The One In Which I Hand In My Complaint Letter

Okay, so maybe I haven’t actually screwed up with the whole letter - I’d say I handled it quite well. I let all my informality drain away from my body, and I suddenly became my mother. That’s a screw-up in itself.

I borrowed one of Hubby’s fancy business fountain pens, and, after spending about half an hour figuring out how to change the empty ink cartridge (thanks a lot, Hubs), I was finally able to use it properly.

I started off by writing the date and all that crap neatly, cursing out loud whenever I smudged, and so had to blot with tissues (I was saving those for my soppy romance movies - Starbucks shall pay for that too, I’ll make sure of it) multiple times before getting into the swing of things.

Thankfully, I had no interruptions from Littleboy1, or else he was in danger of getting stabbed with a sharp pen.

After I’d written the whole letter (which took me about two hours, as I had to look up every single word on the formality dictionary, in fear of coming across as someone from MTV Cribs), I neatly folded it in half and sealed it in one of my posh envelopes, which I usually use to jot down my shopping list on occasion.

“Done it yet?” Hubby asked, hovering over me like a bee, obviously waiting for his pen back.

“Yes, I have, so here’s your precious weapon back,” I said, giving him back the pen and watching him scurry off lovingly to do some of his paperwork or whatever.

I put the letter in a very safe place (okay, fine, sort of safe place. My bra wasn’t a good contender at this time), up in one of the cupboards out of Littleboy1’s reach (I didn’t feel doodles of stickmen being stabbed with blue carrots was the perfect solution to solving this issue - then again, maybe they’d actually pay me, if I threatened to stab them with colourful and sharp vegetables…).

Fine, I’ll admit it. I forgot about it for a couple of days. Maybe it’d have been even longer if I hadn’t desperately required the cheese grater for Littleboy1 (he wanted cheese on toast, and I was too stressed to say no). That’s when I found the bloody letter.

My screams could be heard in the whole neighbourhood, so much so that Hubby even came running (and that’s when you know you’ve screamed loudly).

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and I could see the pain in his eyes, the pain that was dragging him away from his work (God knows why he’s so in love with it all).

“I. Forgot. All. About. The. Starbucks. Letter.”

Hubby raised his eyebrows lazily. “Let’s call the police shall we?” was his sarcastic remark.

“Police? Police? What police? Why police? When police? How police? Where police?” Littleboy1 had transformed into a budgerigar.

This is my everyday life.

After running all the way down to Starbucks (I felt that if I drove I could ‘accidentally’ lose control and kill myself) I panicked.

What do I do here? Do I just go inside and give it to the person behind the counter? Do I ask for the manager and give it to him?!

So, I went inside. So far so good, I thought. There wasn’t a big queue, so I just, slowly, walked forwards. When the man in front of me had just got his coffee, I was scared shitless. What if it happened again? I wasn’t wearing very gripping shoes - bad move. I gingerly stepped forward, rubbing my foot ferociously against the tiles for signs of liquid. I then realised I looked like a psychopath, and so stopped and smiled.

The woman behind the counter retreated in horror a bit, and so I just thrust the envelope at her.

“W-What’s this?” she asked, warily touching it as if it were a bomb.

“It’s a letter for the manager,” I said, confidently (where did that come from?), “and I’d appreciate it if you gave it to him straight away. It’s urgent.”

I then turned my back on her and walked out, my dignity intact, my head high, and walked straight home.

I will now wait for my vouchers.

The One In Which I Embarrass Myself In A Coffee Shop

I write to you now in a coffee shop (Starbucks to be precise). I only came here because a) I wanted to get away from the Littleboys for a bit of peace by dropping them off at their Grandma’s and b) I needed a drink, as I was gasping.

I don’t know if I’ll ever want to show my face in this Starbucks ever again though, as I kind of embarrassed myself in the queue.

It wasn’t my fault. It was the staff’s - they didn’t feel it was necessary to place a ‘Wet Floor’ sign on the ground. Don’t ask me why.

The person in front of me left with his Tall Latte and as I moved forward, purse in hand, my feet just suddenly gave way above the wet circumstance, and I found myself crashing to the ground in a whirl of both embarrassment and slight pain (I think my huge - but obviously necessary - bag broke my fall).

I must say, nobody was thrusting themselves forward to come to my rescue, which I found even more embarrassing and rude. One man was staring at me, making no attempt to get up from his comfy seat, putting his Americano at stake.

When I managed to get up (by myself - no hands were offered), I tried to act like nothing happened.

I heard a few sniggers coming from behind me, but shook them off (much like the dust I’d gathered on my shorts).

I just nonchalantly ordered my drink and when I’d paid, turned around.

“Be careful now,” the Starbucks man said, and I actually heard a slight dance in his tone.

I ought to sue.

The One In Which I Review The Sleepover

As soon as I stopped pulling my hair out and crying hysterically, I finally came to terms with the fact that in a few short hours I would be hosting (alone - Hubby was away on a business trip) a sleepover.

“What food does Jake like?” was the first question I asked, getting up from the table unsteadily and feeling faint.

“He likes pizza.”

Of course. Why waste my breath?

“What kind of pizza?”

“Tesco pizza.”

I could see I was getting nowhere here, so I just strapped both the Littleboys in the car and drove down to Tesco.

I didn’t want to risk anything, so I bought pepperoni, cheese & tomato and ham & pineapple. I also bought a few bottles of blackcurrant fruit-shoots in case he didn’t like the fresh orange juice we had at home in the fridge.

As soon as we got home (accompanied by a few Tesco bags), I unloaded everything into cupboards and into the fridge.

“What else does Jake like, Littleboy1? Does he like Calippo ice-lollies?”

Littleboy1 just shrugged and went back to his room to play with his Lego towers.

As I said in my previous post, thanks Littleboy1. He’s such a big help, isn’t he? He makes me so proud…

At 5:30 on the dot the doorbell rang, and so I quickly adjusted my hair (I don’t know why, I must have assumed she’d have changed her mind if she saw me with rat’s tails).

“Hi there!” she beamed, dressed in a really posh suit even though it was the holidays.

“Hello. And hello, Jake!”

Jake just waved and ran past me to find Littleboy1. Polite, huh?

“Sorry about that,” the woman said, the smile never even leaving her face. “He’s excited, is all.”

I just smiled.

“I’ll pick him up tomorrow after breakfast then?”

“Yeah, that’ll be fine. Goodbye.”

“Bye!”

I shut the door as soon as I could. Good grief.

After tea (I realised Jake liked the pepperoni pizza), I had a bit of quiet time to myself as I’d already set up the Z-bed in Littleboy1’s room. They were both playing with Littleboy1’s toy cars, ambulances and police vans. How two children can find such enjoyment out of plastic good-for-nothing cars I’ll never know.

Littleboy2 only disrupted me once, wailing for his nappy to be changed, and then he slept like a baby (hmm, bad choice of words there).

At about 9pm (I’d been generous - I hope Littleboy1 doesn’t think this is going to be a regular thing) I checked on the boys to make sure they were in their pyjamas and in bed.

Far from it.

They were both fully-clothed (including muddy shoes from playing football outside in the back garden earlier), chatting loud as anything, and bouncing on Littleboy1’s bed.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Oops. I didn’t mean for Incredible Hulk to come out of his shell, it just happened as quick as a flash.

“Littleboy1, off your bed right now. You know you’re not allowed to bounce on the bed, especially with mucky shoes on!”

“Sorry Mummy…”

“Now, I want you in your pyjamas and in bed by the time I come back - 5 minutes.”

I turned and walked out of the door, pretty pleased that I could control two 4 year old boys.

I rewarded myself with a nice cake. A lovely, creamy, chocolaty Éclair. Yummy.

I went back to check on the boys when I’d finished every last bite (it may have taken a bit longer than 5 minutes - I wanted to savour each bite as Hubby limits me to 1 cake per day as I am watching my weight here).

Luckily, they were in bed, clothes strewn all over the carpet, shoes beside their bed in pairs.

“Good boys,” I said. “Now, get some sleep, because little boys need lots of sleep.”

I don’t know where that came from. I think I was trying to threaten them in some way, but it kind of backfired slightly.

I turned off the light and closed the door. I then went up to bed because I was very tired after that stressful day. Seriously - I was so tired that as soon as I lay down on my pillow I was fast asleep…

The next morning was pretty ordinary. Jake chose Weetabix (the healthy option) whereas Littleboy1 chose Coco Pops (the not-so-healthy option).

I just had some black coffee (I always need black coffee in my mornings otherwise I don’t know what to do) and a breakfast bar.

I think Jake’s mum is a bit psychic. Honestly! As soon as I put the kids’ bowls in the sink the doorbell rang. Spooky or what?!

I don’t think I’ll be having Jake round for a while, or anybody for that matter. I just need a rest, which I think will be fairly impossible this Summer…

My First Post (a.k.a. The One In Which I Doubtfully Organise A Sleepover)

I’ve never been a fan of sleepovers. Just hearing the word makes me shudder. Whenever I used to be invited to sleepovers I’d try and avoid them, make up excuses like “I’ve got a family occasion tonight, sorry” and “I’m staying at my Grandparents’ tonight…”. I don’t know what it was about them that I didn’t like, but for some reason I just detested the idea of sleeping at somebody else’s house, in their room, in their Z-beds, and eating their cereal from their bowls in the morning.

So when Littleboy1 came running up to me (who was sipping white wine on the sun-lounger on the outside porch, having the time and peace of her life) waving the phone in my face, I panicked slightly. I wasn’t expecting any phone calls, and if it was from my mother then Littleboy1 would have known to tell her I was out or asleep with a migraine.

“Who is it?” I mimed, placing my glass down hesitantly.

Littleboy1 shrugged and thrust the receiver at me. Thanks a lot, Littleboy1. You’re a great help, aren’t you?

“Hello?” I said, holding the phone against my ear. I was mentally crossing my fingers that my mother’s voice would not bounce through my ear and down into my brain where it would then settle and ring inside my head for a couple of hours, torturing me…

But it wasn’t.

“Hi!”

The reply was a happy, peppy, perky voice, possibly almost fake.

“This is Julie,” she proceeded. “I am Littleboy1’s friend Jake’s mum. Apparently you said Jake can come round for a sleepover tonight? Littleboy1 told Jake you’d allowed it.”

This was news to me. I glared at Littleboy1 with eyes that read ‘You lying little twit’.

“Of course, if today is a bad time, we could always arrange it for another night?”

This woman was acting as though she was the organiser of this little shin-dig, which pissed me off a bit.

“Uh…no, today is fine.”

I surprised myself a little there. I should have told her I actually knew nothing about this, but that would more or less ruin Littleboy1’s reputation, and categorize him as a ‘Liar’ and that’s all he needed, starting big school…

“Oh, perfect!” came the shrill reply, almost straightaway. “Should Jake have his tea at home or are you willing to cook him up a little something?”

What the hell was this, a charity event? Willing to cook him something. Did she think I was Satan?

“I wouldn’t mind cooking tea for Jake too,” I replied through gritted teeth. I already hated this woman.

“That’s wonderful! What time is best for you? We usually sit down at the table round about 5.”

I didn’t really want to know what her schedules were. Who does this woman think she is?

“Is half 5 okay?” I said.

“That’s absolutely divine! Littleboy1 wrote down your address on a sticky note, so we’ll be round there no problem. I’ll see you then!”

Then she hung up.

I felt like strangling Littleboy1 at that moment for getting me into this mess.

“Why did you lie to Jake, Littleboy1?” I asked, going inside the house and pouring my wine down the sink (I know, I know, good alcohol gone to waste, but I really felt I had lost my wine-related appetite).

“Sorry, Mummy, but I really want a sleepover!”

I sighed. It wasn’t really Littleboy1’s fault, I suppose. It’s mine for letting it all happen. Then again, I have someone else to blame.

The wine.