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Austerity Xmas

10 Dec

In keeping with the times, we’re having a ‘careful’ Christmas this year. Hubby and I agreed presents under a tenner and my sis and mum went for no prezzies for grown ups –  only for kids.

Hubby got all left wing on me years ago while teaching at state school. I’m not allowed to overdo it on the stocking front (santa not leg related) or go over the top on prezzies under the tree.

But it’s hard. First you have to fill the kids stockings. What I’ve ordered from amazon in my money-saving frenzy came half the size and doubly as crap as I’d hoped, making me feel like a cheapskate and forcing me out of the door to buy yet more junk in a guilt-trip extraordinaire.

Then I remembered  that not only do I have to buy prezzies for the hubby and kids, I’ve also got to do the hubby’s family, the nursery, the caretakers (of our flats), the odd friend – and all their random children. I managed to dodge the cleaner this year by curtailing services earlier this month.

On top of this Hubby is now questioning the no presents for grown ups rule and I’ve realised I should really get a present from Ellie to Josh and of course from Josh to Ellie, oh and from Ellie to Daddy and Josh to Daddy.

It does seem nuts. And don’t get me started on the tree – a small/medium one in Chiswick high road’s gonna set you back £30 without blinking. Is it just me or is that a lot of money for something that’s essentially going to die and also poses a breach of health and safety to my grabby 11 month old.

I love Christmas and normally really look forward to it, but this year, I’m struggling to shed my bah humbug crustiness.  Perhaps it’s ’cause I’m trying to do it on the cheap and it’s just making me feel bad. I think I’m just going to be extravagant and hang the consequences, if it makes me feel better, it’ll be worth the money.

Standing room only

1 Dec

Hitting the tube tonight during rush hour for the first time in about a year,  I found myself accidentally giving a death stare to a random woman who ‘stole’ my seat.

Giving her my best evil eye glare, I waited for her to check herself, realise her mistake, jump up and offer me the very chair she had beaten me to in the on/off bunfight.

Then I realised I wasn’t pregant any more. No longer do I sport a pronounced bump that flags up I’m a special person in need of a priority chair. I am a faceless nobody once again, no longer to be treated with any consideration whatsoever in the rat race throng.

Not, to be honest that it happened very often, but I used to be pretty good at targetting the vulnerable fellow-commuter, who would be guilted out of his or her seat by my weary, pleading and judgemental eye.

Alas special treatment no more, I will have to wait till I’m old, wobbly (well more wobbly) and grey (ok more grey or at least not dyed) till I get offered a seat again..

From lamb to mutton

13 Nov

I’ve had two children in the last four years, so the last time I was a regular size 12 I was on the early side of 30. At that stage, I was young enough to get away with mini skirts, knee high boots and skimpy tops with impunity.

Not having invested much in my wardrobe for the last half decade I found myself trying on stuff in my wardrobe from way back then for a night out in Fulham tonight, and realised I have suddenly changed from the lamb I once was into mutton. Instead of making me feel sexy, my Saturday night gear now makes me feel like I should be standing on a street corner, waiting for business. It’s not just that there are lumps and bumps in all the wrong places, it’s that there’s just not enough cloth.

From now on I shall live by the addage, less flesh is more.