A Younger, Blonder, Much Weirder Looking Me

Inspired by The Gallery at Sticky Fingers, which I stumbled upon just recently, is a photo of a younger me.  It appeared on Facebook recently, courtesty of an old friend of mine, and has prompted thoughts of a new haircut as I establish myself firmly in my forties.  Probably not a repeat of this one, though.  And for anyone who doesn't know me, and possibly also for those who do, I'm the one on the left.

Have the Bumps Gone Out of Fashion?

I only ask because it has never once occurred to me to give any of my children the bumps on their birthday.
In fact, I'd forgotten that they even existed until my memory was jolted by the sight of Arsene Wenger receiving them courtesy of his team following their FA Cup win.

Seeing this white-haired man in his mid-sixties being casually tossed aloft - and looking both delighted and slightly sheepish at the same time -  reminded me of that mixture of fear and exhilaration that came with getting the bumps on your birthday.  It was part of the whole deal...cake, candles, making a wish, presents, musical statues, the bumps.

So where did they go?  We've attended dozens of children's parties in over the last seven years.  Not even a sniff of them.  Wikipedia described them as one of a number of 'birthday torments' that might be inflicted.  I wondered if contemporary health and safety fears have banished them to the annals of history.

So, ignoring all that, we decided to reinstate them for Gertie's seventh birthday.

I think she enjoyed herself!

Currently reading: Death at Wentwater Court by Carola Dunn
Don't judge...it's half term!

Alien Goo in One Direction

Day one of the Easter holidays means a trip to the barbers for Gilby.  His thick, unruly hair just about makes it through a half term before he begins to resemble a cross between Stig of the Dump and Hagrid (minus the beard).

Usually a 'trim and tidy' will suffice.  On this occasion, however, I am not able to look the barber in the eye as I outline my four-year-old's requirements:

"So, there are two things that you need to know."  (Here I cough and clear my throat.) "Um, he has clumps of alien goo stuck into the left hand side of his head which will need cutting out..."  I pause for a moment, (thinking back to the small pocket money alien-embryo toy that we bought yesterday and regretted almost immediately) and then find that the words, "And he'd like you to cut it like Niall from One Direction," tumble out.

I know which one I feel more unsettled by.

I also never cease to be amazed by the statements I am forced to make as a parent...

Currently reading: Igboland by Jeff Gardiner

Jeans Blues

I have, this morning, much to my surprise, managed to squeeze myself into a pair of pre-Gertie jeans. 

I have therefore disproved the well-known (to myself) proverb that you can't teach old jeans a new body, and though they no longer make the most comfortable outfit, and I shan't be sporting a cropped top with them, there is something deeply satisfying about the achievement. 

The joy this brings is marred somewhat by the realisation that they are probably eight to ten years past their fashion-date, being rather more on the flared side of bootcut, and of an indigo that hasn't been seen on the high street in a while.  Sod it.  I'm wearing them anyway.

This is a post that won't be receiving a pictorial accompaniment...