over and over again. Mind you, if I could swing my nipple tassles in both directions whilst there are aflame, I wouldn't be sitting here now... One of the 'gals' was most certainly a man - with a fab tit job. I spent most of the evening trying to work out if she was really a he. What is it with me and transsexuals? Post strip show, I sunk a few old fashioned cocktails at a member's bar and a flirty cute waiter kissed me to wish me a happy birthday. A nice but mehhhh kind of birthday.
Friday we went to the park and tried to teach Sproglet how to ride his bike and then dashed off to see Scream 4. Why? Nostalgia. It sucked. So post modernly smugly clever aren't we super smart and down with the kids with our online streaming murders - what a load of cobblers.
Then - books read, reports done, Sproglet now on return playdates so is out of my hair, Husband back to work and .... *tumble weed goes past*. From manic to mundane. Summer has raised a sleepy eyebrow in our direction and a sinking fear knaws at my stomach - should I be thinking about work again... oh god, how am I ever going to marry work with my life? At the moment trying to remember nappies, my name and to eat is enough to be getting on with. Just to add to my 'things to do that never get done ever' list - I have joined the gym and got myself a trainer. Shoot me - I have become a suburban desperate housewife type who talks more to her trainer than her husband. Just kidding. He (trainer) is 24 (bless) and cute. Almost a third of me is body fat. True. I am a walking lump of lard. So - I have 6 weeks until the Italian wedding. 6 weeks of protein and veg and water and NO CAKE. NO FUN. NO LIFE. I have 10 sessions with cute trainer and after 1 I can't really feel my legs. He laughed at my attempts at press ups - and I explained that yes, I am as weak as a kitten. How long can I use the 'I've just had a baby' excuse? I have 14 pounds to lose. 7-8 kgs. How dull is all this dieting malarkey? But I have to - as I cannot get in my old clothes and I have no income for new ones... Needs must when your reflection in the bathroom mirror horrifies you - as the shower mist clears you realise you own all those tumbling rolls of fat - and boy did you have fun creating them. But they have to go...
If only I had a good surgeon's number from my transsexual buddies - a nip and a tuck here and there and I wouldn't have to bother with all this work out stuff.
So wish me and my lard luck.