The Brocante Home Chronicles.

The Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

"54. My tumble drier. The day it dies is the day you will find me dangling off the satellite dish."

I am hanging off the satellite dish as we speak.

Thank goodness there is an entire flourless chocolate lavender cake I baked yesterday and forgot to force feed he who insisted I bake it, to help me through the night. I suspect balancing a slither of said cake with berries and cream will be hideously difficult while I'm living on the roof, but never let it be said I don't relish a challenge.

Oh my darling Mr Tumble how in the name of all things pretty am I going to get by without you?

The Glorious Destination

"Can you think of a single other person you'd rather be? There. Doesn't that tell you something? Your own situation may not be ideal, but at least you know your way around it. You are travelling a road that simply has to lead to a glorious destination. There's a point to what you are doing and there's something positively poetic about the way things are changing. Be glad that you are who you are- and allow a positive cosmic climate to fill you with the enthusiasm you deserve to feel..."

My horoscope.

I rather like life in a positive cosmic climate. While I consider most astrology to be a lot of mumbo jumbo there is nothing quite like a scrumptiously happy little horoscope to throw a little rose coloured light into our day...

It is Spring. Glorious, gorgeous, lime green Spring. The bin men are outside again whistling a happy tune and I am here, wiggling my bare toes and waiting for the pain d'epice to finish baking in the oven. The weekend passed in a flurry of chichi bars, a lovely birthday party and a Spanish omelette to sell your granny for. Though I do say so myself. Today I have been down on my hands and knees pulling up weeds in the front garden and tomorrow Finn will attend a starter session at the primary school he will eventually attend. All of a sudden there is clarity. Mud splattered clarity but clarity all the same. Mud splattered my darlings, because as I kneeled in the soil this morning gossiping with my neighbour John, Finley saw fit to pull back the elastic of my trousers and tip a spade full of dirt down my knickers. Whoever said children are a blessing obviously didn't have any.

It is said that cosmic shifts happen in seven year cycles. When I was twenty two I finished university, bought a titchy green car, and started my decorating career. When I was twenty nine, I grew so tired of the horror that is working in other peoples living rooms, I took a no-stress job as a hairdressers receptionist, bought a house and got engaged. I danced a little polka with normality, two up two down and one day, two and half kids. And now seven years later, now I'm thirty six, now when the world is upside down, I can feel it happening again... all change please. Time to get off the bus and board the train to a whole new kind of bliss m'lady.

Of course things happened in-between each seven year period. First time round I lost a business, put on three hundred stone, and taught colour scheming to women with little else to do. Then second time round, I lost three hundred stone, had a baby, started Brocante and lost a relationship. (I'm downright bloody careless aren't I??) All these things happened but they weren't planned with any real sense of shaping my destiny. They were getting through, the time is right, oops how did that happen, must be done things. The universe didn't line itself up and say the time is now Alison. Not like it is now.  Whether you want it or you don't, your life is taking on a new shape and you've got no choice but to re-invent yourself and shake off yesterday. Including for heavens sake, mindless meandering towards goodness knows what, spending entire weekends feeling all shook up by a voice from the past, chasing tired out dreams and waiting for miracles to happen. Time for a plan Missus. Time to recognise that change has come knocking.

Ooooh noooooo: change is terrifying, so lets talk about gardening instead.

So there we were, Finley and I, all decked out for a bit of green fingery. Me in a pink pinny, hair piled up in a spiky, scary pineapple, lavender gloves and the quintessential blue gardening clogs, and Finley dressed as Doctor Who, complete with mini sports jacket and a stripy tie. I of course had mud in my knickers but let's put that aside and concentrate on the matter in hand. Namely that he who I adored as a teenager works in a garden centre and the fact that my postage stamp is a mass of weeds is a cause of great embarrassment that had to be addressed before his next visit. And so there we were, me on my hands and knees, dragging out a complicated tangle of weeds and Finley running in and out of the house, bringing out a concoction he reliably informed me would kill the weeds: something I clearly wasn't paying the required attention to as I tinkled along to Carla Bruni piped from inside the house, dwelled on the forbidden bowl of pesto pasta I was planning for tea, and sniffed in wonder as it struck me that the tiny little hydrangea bush hiding under the bay laurel smelled almost exactly like Obsession, my favourite perfume in the world.

I sniffed again. Bizarrely the camellia bush smelled like Obsession too.  And the over-sized unidentified bush by the door. Curiouser and curiouser. In fact the whole of our lane stank of me.

I ran into the house, resolutely ignored the trail of diddy muddy footprints up the stairs and down the landing to the bathroom and caught my very own little mad scientist in the act. The act, my friends, involving tipping the last of my Obsession body lotion into a can full of Aveda shampoo and cold water and stirring it with a Spiderman toothbrush.

Clearly the child needs to be in school.

And there's the rub, because he will be won't he? In just a few month's time I will be shoving my child into a blue uniform and handing him over to a lovely woman called Mrs Carr, while I hopefully attend the Masters Course I have applied for, run the 5k for breast cancer (stop laughing Dad), write with reason and walk determinedly towards the glorious destination I've been casually meandering towards for the past two years.

It's a plan. Of sorts.

You see Jonathan Cainer was right: there isn't anyone else I'd rather be. Now is not the time to wander off my chosen path.

So bring on the next seven years. I'm poetry in the making Baby.

(P.S: I'm an Aries in case anyone else feels like boogieing in a positive cosmic light with me. Heck come if you are a Sagittarius. A Gemini or even a naughty Scorpion. Let's face it, it's all in our pretty little heads anyway!)

The Only 127 Things I Need

So the house is on fire and you've got ermmm, twenty minutes (it's a slow burning affair) to drag everything you really need in this life on to the front lawn. Or keeping your home depends on raising a silly amount of money so you've got to sell everything but the things your world rely's on. Or heck, maybe you've just come over all minimalist and decided its all just gravy...

You've got to choose 127 things to keep. 127 things because this is the number Donna Wilkinson has declared constitutes life's essentials, but not having yet read the book yet I'm not entirely certain that those things I consider essential would really keep anyone else's boat afloat but here it is regardless: the 127 things I couldn't live without...

Do feel free to come up with something slightly more worthy than big earrings...

1. Washing Up Liquid. Give me a bottle of it and I can clean the house from top to bottom.

2. A packet of the cheapest bourbon biscuits you can find in the supermarket. Posh ones just won't do. They need to cost about 22p to really thrill me.

3. The hospital bracelet they attached to Finn's wrist when they told me he was suffering from either cancer or cystic fibrosis. Always look on the bright side Dear Doctor...

4. The twinkly denim jacket perpetually tied around my waist. Big bum disguise with added sequins. Actually make that "everybody stare at my big bum please...". But never mind, it makes me feel better...

5. An old pottery figurine of an old man who looks like my Grandad. It broke in half and I glued it back together in a gruesome fashion, but oh how I love it. So much so that it is hidden under my bed because it doesn't quite fit my shabby chic aesthetic. Sorry Grandad.

6. An ancient copy of The Hobbit I read when I was seven. The day I fell in love with reading.

7. A cheese grater. For cheddar and marmite granary toasties.

8. A flannel because I've got a grubby son. I'm one of those Mothers who grabs her child in a head lock and scrubs. Could be worse Son, some mummies lick a tissue and wipe it all over your cherubic little face...

9. My ribbon tied bundle of 130 Gulf War love letters from a soldier called Dale. Bless our teenage hearts. We were so young. And they'd given him a gun. Terrible, terrible, terrible...

10. A gold paperweight engraved with Ali May, (thats me!!) from my sister Helen. 

11. Snuggles. I mean I know I can't pack them in a suitcase but I wanna take them with me regardless. Only the other day I squashed up to my poor Mum and forced her to hug me properly on pain of depriving me of essential human contact and thus causing me to shrivel up and die...

12. My trademark bangle sized gold hoop earrings. Because I'm a gypsy at heart.

13. My mobile phone. I kiss it sometimes because I'm thirty six going on eighteen and some conversations make me smile in a silly fashion. And it's got an MP3 player. Though what that's for I'll probably never know...

14. Jellybeans from a jar. A whole new culinary obsession.

15. Ruby by The Kaiser Chiefs on cd. Because hearing Finley scream Ruby Ruby RUuuuuuuuuuuBY! on the way to nursery every morning makes me giggle. I love my son to bits.

16. Smudgy kohl eyeliner. I look a bugger without it. And some days I look a bugger with it too.

17. My Dad's Wednesday night sweet delivery. A bag of Tangtastics and a quick chat. Lovely. (And yes Mum, I do know how very, very spoilt I am!)

18.  Emmerdale Farm. It's a long term love affair. Not sure how I'm gonna get it in a trunk though.

19. The Victorian gold locket that was my eighteenth birthday present from my Mum and Dad.

20. My pink washing up bowl. People who wash the dishes in the sink make me wanna bash them up. Lordy, who made me Goddess of the pots and pans?

21. A George Forman grill. Because I'm lazy. And I like stripy food.

22. Finley. Because he is my bestest dream ever.

23. The slightly bashed up bust of a young girl that was the first thing I bought for the interiors shop I owned when I was twenty three. And then stole from myself.

24. Padded coat hangers. They strike me as gloriously luxurious.

25. A crumpled up newspaper cutting of a man I don't know wearing a t-shirt that says "Living so large it hurts". I've had it since I was fifteen and still to this day cannot understand it's appeal. But I smile at him like he's an old friend.

26. My yellow journal. From the days before the damned Internet got a stranglehold on my creativity.

27. My Ormskirk Shop Window Display of The Year Certificate circa 1995. Yey me! Awarded by the local Town Crier. Probably my finest, silliest hour. Complete with twig reindeer.

28. The Coeliac Society Food Directory. Our bible.

29. A long black halter neck dress that doesn't particularly fit me but makes me feel so beautiful I occasionally wear it while I'm hoovering. With a dirty face and bed hair.

30.  My laptop. Obviously.

31. Johnson's Baby oil. For glossy skin and slippy, lovely baths. Please don't try this at home.

32. Balsamic Vinegar. For dousing pretty much everything. Even baked beans.

33.  My first business card. Proof that I was once a grown up. And have since regressed.

34. A photograph of Helen and I, sitting on the sofa giggling on my 21st Birthday.

35. Nurofen Max. Because I get headaches that come out of nowhere and fair old blind me occasionally. Once when I was driving. Almost into a wall.

36. My Noodle. A pink fuzzy duster I can strap to my hand. Goodness, that sounds a bit bonkers doesn't it??

37. Paper and a propelling pencil. I'm a passionate doodler of tulips, over-sized sunflowers and ladies with big lips.

38. Erotica by Madonna. My getting ready to go out music of the moment.

39.  An exquisitely worn Irish linen rose sprinkled tea-towel. Lovely because it works. And it's pretty. And it dries things! Wonders will never cease.

40.  A baby blue cotton romper suit my babba looked like an angel in when he was four months old.

41. Mother Pucker lip gloss. Because I'm addicted to the tingly chocolately loveliness of it.

42. Pineapple jelly in a rabbit shaped mould. With the trailer trash joy that is whipped cream sprayed from a tin. God I'm sooooo common.

43.  A little silver cheese knife I seem to spend my life hunting.

44. My red floral duvet. Womb-like, but with roses. Fairy scented bliss.

45. A huuuuuge tub of baking soda. Every home should have one.

46. Oil of Ulay/Olay. I never put it on my skin. But sometimes I sniff the pink plastic bottle because it reminds me of my Nana.

47. Finley's first ringlet. Was it mean to chop it off while he was a-dreaming? It smells of baby. I wanted to bottle it.

48. A green milk glass with a fat little border of hearts. The only one left of four identical siblings. I couldn't be more careless if I was doing it on purpose.

49. Soap and Glory Wrinkle Filler. Polyfilla for my face. Our little secret ok?

50. The biggest bottle of Tanqueray I can find. For emergencies of the heart. And the purse. And domestic disasters usually involving little rodents.

51. Rebecca. The novel and the film.

52. The man I adored as a teenager. Because he has insisted on being included in this list. (Cheeky) And because he brings me oodles of dark chocolate. Bless him.

53. The geranium on my kitchen window sill. Simply because I can't believe it's not dead yet. I'm irrationally proud.

54. My tumble drier. The day it dies is the day you will find me dangling off the satellite dish.

55. The framed sepia picture of two sisters in my laundry room.

56. The leather writing case my Nana bought me when I was twelve. Now stuffed with teenage ramblings and a postcard from George Michael aka my Auntie Barbie.

57. Finley's rather fabulous picture of a chest of drawers with elephant. An inspired composition methinks.

58. A scanner. I'm mad for scanning things I am.

59. My flower sprinkled, chocolate covered, pencil written, sellotaped together, cutting filled home made recipe book.

60. My precious library card.

61. A handwritten note from the Poet Laureate Andrew Motion explaining why my poem was the National Prize Winner. Proof I can write when I put my mind to it.

62. A picture of me in the local paper, wearing a pretentious row of pearls on the day I won said prize. Awful. But funny. Which just about sum's me up really... awful but funny.

63. The Steve McQueen postcard tucked into my Venetian glass mirror. When I want something I fight like hell for it. Because it's true. And sometimes I don't even know I'm fighting. No wonder I'm bloody exhausted.

64. Water. Out of the tap. Ice cold please. With a big chunk of lime.

65. A pretty plate and a spoon. A girl has got to eat.

66. A pink crocheted bib a BrocanteHome reader once sent me. For the little girl I'm going to have one day. Probably when medical science has invented geriatric maternity wards.

67. My grey blanket. For wrapping around my naked self after a cosy bath.

68. My great big Scouse pan. Stolen from my Mum.

69. Oh and a well seasoned wok. There you go: all cooking emergencies covered.

70. Foil. I do like a nice big roll of foil. 

71. A tiny little brass bell. Because I like helping angels get their wings.

72. Salty Normandy butter and smoky streaky bacon. Not necessarily together.

73.  Finn's Mummy Bears. Life would rapidly turn hellish without them.

74. My damask covered ribbon box. Rolls of ribbon secured with teeny pearly pins. Just for looking at. And licking occasionally.

75. My red heart shaped baking tin. For the best chocolate cake in the world.

76. The pile of yellow paper on which the first two chapters of my (rubbish) novel is scrawled in pen the colour of blood. Spill your guts Miss May. Spill your guts.

77. A letter from my friend Julie, starting with the immortal words, Dear JellyEgg...

78. The blue patchwork quilt under my bed, falling apart and smelling of  home and cuddles and our first flat.

79.  Tea. I'm pretty sure life wouldn't be worth living without a good cup of Tetley's tea. Made by my Dad please. With skimmed milk and one Canderel. Because I'm a heathen.

80. A big bundle of string. In case I happen across a vagabond who need's securing till the police arrive. Or want to tie up my recycling.

81. The tiny bottle of champagne hiding at the back of the fridge. Because cause for celebration is always around the corner in my world...

82. The maroon velvet baby shoes tied up in olive green ribbon Mark bought me when we decided to have a baby. I don't miss an ounce of him, but often ache for the family I thought we would be.

83.  Zona Home. The first interiors book I really treasured.

84. My Sex and the City DVD's. Because I need more time to weigh up the merits of Mr Big versus the delectably loyal an oh so lovely Aiden. Because I'm a fool. 

85.  A trolley token with Someone Special on it. Terribly useful are trolley tokens.

86. A pink staple gun. I feel weirdly efficient when I'm stapling things together.

87. Simple Abundance. Goes without saying. But it has shaped my life.

88. The birdcage in my bedroom window. Mostly so Finley will be able to carry on jailing Spiderman.

89. I'll probably need a recipe book won't I? So I'm choosing Apples For  Jam. Family friendly Mediterranean loveliness.

90. My calendar. All of a sudden I'm one of those women who doesn't know there's a bank holiday looming unless I check the wall twice a day.

91. A bag I can sling across my body postman style and forget about.

92. My box of stencil paints. For remembering who I used to be.

93. Colgate toothpaste. The only one that doesn't put me off food for the rest of the day.

94. Tweezers. I pluck past myself.

95. The cupboard with the birds painted on it in Finn's room. Because I was hot and eight and a half months pregnant when I painted it and it's precious.

96. The heart shaped baskets on top of my wardrobe. Filled with paper memories.

97. Harvest Morn Chocolate Crunch cereal from Aldi of all places. I make a special trip and buy it in bulk. Milky cold yumminess for not so hungry suppers.

98. Red wine. Preferably a nice bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape. That I will refuse to share because it's mine. All mine.

99. High heels. They hurt and they give me blisters but I feel shuffily and sloppy without them and I like being able to see over everybody else's head.

100. Pure lavender oil. Life-saving loveliness.

101. The silver sequined top I bought last week. Because I feel like a sparkly butterfly in it. Every girl deserves to feel like a sparkly butterfly occasionally.

102. The occasional Sayers cheese and onion pasty. Because you can only get them in Liverpool. And when I'm not at home that is what I ache for.

103. The very silly glitzy ring I bought when I sold my engagement ring. My you're gonna be just dandy ring...

104. The picture of Finley looking the spitting image of a frog in the few hours after he was born. A picture only a very besotted new Mummy could love.

105. The diary of my sixteenth Summer.

106.  A cucumber or twenty nine. Oh how I love you cucumber. Please love me back for always.

107. Egyptian cotton sheets. Warm and cool. How clever is that?

109. Spanx style knickers (never to be revealed in public). As recommended by Gok. Actually scrap the ugly knickers. I neeeeeeed Gok Wan. And I will have him.

110. The goose feather filled pillow I drag everywhere. Even into the receptions of swanky hotels.

111. Bread. Any but preferably the white french kind that gives me insufferable tummy ache half an hour later. Told you I was a fool.

112. Now this may be stretching the concept of need a bit too far, but in Cedar Farm the other day I saw an olive green costume ring I can't live without. But I had forgotten my purse. Won't be long till you are on my finger Sweetie...

113. My pink cardigan. For feeling sorry for myself nights and chilly willy mornings.

114. Salt. I shouldn't but I do.

115. A fountain pen. Because it is the epitome of scrawly elegance.

116. Candles. Billions and trillions of them.

117. The book with the promise written inside.

118. My very ugly, very comfortable blue gardening shoes. For when I pretend to garden my postage stamp.

119. Good dark chocolate. Obviously. Oh and fruit creams. Or rose creams with tiny little crystallised rose petals on top.

120. The gorgeous pair of white flying rabbits hanging above Finn's bed. Rabbits with wings...lovely.

121.  My dry skin body brush. Because I like feeling tingly.

122. Heinz baked beans with little sausages. For the little kid that lives in my tummy. She who wouldn't say no to a Farleys rusk.

123. Daffodils. And sunflowers. And even carnations. Actually flowers full stop. What would be the point without flowers pray tell?

124. White bath towels.

125. BrocanteHome. And all those that sail in her.

126. Ermmmmm.... would it be terrible to say money? Just a little bit for random purchases of things I don't need.

127. And finally my latest project... a  spanking new dateless three year diary with a pale pink ribbon to keep the bestest years of my life (those to come please) secret...

Expect to see everything else I own on Ebay very soon.

The Case of the Missing Fork.

Hmmmmm.

Not long after I met Mark, his Dad left his Mum for a woman who went by the name of Mary. Trouble she was. Trouble in a feisty five foot small little Irish package.

Soon after, cushions from the family sofa and a whole collection of teaspoons started disappearing. Now far be it from me to start pointing the finger at he who was setting up home with someone else's wife, but my point is this: it wasn't me. I wasn't stealing the pillows or the aluminium spoons even though in his Mum's eyes, although she liked me awfully, regardless, I was the only possible suspect and would have to hauled in front of a cup of tea to explain my urge to create a dowry full of stolen goods...

I mention this rather scandalous state of affairs because it has become apparent that while the spoon thief clearly doesn't find my floral cushions attractive he can't keep his grubby little hands out of my cutlery drawer. The full extent of this particular crisis became apparent on Saturday night when in a fit of the hostess with the mostess I found myself laying the table for oodles of people when clearly dinner a deux would have been more fitting considering I couldn't rustle up more than two matching places at the table from two, once huge, canteens (I love that word!) of cutlery. So I concentrated on lighting too many candles and making the rest of the room look twinkly and relied on plying my good friends with wine and hoping they wouldn't notice that their knives were weightless while their forks required a forklift truck to get the chilli into their mouths...

Things disappear don't they? While it clearly won't do to point the finger at Mark and his erstwhile lady friend, or indeed his father, it is becoming clear to me that there exists, somewhere on our rose-sprinkled planet, a black hole filled with bone handled forks and pink paisley socks. Remember my darlings, the terrible case of the washing machine filter? You don't? Perhaps I never told you... I do seem to be suffering from a rather spectacular case of blog induced Alzheimers lately...

While I would like to pretend to be the kind of Mummy that monitors socks with the kind of vengeance I only reserve for my stash of rose creams, most of the time socks come and go and sometimes they go away in pairs and often they find themselves living in a rather fetching little apricot and cornflower blue net bag that is the home for lonely socks in my house, while we wait patiently for their estranged partners to re-commit themselves to life on our feet. So when a teeny little fawn coloured sock went astray you won't be surprised to hear that I didn't notice.

What I did notice was that whole vials of lavender oil  weren't making a jot of difference to the stench that was my laundry. In it went, smelly. And out it came. Smellier. I was mystified so I donned my Sherlock Holmes pinny (a rather snazzy tweed affair) and got down on my hands and knees to investigate. I opened the filter and watched grey water splash my toes.

Hmmm, I said, stroking my whiskers and fiddling with my bushy sideburns. 

Hmmmmmm, I thought as I stooped to stare into the bowels of the machine and saw what looked, for all the world, like a tangled mouse. I froze. And screamed. And called my little mate Finley.

"Sweetheart, what's that in Mummy's washing machine?" I screeched.

"Its a dead mouse" he said and went back to inflicting severe punishment on his pink power ranger.

Oh dear Lord. A dead mouse in my washing machine. Who do you call? Mouse busters?

I was freaking. And a Mummy. And Mummy's aren't allowed to be scared of dead anything just in case it scars their children for life, so I pulled on some leopard print rubber gloves and dragged the filter and the mouse it contained, out, and stood in the foot deep bath of dirty water that followed it, staring at the mouse, baulking past myself and wanting my Mum. Then I got a fork and poked the mouse. Yep. That seemed like the slimy furry skin of a drowned rodent. So I poked it again to make sure, called Finley to have the matter witnessed by someone less round the bend than I, and sighed in sick relief, when my four year old looked at me like I had finally lost my marbles, and said "That's the sock that goes with my grey pants silly, can I have a biscuit now Mum?"

A sock, a lovely little sock. I pulled it out with my teeth (only joking), practiced my breast stroke up and down the river that was my kitchen and chucked the mouse stained fork into the bin. Which probably explains why one of my darling guests found herself nibbling a really rather sublime slither of raspberry chocolate tart off the end of a pint-sized Noddy fork on Saturday night.

If I ever invite you to dinner, do us all a favour and invent a prior engagement won't you?

Beauty With Rhyme and Reason

 

 

 

Me oh my. Is this or is it not quite the ugliest reason to be beautiful you've ever seen?

From The Daily Mail For Girls, 1953.

To Work Or Not To Work?

"Daily to a profession- paid thinking

and clean hands. She rises

Unquestioning. It's second nature now.

The hours, though all of daylight, suit her.

The desk, typewriter, carpet, pleasantries

are a kind of civilisation, built on money,

of course, but money, now she sees, is human.

She has learned giving from her first chequebook,

intimacy from absence. Coming home

long after dark to the jugular torrent

of family life, her smile

cool as the skin of supermarket apples,

she's half the story. There's another woman

who bears her name, a silent, background face

that's always flushed with effort.

The true wife, she picks up scattered laundry

and sets the table with warmed plates to feed

the clean-handed woman. They've not met

If they were made to touch, they'd scald each other."

(From Two Women by Carol Rumens.)

 

I have a dilemma.

The other day, browsing through the oh so very local paper, I saw a job advertised in a tiny little interiors company I adore. A job I could do. A job demanding experience in everything I've got too much experience in. A job I would be good at. A job that pay's regular money. And bonus's and commission... in a shop with chandeliers and oodles of gingham.

And there is a little piece of me that wants it badly. A little of piece of me that says How often do jobs that are made for you crop up locally? (Actually twas the man I adored as a teenager who said that, but lets pretend it was my sensible side. The side of me that says: Your little boy hasn't got a proper tv. There is a HOLE in the kitchen lino! What are you going do about it Big Lick?? Write your heart out and hope your fairy godmother is feeling generous? ) 

Oh no, oh no, oh no.How very awfully terribly dull. I was hoping I didn't have a sensible side.

The thing is this: at the risk of offending the entire female working population,there is a bit of me that thinks that  choosing to be a full time working SINGLE (and there's the rub) mommy is MEAN. That is more noble to be the self sacrificing full time Mommy than it is, even as a single mother, to be able to provide for the child concerned, or at least to be able to provide decent shoes as well as constant attention, without relying on the man who chose not to live with us to keep a roof over our heads, (while I remain creatively satisfied and secretly kinda smug about dancing to my own tune)...  

My reasoning behind all of this is deep rooted and the whole matter throws up all kinds of yukky things I don't want to think about.

Firstly it asks me to redefine my entire image of who I am: essentially somebody who has the opportunity to make a really rather amazing life for herself and chooses not to. The woman with the agent desperate for her to write the book he knows she has in her. The woman (I wanna be a girl!) who when all is said and done is scared of who she is and more than that- scared of who she could be, so sabotages herself on a daily basis. She who is (whisper it) a bit lazy...

Secondly it challenges my frankly absurd moral stance on parenting: a stance I formed as part of a couple. Not as a single mother who owes it to herself and her son to be independent. To not be reliant. Or worse beholden. Because I don't want to be beholden. Not any more.

And thirdly it asks me to recognise that things change. Situations change. (Isn't that a scandal?). The future changes shape and occasionally life asks you to bend yourself out of a shape a little bit to make a world less challenging than the one you currently endure. If only temporarily. If only so that you give yourself the time and space to re-invent the future. To challenge the status quo that is your own stubborn mind-set. To give yourself the freedom, even if that only means the financial freedom, to unpick the ties that bind us to situations we should no longer have to endure. Situations that are essentially curtailing a promising future... 

Damn it. Such terribly reasonable reasoning.

But what about the fact that new kitchen lino ultimately equals one child in breakfast club and after school club? What about the fact that taking this job would mean harassing all sorts of people for babysitting duty and school runs, at least in the short term till Finley starts school in September? What about the fact that the idea of being only "half the story" whether I'm at home or at work might possibly break my heart? What if Finley develops abandonment issues and still lives with me when he's 43 and carries a Roy Cropper shopping bag whenever he ventures out the door? What about the fact that I might like who I am in working garb and end up not recognising myself on a daily basis? What if I abandon all my carefully chartered ambition and start living for my lunch time tuna sandwich?? What if I sell my soul to a devil disguised as a shop full of Gustavian furniture to die for???

Maybe I like my life. This relative poverty thing is strictly bohemian after all... a choice. A way of life I enjoy, with coffee.

Lordy see how good I am at talking myself out of things? I do this at the supermarket. I fill the basket with things and by the time I've got to the till it's empty again and I walk out with a single banana and a magazine, and then get myself home and beat myself about the head with a big stick because I've put the tea-bags I really needed back on the shelf.

Oh heavens I'm going round in circles aren't I?  Throwing question marks around like confetti..

Help wanted. Apply with sensible advice within.

Cohesion

I am hiding in my bedroom while two child shaped monsters systematically trash my house. Every so often one or the other runs into my bedroom and clips a  laundry peg to my fuchsia pink toe then run's out shouting "Don't be cheeky Mrs Moustache!  (General consensus seems to be that I have got a moustache. My Dad told me over lunch on Sunday but I'm trying not to dwell on it.)

It is a beautiful day. I've been into the back garden/yard/postage stamp and started my annual horticultural spring clean, which mostly involved calling said Father to get him to come and take away rusty toddler bikes, pulling out dead beetroot and avoiding looking my neighbour in the eye. But it is a start and a start is a good as a hiccup. And now after a spiky hot chamomile shower (Run it boiling hot, then before you get in sprinkle a few drops of your chosen aromatherapy oil onto the base of the shower, switch it off, wait a few minutes,then switch it back on and get in) I am here, buried in a pile of paisley pillows with a blush coloured glass of dandelion tea, talking to you. A long overdue chat methinks...

I disappear don't I? Lately I am finding it more and more difficult to be a women, and a mother and a housekeeper and a sister and a friend and a blogger and a daughter. A person with ambition. With needs. With hope and a mortgage. Somebody's child. An adult in my own right. The constant terrible quandary of trying to be both. A writer. A reader. Someone capable of honouring her body and her dreams. Someone willing to set herself aside for other people, her relationships and her son...

If it is difficult to be all things to all people, it is almost impossible to juggle our own expectations of who we ought to be without feeling as though we are dropping balls all over the place. Leaving things unsaid. Undone. Annoying the neighbours by singing too loudly and forgetting to bring in the wheelie bin. Actually walking around it without seeing it and this week forgetting to put the recycling out at all (May God and the green police forgive me). Watching things fall apart as we stitch a life up. Sewing up one pocket and seeing a bit of who you used to be, who people have come to expect you are, leaking out of the other. Buying shoes instead of soap powder and spending blissful mornings in bed when we should be up and about, chasing our future instead of living in the delicious, cosy moment. Doing a happy dance as I send my babba to his Daddy's for a sleepover so I can go out and then spending the rest of the evening feeling a teeny tiny bit evil for liking the woman I am when I am not obliged to play Mommy. The woman I become in high heels. She who casts off her pinny and dances on chairs. Worrying constantly about what other people think and in the same breath, truly not giving a damn.Worrying about occasionally feeling like I'm eighteen again when I'm (As Helen likes to remind me) in the mid to late thirties bracket. Pouting too much. Because I can. (Even though I shouldn't and someone has to pinch me to remind me to stop). Feeling guilty. (Terrible word: guilt). Feeling compromised. (Terrible word: compromised). Feeling obliged.(Terrible word: obliged). And in a strange turn of events, feeling excited (Great word: excited) about feeling guilty, and obliged, and compromised and doing bugger all about it, even if, as a woman,  these are the emotions we often allow ourselves to be defined by. Feeling a peculiar sense of freedom and ever so slightly (Lets not get carried away here!) revelling in it...

Today I'm excited about David Essex's new look. (A vintage crush!). About the crisp new edition of Vogue, still wrapped in it's plastic envelope downstairs, waiting to be savoured in front of The Apprentice tonight. About melting my moustache off (Don't tell anyone will you? Especially not my Dad. He rather likes having a hirsute daughter) and the sense of promise that is light nights as we drift into Summer. About planting broad beans and eating them later in the season mashed onto thick toast with fresh mint and mozzarella. About feeling slightly dazzled by someone I really like. About restoring order to my living room and banishing teeny little super heroes to bed. About the two parcels waiting to be collected from the postal depot. About the weekend coming and the one after that. About a silver top I'm dreaming about. About a new brand of cucumber scented washing up liquid that makes me swoon. About changing my perfume and trying on a whole new person.

Well about everything really....

That's a good thing right?

The Credit Crunch

 

"Do you live in a house or a home? Are you in it for the money or the love? Do you think you'll be happy when you move? Or are you happy now?

Does it give you financial security or emotional warmth? Does it make you feel like you are getting somewhere? Or does it make you feel like you're there now?

If it could talk, could it tell anyone what your favourite colour is?

When your little boy draws a plane on the wall do you reach for the paint roller or grab another crayon and draw a rocket? Is it perfect? Or is it real and still perfect? 

Do you keep it as empty as possible to create space or do you fill it with all the people and things you enjoy the most?

Do you look in estate agents windows? Or do you look in your own windows and think "how lovely"?

Are you constantly monitoring it's price or are you measuring its occupants heights on the back of the bathroom door? What's the most important thing you put into it, two-fifths of your salary, or your life and soul?

What's the most important thing you'll get out? A profit? Or a treasure trove of memories that'll never ever go down in value but always up.

It's not too late.

A house can always become a home. Love not money. That's what gives a home a soul.

And a home's soul is NOT FOR SALE.

HOME IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PLACE IN THE WORLD."

 

Ikea Print Ad, 2007.  

Hetty

My hoover has died. May he rest in peace with my beloved tv.

But seriously what's going on?? Did I offend the Goddess of all things electrical? What's next?  My iron? My hairdryer? The microwave? Maybe I'll blink and all the street lamps will go out one by one...

It takes a special kind of woman to render everything she touches stone dead.

Do you think buying a little Hetty would be taking my obsession with all things pink just a little too far?

Finnicisms

The problem with raising a child like Finn is that it is, all at once, enlightening, heartbreaking, hilarious and more often than not, downright bloody exhausting. While I can just about cope with the fact that he spends his days bouncing off the walls while other children colour in sedately and wonder where their next bag of sweets is coming from, dealing with his almost relentless questions and correcting his oh so innocent but slightly bonkers theories on everything from what kind of sofas people from China prefer to why "stupid" doesn't count as a swear word, quite frankly takes up more brain space than I've got spare, occasionally makes me splutter and once in a while makes me splash tears all over his gorgeous little face...

Take these three fine examples of four year old logic...

 

Number One.

Oh my God! This queue is huggge...

Finley!! Don't say Oh my God! It's very, very naughty.

Oh my God Mummy, calm down, it isn't naughty at all.

Yes it is Finley, it is outrageously naughty.

Oh my God Mummy, don't be so silly, it just means I'm a friend of Jesus...

 

Number Two.

Mummy where do babies come from?

We've talked about this Finn, Mummies and Daddies give each other a special hug and that's how the babies are made.

I knnnnnooooow that! But I don't know what you mean. How is it different to a normal snug?

Well Sweetie, these special hugs are only something grown ups do, so you don't need to worry about it yet...

Ok, but Mummy?

Yes babba...

Do the Daddies ever come behind the Mummies and surprise them with a special hug...??

 

Number Three.

Mum don't you think it will be sad when we don't know each other anymore?

Baby we will always know each other. I'm your Mummy and your are my little boy.

Yes but when I've grown up and I'm a man you won't recognise me will you?

Oh Finn, that isn't how it works, I will see you grow up, so I will always recognise you...

Yes but Mummy?

What Son?

Will you understand me?

Scrumptious Puttery Treats

Well I think it's about time don't you? You see the problem with scrumptiousness is that if you don't attend to making life lovely on a daily basis, you forget to attend to it all and life becomes one long round of kids packed lunches and scrubbing toilets and it seems to me that there is little joy to be found in the daily drudge. Unless of course we whiz around the dull stuff, housekeeping music on full blast, collapse with a long, tall glass of something cold and fruity and then award ourselves an afternoon resplendent with puttery loveliness...

Go on. Take your pick...

* Seek out lavender, orange or rose scented sugar syrup and use it to add a little blast of loveliness to plain yogurt first thing in the morning....

* Mommies never frame photographs of themselves. Find a photograph of you at your prettiest and put it on the kitchen windowsill. You are beautiful... you just forget occasionally.

* Set yourself a challenge for the next twelve months, twelve difficult books you will read between now and next Spring. Twelve increasingly difficult sock patterns...? A chapter a month of the book you've long considered writing...?

* Create an "organisation station". A corner of the kitchen where a pinboard, calendar, diary, address book and housekeepers journal live. Have a little pot with pen, glue and scissors, a tin with note cards, envelopes and stamps, a place to charge your mobile, and somewhere to hang your keys. Never again will you leave the house without your shopping list...

* Take yourself on a creative excursion for the biggest ball of natural string you can find. Aesthetically gorgeous all by itself you will find endless uses for it and will, like I do, consider it a fabulously silly investment...

* Spend the afternoon downloading a wonderfully upbeat collection of Springtime music to your Ipod, Just perfect for finally getting into the garden and dancing by yourself while you sweep away the last vestiges of Winter.

* Hunt out an old fashioned enamel coffee pot and use it to water your houseplants while you wait for the kettle to boil in the morning...

* Create a "Treasure journal" for noting the provenance and price of all your vintage finds. Make it handbag sized and oh so pretty and you will, over time find yourself with a precious little record of your favourite vintage haunts and most gleeful moments of discovery...

* Spray your signature perfume onto your partners pillow... Oh and while you are about it, open your underwear drawer and spray a tiny blast in there too...

* Sew yourself an oh so quick collection of eco shopping bags from scraps of vintage this and that and stash them everywhere: in your handbag and the boot of your car... Never again will the supermarket cashier sneer at you when you pack your shopping into a plastic bag...

* Add a length of the prettiest, brightest ribbon you can find to your house keys. They'll be so much easier to spot in the abyss that is your handbag...

* Dust your light bulbs with a cloth infused with aromatherapy oil for a gentle scent when you switch them on...

* Create a "Charging Point". Choose a plug and extension and use it to charge mobile phones, cameras, mp3 players etc etc all in one place. Enough already with all these wires dangling everywhere! 

* Choose a pretty teacup and use it to scoop washing powder into the machine.

* Freeze slices of leftover lemon into ice cubes for the perfect G and T's...

* Sprinkle handkerchiefs with cedar oil and put them in the pockets of Winter coats before you put them into storage for the Summer...

* Write your Daddy a love letter and include a picture of yourself as a little girl... perhaps he misses her...

Trasharama

Life isn't as lovely as it should be. Yesterday the man I adored as a teenager made a game out of spotting the grey hairs on my head and  taking an irrational amount of pleasure  in yanking them out like a flea-picking monkey.   (It was probably the defining moment of my romantic life but don't tell him that...). Then this morning I found myself super-glueing the bedroom curtain pole to the wall so the fright that is  hearing things that go crash in the night and finding myself staring at the moon where there should be only cream chenille never has to be suffered again.

When one finds oneself doing battle with life on a daily basis one has to seek respite. Respite for me come in the form  of Piers Morgan and a fish finger buttie. It can be found too in Heat magazine. In Scooby Doo and red liqorice laces sucked in spectacular fashion into my mouth. It is ketchup with everything and Britney Spears latest disaster.  It is spending hours playing silly games of  "Would ya?" with Kath (Ok, so to save the planet you've got to sleep with either David Hasselhoff  or Gordon Brown. Which one are you having?) and stringing a truly awful set of pink fluffy heart shaped fairy lights across my bed because they make me smile. It is wasting away whole evenings gossiping on the phone and taking baths in Power Rangers bubblegum scented bubble bath. It is watching the car crash that is Kerry Katona open mouthed, eating micro-chips,  really and truly caring about my fake tan (I'm from Liverpool!), and letting Finn eat half an easter egg after his breakfast because it is the first day of his holidays and I want it to be fun...

In other words it is trash.

Virtue has never been my middle name. Try as I might I can't be the kind of woman who lies in bed at night worrying about the amount of salt my son has consumed that day. Much as I adore housework I  will happily abandon the ironing for  an hour with the Loose Women.  I scandalise myself on a regular basis, feel mildly confused by my ability to switch oh so very easily between great literature  and The National Enquirer and occasionally, and  I can't believe I  am about to  admit this, occasionally feel almost orgasmically happy on a Sunday afternoon with a plate of black  pudding and The News of the World...

From the very beginning of BrocanteHome I have banned the word guilt.  It is, I think, an emotion that doesn't become us.   We can't be good all the time. We don't have to be the green living, organic consuming, low carb munching angels we feel obliged to be all day everyday. We can instead spend blissful, whole mornings in bed, reading something that will improve neither mind, nor soul, drinking a can of Tizer, and letting a Flake bar crumble all over our decollatage. We can entertain fantasies about Piers Morgan (Have you got it yet? He's my latest celebrity crush... this too will pass!), chuck the odd tin into the bin, buy something sparkly for a  pound in Asda, and  drown smile shaped potatoes in salt and vinegar and feel... proud.

There is no shame in trash occasionally.  Consider me your mentor in a life less perfect. Perfection you see, is exhausting. Trash is life affirming, energising, thrilling, and a teeny bit naughty. So all hail the naughty girl in the pretty pinny! The yummy mummies at the school gate may not quite approve of her silly shoes  and maybe her mum worries about her a bit more than she needs too... but the naughty, trashy girl knows what it is to be alive...

Oh bless me. I've got no shame have I? But there is a time and a place for virtue and today isn't it.

Did I Shave My Legs For This?

A few years old now, this song still brings a smile to my face. There can't be a woman on the planet who doesn't know how Deanna Carter feels...

The Banner of Blessings

Because Polly from Counting Your Blessings is wonderful, and more than that because she is kind, she has created a  scrumptious little collection of blog banners that are yours  for the taking free of charge over at  her Banner of Blessings...

Go give her a hug.

Catch Up Sunday

Some things escape my attention on a daily basis. Some things get tucked to the back of my mind and I leave them there on purpose. Some things are so deadly dull  I simply can't  be bothered.

I can't be bothered until  all those things I've swept under the carpet cause a bump so big I trip over it everytime I walk through the living room and have to report myself to casualty with yet another  shoulda washed the shower curtain broken bone...

Shoulda woulda coulda. But I didn't, I just jolly well didn't and I'd like to say I'm ashamed but most of the time I couldn't give a flying hoot because I'm too busy living to be worrying about the oh so dull minutie.

And then days like yesterday happen. Days when my plans go awry and  twiddling my thumbs  doesn't seem that thrilling.  Days when all  of a sudden  I am possessed by the urge to attend to things most horrid, things most urgent and other things not very urgent at all . Days when I  lift up the rug and  have a good old stare at all matter of dusty horrors I've been avoiding dealing with. Days designed for catching up and cheese and french mustard on thick slices of granary toast. Catch up Sundays.

Yesterday was one of those days. A fuzzy wuzzy bit hungover from too much easter egg kinda day. A  someone has chucked me off their friends list on Facebook kinda day (I'm too old for this nonsense! I don't even understand the concept of the silly pokey thing but think unfriending me is a bit extreme!! Blasted men, I'm offending them left, right and centre these days). A day when the best laid plans of mice and vintage mommies went to pot and I found myself with a child free afternoon and a scruffy house on my hands. Which struck me as a rather fortunate combination given that it was my "nesting" day... you know that day just before your period when nature blesses you with a mini version of the need to get the house ready just before the baby is born...?

Well it was that day. And as my presence watching football in a pub (??) was no longer required (Don't ask...but let it be known Paul that I bought NEW beautiful, flesh toned, cork heeled SHOES for the occasion but may forgive you regardless), I found myself in a frenzy of the might as well's...

Might as well finally write the application for The Masters in Writing I'm hoping to attend in September. Might  as well  bundle Finn's old clothes into the charity bag. Might as  well walk to the  recycling bin and admire the gorgeous magnolia bush at number nine on the way. Might as well delete loony texts off my mobile. Might as well pop all my matching underwear in oh so neat and tidy ziplock bags. Again.  Might as well print out a months worth of housekeepers shopping lists. Might as well grate those leftover chunks of cheese. Might as well have an afternoon nap...

A girl needs to catch up on her sleep too you know.

Catch up days are fun, but I'm not sure they can be scheduled. Maybe they are only possible when they aren't an obligation?

I do so hate to feel obliged.

The (Slightly Demented) Happy Boogie!

Housekeepers, from tomorrow I will be back online full time. No more haunting libraries or harassing my Mum. Broadband will be live in my living room. Normal service will be resumed: regular posts, inane meanderings, scrumptious stores, desirable auction items, book recommendations to die for, forum posts, puttery treats and emails answered in a timely manner...

I'm so excited to be back. Love you all.x

The Straw That Broke The Camels Back.

Consider me a camel today. Bear in mind that my back is broken and the straw that broke it was about the size of a very old fashioned tv.

The sky is black this morning. That spooky rainy kinda black the sun tries and fails to poke it's nose through. But it's snuggly here in the library. I've got myself a fairtrade hot chocolate and parked myself as far away as possible from the man who, before, standing a tad too close for comfort in the pouring rain, admired my polka dot pink umbrella, told me he suspected I had very warm blood and accompanied this revelation with a dirty wink. (I swear I could get into trouble in a monastery). But never mind- I am more than happy to deal with the odd book sniffing lech if it means I can escape the horror that is my house today.

All is not well in Chez Brocante. It's nothing major. The roof is still on and the plaster hasn't crumbled. No it's worse than that. Yesterday afternoon I returned home from an onion buying mission, walked over to the television, in the dim hope of happening across Duffy probably still begging for mercy, pressed it on. And nothing. Nowt. Nada. Somebody call the fire brigade!

So I got down on my hands and knees and did professional looking things with unidentified wires and nothing, nowt, nada. Stopped and had a cry. Poured myself a stiff gin, got out my pink girly toolbox and changed some random fuses. Because I can. Awarded myself a medal, curtsied to the queen and went to switch on the tumble dryer and nothing! Nowt! Nada! Desperate circumstances call for very desperate measures so I took the fuse out of the juicer in the faint hope that maybe all the fuses I'd changed thus far were dodgy, inserted said fuse into tv and ne fait rien. Ran into kitchen for carpet cleaner after noticing stain left by red wine knocked over by man I adored as a teenager  on Saturday night (This is what kind of lush I am: I let stains fester for days on end). Clean in a manic fashion. Notice I have been somewhat waylaid in addressing the matter in hand. Stop and reflect that this IS WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MY ENTIRE LIFE and collapse in a heap on the fake Aubusson where son and father of my child find me sprawled half an hour later.

To cut a long story short the tumble dryer was the cause of all the trouble. After sacrificing my beloved television to the God of all things electric it staged a miraculous recovery and is drying vests as we speak. All well and good, but I am now the proud possessor of dry underwear and three portable tv's none of which are working, a screeching child in cold tv turkey and worst of all a fridge full of warm food, because the fuse I removed from the juicer plug actually belonged to the the fridge plug....

Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. Welcome to hell. It's exhausting being fabulous.

So it is a lifetime of self improvement and plucked eyebrows for me. No Apprentice. No Emmerdale. No Horrid Horrid Henry (Thank you!). Last night I read The Making Of A Marchioness from back to front and tonight I've got a homemade Chicken Korma and Life's Too F**cking Short lined up....

Wonder if Mr Warm Blood knows anything about geriatric televisions?

Mummy I'm moving in.

Happy Birthday To Me

I turned thirty six on Friday, so in celebration I have sprouted another whisker and developed some really rather spectacular eyebrow wrinkles. Mostly because I have been out three nights on the run and can clearly no longer take the pace...

I'm exhausted. Too tired even to regale you with stories of delicious scallops sat atop the most divine jus, an Easter egg hunt at Kaths, gorgeous perfume, friends, a birthday Green and Blacks Chocolate fridge cake (recipe to follow!), a tiny tea party with Mum, Dad and Finn, spilt red wine, too much fake tan (St Tropez... I've been tangoed!), a stack of books I can't wait to read, the prettiest papier mache lavender rabbit in the world, oodles of babysitting from my lovely parents (thank you, oh thank you, oh thank you),  and the man I adored as a teenager...

Birthdays are wonderful aren't they? Think I might have another one next weekend.

On second thoughts, give me twelve months to recover from this one.

Death By Curtain Pole.

Pray tell. Am I being bad-minded or is this fine young example of a vintage husband about to clock his pretty wife over the head with that curtain pole?

Springtime On Mars.

What can I tell you about this week? That I have taken up making a nuisance of my self? That I turn up on peoples doorstep and kind of park myself on their sofa in the hope that they will drip feed me tea and regale me with life affirming tales of good times and gossip? And that in return I will do their ironing while they bath the baby or make me a sumptuous three course meal? Or a piece of toast? Because all of a sudden I am desperate for company...?

Perhaps you want to hear about Finley? He's much better. No longer blotchy. Officially co-ordination disorder free  and able to brandish a pencil with aplomb and render myself, Kath and Diane dumb as he sails across Kath's playroom on Eleanors bike like he's been doing it all his life.  Then yesterday he informed me that having his hair brushed hurt more "than a horse having it's nut's cut off". (Yes, you read that right) and when I recovered from a choking case of shock and horror and asked him where a horses nuts are, he looked at me like I was crazy stupid and said "You know Mum, those things on the end of his feet?"...  So that will be his hooves then??

(Oh and he's got nits so thats nice.)

Hmmm, what else?  Oh yes, the neighbours aren't speaking to each other, the daffodils have died a sorry death in the front garden and I've finally got round to replacing the mat with the Christmas trees on it at the front door with a rather snazzy paisley affair. Snazzy is a rubbish word isn't it? Do ban me from saying it. My conversation is littered with  ridiculous words like this and  for the record my Dad says he is going to smack me if I say "Rightie Ho" one more time in his company.  Perhaps I should have been christened Doris or Aggie or something equally as beguilling...

Goodness what am I waffling on about? It's been a strange old day so far. I threw myself out of bed this morning and drove here to Mum's with my pink jumper on inside out. Without washing my neck or boiling the kettle or anything at all really. I have highly offended the man I went out with last week to the degree that he has informed me that we have nothing left to say to each other and all I can think about is chocolate. Rose scented chocolate. Chocolate with amaretto. Chocolate pie. Chocolate sauce. Chocolate on a butty.

Truly I've got chocolate on the brain and can't quite figure out the importance of anything else in my entire life.

Rightie Ho Daddy lets have another cup of tea. I'll iron your shirt if you make me some of your extra special cheese on toast. Must go before I reveal anymore of my awful torrid secrets. Some things are more appalling than even the scratchy little feet of head lice nesting in your babbas curls.

I'm feeling irrationally happy today.