Unfaithful

I had the best sex of my life last night. In my dreams. Literally. With an ex. It was all covert meetings and brushed thighs and loaded looks and wet lips and.... oh, I've come over all a fluster. Strange thing is - it is almost as of husband knew. Just as I was reaching my peak (god bless 35) he shouted out loudly in his sleep and jolted me from my illicit passion. I was out of breath, shocked and disorientated. Relieved and also... er... pissed off. Boy my ex was good - in the dream. In real life - I can't remember actually. Sounds awful to say, but it is all a blur. A past life that thank god, is buried deep in the past. In my dream all my mates knew - they somehow worked it out - due to some letter dropped at the scene of my crime. They all knew and they all gave me merry hell. I felt awful. Rotten. Tempted to do it again. Dear friends of old berated me and ostracised me. I was mortified and unsure how it had all come to pass. For a dream it was frighteningly real. I wish I had jotted down the story because it was soap gold. When I woke, I looked at husband's matted black tufty hair, his long lashes that mirror our son's and his soft features. I was so happy that my deceit was wiped away in the opening of an eye. Yet all of today I kept thinking of the ex. Who is an ex for a reason - many of them. Yet to my horror, he made me smile. Is that bad?

Arrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Blood is boiling. Rage overcomes me. My throat goes dry, my muscles tense and a throb begins in my right temple. What has driven me to such distraction? What has made me go loopy and want to scream until I can no longer hear?

Ikea. Dear god it enrages me beyond any other place on earth. I hate the shoddy furniture that can't withstand a good burp, the cheap touch of the fibres and the tacky neon colours that assault my senses from the moment I walk inside. But today - I was forced to visit. No other place on earth it appears, sells blinds (wooden slats) that are 100cm across. B&Q, Homebase etc - are all 120cm. Why is this? So my kind builder - who came round to tell me that my washing machine is in fact broken and we need a new one - drove me there and I scampered quickly through, only stopping at the candle and light section as it is the singular part that I can stomach. I grabbed a few cheap overly sweet vanilla scented tea lights, a few wine glasses and 2 lamps. A furry sheepskin rug for sproglet to curl up in (as he loves one at his godmother's). Got said blind and then paid oh... a mere £25 to get home again.

Once home I discover one wine glass is broken and one lamp. It only cost £8 - but that isn't the point!!!! The point is I had to trek to that godforsaken place and survive the laborious walk round it - and then pay for crap cab home - only to discover the shoddy goods are BROKEN shoddy goods. Yes I am more bitter than a lemon. Plus my bastard mortgage company have valued my flat £50k less than it is worth - and my whole house buying is once again on a precarious knife edge. All this whilst I try and work out when to start work and order furniture and try and get tenants. I am ready to kill.

Just spoke to my good mate Donna who puts my house buying hell into perspective. The poor woman has been due to move since January and some numpty at the bottom of her chain (buying from the people who are buying her place) has dilly dallied needing a Muslim mortgage (as Muslims cannot borrow money) which is fine - but his conveyancer makes Ikea look unshoddy. Today it all fell through - her house by the way is packed and ready to go. Her dream home awaits. But her vendor put it back on the market and has had a better offer - so it looks like she has lost her dream home. To say she is devastated is an understatement. I try to tell her that it means an even better home awaits her. That in this market - she can get a great deal. But they are empty words - because after all she has been through she deserves that house. Not for her whole chain to disintegrate before her eyes - and not on account of what she has or hasn't done - but because of other weak parts of the chain.

My tip - stay put. If you can. This market is a mare for all but savvy business men who can spot a bargain, smell desperation and move in for the kill, their fins circling as the desperate seller goes under. Whilst the rich bonus boys in the city who caused this catastrophe count their pennies and recline to watch their 42" TVs the rest of us mere mortals pay the price. I'm off to suck on another lemon.

Night tremors....

What do you think about when you lie in bed at night? The shopping list? To remember to buy your partner that anti-snoring spray? What great sex you've just had? (Sorry -it's just a friend of mine grilled me last week about how regular my bedroom activities were - she was smug with the glow of obscene amounts of sex as she has been with her partner a whole 10 months! They are still in that 'can't get enough of you - whip 'em off quick' stage - which I remember very fondly. They gave me pitying looks when I admitted I didn't swing from the chandeliers every night of the week. I quickly told them to get back to me 7 years and one child in, with her getting up at 8:30am every day and him hitting the hay at 3am every morning and then see how damn frisky one can be in those brief windows). Anyway - I have my most creative (and stressed out) thoughts as I wait for the sandman. I've decided to keep a dictaphone beside my bed, as all too often that killer retort I wish I'd had, the best blog ideas (in fact entire posts), the perfect 'discussion' I am keen to have with husband, all come to me in the darkness and are long forgotten by the time sproglet hollers the next morning.

Those niggles in my stomach get darn busy when the lights go off. I lie there (convinced I can hear mice - I will not rest until we are moved. No, it isn't funny) and little knots of fear start to twist and turn. These thoughts have been kinder since I got the Eastenders job but still they begin to beat their drums with the topics such as 'will this move work out?' and lists of things I have to do and 'how will I ever drive anywhere as I am a crap driver?' etc etc.

I twist and turn and try to drown out the metaphorical voices that yabber away worse than me after a several mohitos. Thus I have decided that a good nights slumber must be at the top of my list from now on and I have resolved to get a memory foam mattress and spend some serious wonga to make sure the minute my head hits the supportive pillow that I am OUT! I don't mind a few creative ideas spinning in there - whether it be aha! that is the colour I should be painting the lounge or a solution to a tricky scene in a script or even just a way to fit more into the next day or what to cook for friends that weekend. But I want to banish the insecure demons who wait all day in the shadows only to pounce when the lights go down.

So I must dash - I have beds and mattresses to check out. Dust mite resistant. Pocket sprung. Cushioned NASA spacemen during take -off. Etc. So sleep tight and don't let the demons bite!

How will this work?

How is it supposed to work exactly - when I get start this new job? Husband has been living a somewhat pampered existence (he would dispute this) with my routine as follows: (sorry in advance if this sends you to a slumber - it sent me on anti-depressants) 8:15 up with sproglet. Make him breakfast. Hang with him while he eats and try to wake up. Sproglet plays with toys, I make him two nutritious meals to take with him to child minder and pack his bag - usually involving stir fries, boiling noodles, potatoes, carrots, grilling chicken etc. Try being Jamie Oliver every day - it is exhausting! Dress him. Tidy his room. Put on wash. Put out wash. Put away dried washing. Shower. Sproglet does Nemo or Monsters Inc. Tidy house for prospective buyers/tenants (hiding every sign of us living here) - this takes forever. In our small flat all storage space is full to the MAX. Latest spot - hide all under sproglet's cot. Dress - try to be creative, give up and wear usual jeans, white vest top under black top ensemble. Dry hair, spot of make up to try and look human. By this stage it is normally noon. Husband - sleeps.

Take sproglet to childminder and script read, organise house move, food shop to make sure sproglet has milk, wipes, cereal, eggs etc. etc. etc. Forget gyming it - body combat and my waist have gone by the wayside in this hectic era. Go through solicitor's papers, call mortgage man, try and pick a bed etc. Those 6 hours go mighty quickly.

6pm get sproglet back (this is only on Tues/Wed/Thurs - other days I have sproglet all day). Play for an hour, visit the park. Bath him, dress him, bottle and story. 8pm make myself dinner. Collapse on sofa. Notice how sofa needs cleaning. Wash bedding, towels etc. Normally watch all TV dramas to find new writers and to know my soaps inside out in order to find work. Riveting day eh? Sorry - are you still there? Thank god, thought you had gone to open a vein.

How will I ever juggle a full time job, sproglet and looking after a house (plus the move??) It took me all afternoon yesterday to research child care in our new neck of the woods - and we have only two possible nurseries - one of which may be full!! My lists are endless. Husband - sleeps - oh and works. Kind of like a bar vampire.

How we will juggle our lives and careers and a small child in between - with me working days and him nights? Will we see each other? Will he ever see sproglet? I voice these worries and he shushes me. It will all work out he says. I want to kill him as what he means is - you will somehow cope with full time job (described by one BBC exec as 'the hardest two years of your life') and picking up sproglet and taking him to nursery, and the house move and being able to do the shop/housework etc. I will try. I want to keep up Samaritans too - yes, I will be s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d beyond belief. But hey - better to be busy than bored. But oh my god - how appealing does an afternoon of Danielle Steel trash movies and cupcakes feel now eh?

When I read that the non-entity singer/model/whatever-I-can-be-that-doesn't-require- any-training Lisa B has written a 'lifestyle book' I wanted to vomit on her. How dare someone who is married to a property tycoon multi-millionaire, replete with nannies and housekeepers and the like - try and tell ME how to have a perfect lifestyle!!! How to throw a well catered dinner party, have no cellulite and teach my kids yoga and find the ultimate truffle. I want to invite her round for a day at chez crummy mummy and then see what she advises. Why the vacuous rich idle away their days as yummy mummies telling us mere mortals how to live our lives - I have no idea. Will I buy this book? I would rather have a smear test every day for the rest of my life.The pictures of this book show Lisa in cashmere casual wear (think The White Company) in a yoga position, with fruit bowl in front of her, on a white daybed staring out at her lake. Yes, that's right - lake. Next to her mansion in the country. This woman isn't giving us advice on how to get through the day sans breakdown - she is smugly going 'look what I have. Unattainable - get me!' If she is a woman's woman I will eat my bra. In the photos there is not a puke stain, mushed tangerine or greasy hair in sight. It is all tranquility spa, fluffy and white. It is about as realistic as Jordan's breasts.

Vent over.

Ok - I am off to wake or murder husband. Not sure which.

Is it wrong to crave a martini at 11:15am?

My neck of the woods

I've lived in my little neck of the woods for 9 years. Its a long time to be in one place - particularly in the fluid city of London. I arrived here in this leafy village in zone 2 as a recently unemployed associate producer - desperate to become a presenter. Sharing a plush airy mansion block flat with 3 other girls. There was Claire who had just split up with her boyfriend and was in the summer of woe (which became the autumn of booty-calling and the winter of discontent followed by a spring exit out of the UK) - she spent all her free time using retail therapy to mend her broken heart. Why else would a woman buy three types of facial glitter and a pair of Gucci sandals to go travelling in? Caroline - the work-a-holic who smoked like a chimney and rarely got out of her Pjs before 6pm on a Sunday. She was looking for love but ended up dating men who would try and persuade her to give them hand jobs under the bar table. Singledom was far more appealing, especially as she only had a night off once in a blue moon. Finally there was Nikki, who thought doritos and cream cheese were a staple diet, wore the most colourful clothes in the whole of London and dated many frogs in search of her prince. I lived in the lounge, which the girls still used as a lounge - we all used to pile into my bed and onto my sofa for our weekly Dawson's Creek rituals, replete with Sunday Papers. I began presenting on a teen channel and was well paid, with a wardrobe allowance to boot and yet I still found reasons to complain - mainly about my wasteland of a love life. About 20 seconds away was a cafe that we basically lived in - once we moved out they shut down, clearly we had kept them afloat - and would stomp there every night to moan about work and boys.

They were happy years - in between the beer goggle snogs with unsuitable boys (remind me to tell you my 17 year old masquerading as a 20 year old cookie boy story another time) the overdrafts and my yo-yo career in TV. There was always something going on: a party, a launch, a showcase, a free screening with free wine and tasty sarnies. We were each other's family - home from home. It couldn't last. Claire buggered off to NZ, Nikki moved in with her man and I bought a flat. I only moved down the road but the difference was acute. I rented out my spare room to a boy for a start - and desperately missed my girlie chats. Who to go to when I ran out of tampax? I still miss those days occasionally. The 'stealth' nights out in our 'operation summer'(a plan to kiss as many boys as poss - no more mind, we were moral girls) when we wore little make up and a lot of attitude and whirled like dervishes on the sweaty sticky dancefloor of our local late-nite dive 'Latelys.' I became a member the first time I went there - I still am. Gordon the owner never charged me to get in. I lost count of the number of random boys I would write my phone no on the arms of. In the dim pink neon strip lighting we would down vile shots and sexily shimmy to drive the boys wild. Except the boys were wild already - neanderthals in pressed shirts hunting prey and avoiding relationships.

I loved the area - I could walk to 3 different cinemas; drink until 3am in two local drinking dens (the kind of places where requesting Madonna's 'Beautiful Stranger' or Britney's 'Hit me Baby one more time' was not considered uncool); there was a bustling Sainsburies, a posh Waitrose and lots of restaurants and bars. I made friends with the boys in the Video store (that became DVDs), the owners of the local Italian - it became my second home and in fact I later invited them to my wedding - and the folk in the dry cleaning store and the bagel bakery. Out went my miserly lodger, in came one of my girls. When she left my boyfriend moved in. My small second bedroom had been my room from day 1, then my first 'living with my boyfriend' room; the room that he proposed in, the room sproglet was conceived in and is now sproglet's room. I saw out my twenties in this flat - had so many different folk to stay on my crummy sofa bed - left this flat to get married, returned to it from honeymoon. Brought sproglet home from hospital.

My memories are mainly all good: (apart from the summer of hell after I had sproglet and it was 37 degree heat, with builders creating dust clouds and enough noise to wake the dead) power walking on the Heath with my friend Magster - followed by cake and tea - we knew exercise required rewarding; drunken nights spilling out of Latelys trailing feather boas with my friend Sam (who discovered this area long before I did); many meals in La Brocca followed by lock-ins and helping ourselves to drinks behind the bar; the buzz of the place in the summer, the first chills of autumn walking to the movies down a much-used side path and the twinkling fairy lights lighting up the lampposts to announce Xmas is imminent. Finally the cute turtle that swims in the O2 centre fish tanks, who I am convinced recognises me and waves accordingly with his little fin.

I am ready to move on - to have a proper house, to drive to work like a grown up and to have room for more than 3 people in the lounge at once. I will miss my dear friends in the area - Pocket who is heading to LA anyway, Gerry and Lis who pop round with beers or a bottle - willing to lend helping hands at sproglet's bath time, Rachel who pounds the air with me at body combat, Kate who joins me for cakeathons in Hampstead, my amazing child minder who has looked after sproglet for almost 2 years (when I told her we were moving she was fine - I cried) and always is flexible and genuinely loves him. I am excited to move on, but a little part of my heart will be left behind here. No doubt on moving day I will shed a few tears. Forgive me in advance - this area will always be home to me - no matter where I am.

To do... no.124,678

Well I did it. I turned 35. A new box. A new chapter. It was a breeze actually. I just drank some cocktails, got a cute card from sproglet and berated husband for not getting me cake or flowers (he will be shelling out for some summer footwear pour moi though). A very chilled day. Lots of facebook messages and text messages and people enjoying the fact they are younger than me. Who isn't these days?

But oh my god - the lists. The endless fecking lists that have emerged to haunt my waking moments and sleeping ones too. My head feels like it is about to explode under the weight of 'to dos.' I know starting a new job is stressful. I know that moving house is stressful. I know that renting out a property is stressful. I know children are stressful. I know finding good childcare is even more stressful. Put all said stressful ingredients into a large mixing bowl, stir with woman on anti-depressants, a husband's 65 hour working week, add a pinch of short tempers and dollop of not enough time in the day and voila! You have a nervous breakdown in the making!

Why does everything come at once? I am trying to exchange on new house but mortgage people are on go slow... Solicitors ask impossible questions. I have to buy beds, paint my flat, get carpets cleaned and boiler certificates. But furniture and organise delivery at new home. Pack. Move. Find a nursery for sproglet where fairies make organic angel cakes and they skip over rainbows and drink nectar from bluebell cups and the like to ease my enormous motherhood guilt at going back to work. Thank god I am not Catholic is all I can say - as my guilt weighs me down and I'm not even there yet.

I haven't moved from the sofa in two hours - making calls, writing lists, sending emails. Sorting it all out. Of course I am still buzzing about new job - but the reality of 9-6 5 days a week will hit me like a tonne of bricks. Don't hate me - but I haven't done full time work since '99!! Apart from the odd 6 week or 9 week stint (twice) I have just presented here and there - 10 days a month maybe. I know... I'll stop talking now. Life is about to change. But I promise to still blog.

BTW - I was handed a strange package in the street the other week. Turns out it was skincare from Japan. I stuffed it in a drawer and forgot about it until Sunday, when I decided to give it a bash. An oil cleanser, soap, toner and moisturiser. OH MY GOD. I have skin softer than sproglet. Buy some now. DHC. Genius. See, even in my wild list world, I still have time to drop in some product wisdom. At 35 I need to know my onions. Or rather olive oil based products. Buy it!

The nicest thing

Do you know the nicest thing?

I know lying toastie in a warm bed, knowing that you don't have to get up for work has gotta be up there - but the nicest thing for me, was yesterday my friends' reaction to me getting a job - finally.

It was so lovely to text them/ring them with my news and hear their cheery responses. Most phoned - full of pure joy for me. Telling me it was deserved and it restored their belief that if you want anything enough - it can be achieved. It made me gooey and warm inside - and just added to my excitment. I have cried on their collective shoulders; moaned, bitched, vented my frustrations - fed them tedious detail affter detail on my rollercoaster career. They have cajoled, comforted and calmed. My cheerleaders who believed in me and told me that it WOULD happen. They deserve medals themselves.

It really hasn't been the easiest of times - husband never here much, me lonely - chained to a child's routine, in night after night alone, wondering if I will ever work again. Through it all I have tried to appreciate the little things: lying flat with sproglet on the roundabout in the local park, gazing up at the summer sky; reading scripts in starbucks chomping on a muffin; Grazia on a Tuesday; bath times with sproglet; having time to watch what I want on TV; friends making time for me - popping round with thai take-aways, meeting for a cheeky cuppa or a bottle or two of red. I know that with the house move and the new job that life is going to get so hectic I am not going to have enough hours in the day. I can't fecking wait!