Friday, 18 July 2014

What To Do...When You're Wedged?

I was sitting, minding my own business in my car.

The queue we were in seemed never ending, and my rascal in the back was getting a little fidgety.

Oh no!, we weren't in gridlock, we were in a queue at the 'drive thru' of a popular fast food outlet. I won't state the variety of outlet due to legalities.

Something caught my eye in the car infront. There seemed to be a lot of activity going on. I focused and stared in through the back window, trying to make out what on earth was happening.

Then I made it out.

A rather rotund woman was trying to haul her heavy frame out of the front passenger seat. But instead of exiting through the door, she was facing towards the middle of the car.

What on earth?

I kept watching, rascal had also found the spectacle fascinating.

The woman hauled, hauled and hauled until she was turned towards the back seat, her backside pressed against the front windscreen. 

She began to thrust her body through the terribly small gap between the drivers seat and the passengers seat. However, at that point, the driver began to inch forward, and halted as the assistant wandered towards them with his ordering machine.

The woman frantically pulled and pulled on the seats trying desperately to get herself through, but, as much as she tried, she was jammed stuck.

The driver wound down the window as the order taker arrived at the car, not raising his eyes, he asked for their order.

The mutterings were indecipherable until he asked the wedged woman to clarify what she wanted.

The young assistant glanced into the car and as he mentally took in the vast legging clad backside I witnessed a variety of expressions starting with 'what the...?!' To 'Is that a backside?' Then 'what the **** is she doing?' To 'does she need help?' He stammered, flapped his hand a little debating as to if he should reach on in there. He decided against all and stepped away from the vehicle as the driver drove on round to the payment point. 

He was still staring at the back of the car with his jaw slack when it was my turn to place my order.

"Hi, can I take your order please?"

"Yes, I'd like a ticket to the viewing of how that woman is going to get out of that position" I smiled and the young lad chuckled shaking his head.

I placed the order and followed the wedged woman around to the collection point. 

The driver pulled away and I waited behind to collect my order.

So what happened in the end? 
As I left the drive thru, I caught sight of the driver, out of the car, pushing the woman with all of his might. She did eventually pop out of her jam. He opened the back passenger door and she rolled out. Standing up incredibly quickly she started on the driver (obviously her husband), shoving him while giving him a piece her mind, incredibly loudly.

Me? I had a very comfortable drive home and a tasty tea!

The Shopping Spree...That Wasn't!

I was on a rare shopping trip recently, and not of the food variety!

I was looking forward to it so much, dolled up, heels on, purse in bag and child free....perfect.

Not interested in stopping for coffee, I hit the shops, clothes, clothes and a bit of make I went.

Deciding to go it alone has it's negatives, but I wanted to concentrate on myself (seeing as it happens so rarely), I didn't want anyone taking my time (selfish- yes, I know).

So, anyway, into the first store I went and threw myself into the rails of clothes....literally.

Yes, it was drizzling a little and as I stepped onto their dazzlingly shiny clean floor (as I thought) I soon realised that it was a puddle...on tiling.

I skidded half the length of the shop before plunging, full speed into a rail of men's speedos. I'm talking the budgie smuggler type, not even nice swim shorts. To make it a little more embarrassing, the rail moved with me, making a loud groan as the wheels locked and screeched across the floor. It was Saturday. 11:00am...just to let you imagine how full the store was.

Ducking down, I tottered as best as I could out of the way and decided the best course of action was to leave the store and start again elsewhere.

Off I went.

I entered the next shop more discreetly. I wandered quietly amongst the clothes, minding my own business when I felt a nudge.

"Can you get that down please" I glanced to my left and saw an old lady, with a zimmerframe, eagerly glancing up, pointing. I looked in that direction and saw a bustier. A bit like those burlesque tops...get my drift? I almost asked what size she wanted, before simply doing what she asked and handed her the first one on the rail, before walking away.

I felt a nudge.

"I need an 18" said the woman. I looked at the woman, feeling a little irate, but, I walked back to the rail and looked for an 18

"Hmmm looks like they're out of that size, sorry" I smiled regretfully.

"When will they be getting them in?" She asked

I collared an assistant and left them together as I headed to the shoes.

Losing myself in the wonderful array of footwear, I sat down to try a shoe when I felt a nudge.

"I want to try this on" she sat next to me, her large rear pushing me off the seat as she lifted her foot in my direction.

She had to be kidding me...right?


She wanted me to take her orthopaedic shoe of her smelly foot and wrap a platform heeled, strappy espadrille onto it.

I slammed my shoe onto the floor and grabbed the assistant before beating a hasty retreat.

On leaving the store, I realised I'd left my handbag on the floor next to the seat where I was about to try the shoe.

I re entered the store. The woman was lazing back in the chair, while the poor sales assistant dealt with the footwear. There was my bag, right next to them.

I dashed in made my apologies as I grabbed my bag and ran.

Unfortunately, I fell foul of the damp floor once again at the entrance, and full steam ahead, slipped and fell right out of the door. Landing, full force on my bottom on the soaking pavement outside.

I was near to tears, but adamant that I was going to purchase something that day, I entered a department store.

I felt a little more calmed and decided that after a purchase, I was going to have a large hot chocolate...with chocolate cake.

My first half an hour in the store was much nicer. A lovely perusal, followed by a wonderful find. Taking a beautiful top into the changing room, I tried the top on. Gorgeous! I would buy it!

Taking the top off, it jammed. Trying to lift it over my head, both arms over my head, the top stuck at my shoulders. I pulled at the hem with my finger tips. Nothing. 

The top was covering my shoulders, neck and head. My arms jammed solid next to my ears, reaching for the stars. I realised I hadn't loosened the button at the back of the neck. I tried to bend my elbows, to no avail.

I backed against the wall, feeling the blood draining out of my hands. 

"Help" I mumbled.

Shrugging my shoulders, I tried to pull the top back on. It wasn't going to happen.

I started to feel a little claustrophobic. I thought about bumbling out of the changing cubicle to get help, but realised that I was in a department store, and currently my bra was exposed. I was not, under any circumstances leaving the cubicle like this. 

I could just see my area through the weave of the material and grabbed the coat hanger with my hand. Twisting it round, I tried to hook the button bit towards my other hand. No go. 

I really needed to get out of the top, which I was going off very quickly. I shrugged and pulled and shifted and grappled, bumped against the walls and eventually tore the shoulder of the top. The top gave way at one side and I slid it back on properly.  However, I had pulled a muscle in my neck, which caused my head to tighten to my left shoulder.

Unbuttoning the top properly, I painfully removed it and pulled my comfy, familiar jumper on. I sat down carefully, trying to move my neck. I put the torn top on the hanger and checked the price.


The worst £65 I would ever pay. For a top, that having studied the rip,was totally ruined. But that's me, I had to buy it. Out I stumbled, breathing the air of the department store freely, rather than through material, my head veering to the left to compensate the pain.

I got to the cash desk where the woman scanned the top, looking at me as if I was insane.... Just don't go there...

I thanked her...can you believe it....I THANKED her for the stress I had gone through! And carried my bag through the store. Standing on the escalator to travel down, I felt a familiar nudge.

Turning round I saw the old woman.

"Can you hold my bag? My shopping is so heavy, I can't carry it to the bus stop"

The bus stop was the opposite direction to my car, and the woman had gone to town on clothes shopping, but, hey, my day couldn't get much worse, I might aswell help the poor woman out. 
After all, it was the end of a disastrous trip, at least a little word of thanks would brighten my day.

The hot chocolate and cake? It turned into alcohol in the evening!
The shirt? Got fixed! I took it to a dry cleaner who did repairs and it looks fab.
My neck? Took three weeks to unhinge my nerve
The old woman? I took her to her bus stop, got her onto the bus with her shopping, and the bus left without a thanks or a pat on the arm.

Think I'll stick to housework!

Follow me on twitter @katesvie

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

The Bathtime Blitz

We've all been there haven't we.

You're off out, time has gotten away from you and now it's a mad dash to get everyone sorted before you leave.

Well, it happened to me. I had a meeting one evening. I had my day sorted.

The morning was devoted to the rascals, the afternoon was devoted to the housework, while husband was devoted to the rascals. Once the housework was done, I was to prepare the rascals tea, bath them, into pjs, freshen up and dress myself before leaving quietly, while husband dutifully prepared supper and chased them off to bed at the relevant hours.

Yeah...that was the plan.

Happily, there is so many things wrong with those words, let me start again.

Ironing, I happened to glance at the clock, and shrieked. I had lost an hour.

Considering my 'to do list' I slapped some sandwiches together, pink milk and shoved the fruit bowl next to their plates so that husband could grab a variation and create a fruit salad. I glanced at myself in the mirror, and decided that the next bulk of time would need to be making me look half decent.

Shower taken, hair straightened, make up applied, frock on. I halted at the heels when I realised rascals needed their bath.

Decision made, three in at once. 

Water running, infacare in, while husband and I grappled with rascals and clothing. Three in the bath. Eventually.

All was back on track.

I thought.

Stepping back to take a seat on the toilet lid (as you do) shock startled me as my behind went much further into the toilet bowl than I expected. Not only was the lid up, but the seat was too. My posh frock clad bottom was centimeters from the water in the u bend. And I was stuck.

My rascals got the giggles, water flailing in every direction as they clambered to catch a glance of their mother wedged in the toilet bowl. 

I hollered out to my husband, who was in a 'who's pjs are where' mode. He strode into the bathroom in an exasperated manner, before creasing up in hysteria.

This was not good.

With a little help, and the background music of chuckles, I regained my demeanor, and began washing down the rascals...

...It was the figure that did it. A small, reasonably unoffensive figure. That each child wanted. The fighting began. As our youngest is not far off a baby, I grabbed rascal #3 to wrap up in a towel and begin the drying, that's when it went wrong. As I leaned in, one of the rascals (currently unidentified) obviously considered me another threat to their securing ownership of said figure and slam dunked a jug of water on my perfectly styled hair, ensuring, also, not one millimeter of make up would survive. (This child should be hired for the SAS- the aim was second to none!)

I slowly got to my feet, noticing the silence. Everyone looking at the bedraggled mother that had, for around three minutes, looked rather professional (if I do say so myself!). 
With the water streaming down my back, I simply handed towel covered rascal #3 to husband, who took said child, while biting his lip hard. I'm sure I saw blood. He knew that there would be BIG trouble if so much as a snort came from him.

I left the bathroom and a quick glance at my watch told me I had fifteen minutes to get to my meeting.

Taking a deep breath, I shut the bedroom door, and got to work.

Thankfully, I made my meeting in time- I don't know how.

My rascals? They were sleeping soundly when I returned, and a large glass of wine was wating for me.
My dress? That went on a short holiday to the dry cleaner.
What did I wear? I turned up in my usual attire in the end- the trusty jeans and top and my quick dried frizz of a mop was pulled up in a ponytail. Still, it didn't matter, I came out of the meeting in a better position than I went in! Go figure!

Saturday, 28 June 2014

Oh No...It's When That Text Happens

My husband and I were speaking about a good friend of ours, who's father was in a bad way. We had known him for many years, my husband, even longer than myself.

We were receiving daily updates from our friend, who had, along with his family, had been spending sleepless nights at the hospital in a bedside vigil. Expecting the worst at any time.

The text came one Sunday morning. We were having breakfast at the time, and discussing how awful a time the family were having, and how cruel life could be.

The text read: 

'Had an awful night. Hospital all night. Dad in a really bad way. He was in so much pain and entirely incoherent. Whole family were called in to be with him. The staff on site did all they could, they were absolutely wonderful, but unfortunately'

That's where it stopped. 

My husband and I looked at each other, sadness in our hearts for the family left behind. Debating whether to call, we decided a text would be better than interrupting the grief of a family spending time together so soon after the passing of a loved one. Between us, we quickly composed a text and sent it:

'So, so sorry to hear the awful news. We both send our condolences to you and your family. If there's anything we can do, let us know.'

We continued eating our breakfast in subdued silence, flicking aimlessly through the tabloid.

A couple of minutes later, the mobile chirped another text through to us.

We downed our cutlery, coffee cups and newspapers, and, adapting our grief ridden faces, we glued our heads together to read the response from the phone:

'Wot? He's not dead! Unfortunately, the consultant wasn't on site, but he came in on his night off, put my dad through a tricky op, and he's made good progress this morning! '

We looked at each other, mortified, my hand slapped across my mouth.

"Oh no! I can't believe we've done that!" I mumbled through closed fingers

"What are we going to say now?" My husband muttered 

So, here went another compilation:

'Oh, really sorry about that was just the way your text was worded and ended! Well that's really good news then! We wish him all the best, and a speedy recovery!"

The moral of the story! Never jump to conclusions, and always wait a day (and a half to make sure)  before responding to any text of this nature!
The friend? He's still a very good friend of the family, a fantastic support, and one we value greatly. A one in a million!

Sunday, 15 June 2014

"What's the weather like?"

I lounged by the pool as the cool breeze washed over me, the lap of the pool water gently hitting the tiled edge, the giggle of children splashing each other.

That is the life.

Thirty degree heat, a smile on every ones faces. Summer holidays. Can't beat them.

Apart from...

That wonderful scenario, let's get back to it....

The smells...wonderful Mediterranean food cooking: fish, grilled meat, roasted vegetables. Wonderful, the sound of cutlery and crockery, the clink of glasses. The gentle rustling of the palm tree leaves above your head, above the umbrella, fluttering in the breeze, the mobile phone....

The mobile phone?

Oh, yes.

"Hello!" Spoke a very polite voice
"Eeeeeee! Hi! Are ya alright!" The same voice adapted to conform to the person on the end of the line
"What ya doin'?" Giggling and gasps of shock, before the question. The inevitable question.

Now, I don't need to know the answer to this question, but every British person that I know of asks it, whilst on holidaying in a warm climate. We're a funny bunch!

"What's the weather like?"
 I cringed as she asked.

Whats the weather like? What in the world do you want to know that for? I know why. When we're in a warm climate, sunning ourselves, we want it to be raining. Heavily, in our home country. So that we can smirk about it all. 

However, that was not the case. The sun was cracking the pavements. It was a heat wave. The girl was devastated. Her bright orange bikini clashing against the redness of her fuming cheeks. She fell silent, desperate to get off the phone to the chirpy little voice on the other end. She no longer wanted to know what was going on in Blighty.

The mobile phone was dutifully switched of and plunged into the depths of her beach bag, beneath her factor fifteen lotions and tropica- fresh body spray.

Clambering off the lounger, she grabbed the umbrella which was shading her delicate pale skin from the suns rays and put it down. Hair up, sunglasses off, she was determined to turn a darker shade of lobster before the day was done.

I chuckled at her plight as I continued to read, enjoying the holiday.

How did she get on? 

We saw her at dinner that evening, in white. It was not a good choice for her, her deep red shiny skin illuminated. She looked pained, but sure enough, the following morning, she was there again- laid out on the sun longer, ready for another session!

Friday, 6 June 2014

That Little Helping Hand

It's at that moment, when your toddler insists on 'helping', when your life flashes before your eyes.

It's imperative that the house is tidy, the garden is in a respectful condition and you have T-3 seconds to get it done, with three lively little ones at home.

That's what a challenge is about!

Tonight it was the battle of the watering cans. Rascal number 2 was adamant that the yellow ducky watering can would be the can of choice to water our many, many plants and flowers. 

It holds about 3 teaspoons of water....max.

The battle for the outside tap begun with a fight, mother holding the large watering can tight to the outlet, while rascal pulled and heaved with accompanied screaming thrown in for good effect. Once the large watering can was full, I humoured said child by filling up the ducky.

Big grin on face, we were off, to the front of the house.

This job should have taken ten minutes, max.

Not tonight. 

Rascal #2 decided that they should be the first to water any plant that I would stand at, hence ducky emptied. 

Ducky needed re-filling.

Rascal doesn't understand the whole patience malarkey hence chooses to bypass it in life.

I explained that I would help ducky water the plant, and proceeded to empty my watering can into the pot.

This didn't please rascal #2

The scream was a little whimper at first, scaling up to a full on wail by the time the last drip had hit the soil. Facing down the street, the wail echoed in the quietness as a few curtains began to twitch.

Ushering rascal into the garden for a top up, the wailing ceased momentarily and the 3 teaspoons of water were replenished. Filling my can up, we once again headed to the thirsty plants. 

But disaster struck. Due to the flailing arms swinging ducky, ducky had emptied the water, not only on the path, but on rascals head.

The wail emerged once again as the baby soft fur stuck, to rascals face. The pet lip protruding and quivering.

An about turn took us to the utility room where rascals hair was dried and rascal was armed with ducky, another refill on the cards.

After explaining in great details the trials of swinging a water filled ducky above your head, it seemed fairly clear that rascal wouldn't attempt to make ducky 'fly' again.

En route we went, once more to said plants.

A moment of piece and quiet was had while we watered in silence, until I realised that the was no rascal with a ducky near me. Rascal was trying to water the neighbours terrified cat. 

The cat fled, ducky flew through the air and rascals mouth opened to allow the loudest yell in the history of tantrums to emerge. At this point, neighbours opened their doors as I grabbed rascal around the waist and ran into the garden. After calming down, we agreed that we would water the baskets that hung in the air, then we were finished.

Off we went. Ducky being cuddled, thankfully remaining empty, rascal staying close to my heels.

That's when it all unravelled in the most disasterous way. As I tilted the watering can, gingerly above rascal and myself, my hand slipped. The watering can upended and both rascal and me were drenched, from head to toe in water, whilst the hanging basket stayed bone dry.

We looked at each other and after recovering for the icy cold shock, beamed and dissolved into laughter.

One thing I do hope is that seeing as the watering can also had miracle grow- I wonder how tall we'll be in the morning! I could do with a bit more height!

Thursday, 5 June 2014

Hairdresser Horror!

It happens most times, not every time, but most times.

It's at that point where I'm sitting in the chair, colour *cough* is in the hair and I look like an oil slicked chicken, hair sticking out at angles every which way. That's when it happens.

I get the flashback.

Once upon a time I was having my hair coloured for the first time...oh yes, it was a big moment. 
I had just settled into the chair, my hair having been coated in colour which later would emerge the colour of an orange...yes, don't ask- it was supposed to have been a deep red.

I was taking deep breaths to calm my nerves and had a lovely latte and chocolate biscuit in front of me. I picked up my book (no tablets at that point) and engrossed myself in my reading.

The noise filtered through my ears into my conscious mind incredibly slowly. I was in a daze really when the voice of my hairdresser became clear:

"We need to leave"
"Huh?" I asked
"It's the fire alarm, we need to leave" I raised my fearful eyes to the mirror infront of me and froze with terror
"Are you joking me?" I stared in disbelief

Now, in my mind there is an unwritten rule that women having their hair coloured (cap on, foils in or just plain retouching) should not be exposed to any living person at that time other that the people in the hairdressers. FACT.

I gingerly stood from my chair and slowly followed her outside, keeping my eyes firmly fixed to the ground. Not daring to make any form of eye contact with anybody, I just knew they would be looking with sorrow at this human oil slicked chicken.

It was at that point, when my eyes were trained on a spot of trodden down chewy, when a bare foot passes my line of vision.

I did a double take, and raised my eyes. I then realised that I was not, by any means in the worst position. 

You see, I was a member at a health club, where I also had my beauty treatment. The health club had a pool. Yes, you've got it. As I raised my now bright orange barnet up to look around me, I was the only person dressed in a slightly civilised manner. The other 60+ were not only in yoga wear, but swim wear.

Yes, swim wear. I'm talking bikinis, cossies and trunks. A couple of older ladies sporting their plastic flower swim hats. Dripping wet. No time for towels.

I stemmed my laughter and bit my tongue so hard I drew blood!

As for my bright orange mop? I no longer frequent the salon!