Don’t call the doctor

The Doctor failed to come through on the lone of the Tardis. Selfish git.

I decided in fine fashion that if I was not going get everything done I would instead get next to nothing done and promptly gave myself the day off. I said ‘ahhhh’ and skipped home from the school drop off feeling light as a feather. Walking away from school on the first day of term is quite a glorious feeling and the rejuvenating properties of this experience should not be overlooked. Unfortunately they get very tetchy if you fail to return at 3.15pm to pick the little blighters up but I recommend that rather than dwelling on this you should rather focus on the fact you get to drop them off again the next morning.

Tomorrows joy shall be blighted slightly by having to haul myself up to the hospital in the morning for the biannual ritual of having doctors look deeply into my eyes, shake their heads and suck air through their teeth just like a plumber about to give a quote. Again I look on the bright side, a good couple of hours to sit and read my rather neglected book guilt free, as long as they don’t decide they need to dilate my eyes and spoil my fun. It is remarkably hard to read with pupils that resemble daft cat when he gets into one of ‘those’ moods and any movement at all triggers a flying ginger ball of claws and teeth that attaches it’s self to any uncovered flesh and is only sated once it has tasted blood. Caution should be used however about being too forthright about this wanton sabotage of reading time.


Pictured: Eye hospital complaints procedure

I hope to get onto delivering the next and overdue part of the ‘Mothering the Apocalypse’ series over the next day or so eye sight and laziness permitting. I think there is a good 2 – 4 more parts in that one left to tell. Then there is also my reckless decision to kick off a new fiction series that I must address, there are 2 more parts of ‘The Holiday’ and they will come along as soon as my crippling procrastination allows.

My hope is to get the blog on something resembling a schedule with one fiction piece coming out on a set day each week. Even though the daily posting of the holiday diary has at times been exhausting I have found that overall I quite enjoyed knowing I needed to produce something every day and this evening I sat down thinking ‘At least I don’t have to blog’ but it didn’t take long before the fingers started to twitch and for better or worse here we are. So I am setting myself a loose goal to be getting something up 6 days as week.

Please let me know what you think in regard to the posting frequency and content, it can be quite nerve wracking working in a vacuum and trying to judge the balance between fiction and horror life. I am as always keen to hear what you think, what you like and what you would like to change. You are also welcome to tell me that I am hopelessly deluded and self centred (unless you are the bitch), all feedback is good (unless you are the bitch)!


All is lost

I have failed as a parent and as a human being.

While getting ready for school this morning, a task not unlike painting the Forth bridge due to the fact that once you have finished straightening, tucking, cleaning and wiping to a presentable level the place you started has once again become dishevelled and snot ridden, anyway, during this task of futility I commented to the boy that his hair was due a cut and he was starting to emulate Justin Bieber. He then uttered the words that no parent ever wants to hear, the crushing blow that tells you all is lost for the future and there is no way back now regardless the fact he has yet to see his 7th birthday.

‘But I want to look like Justin Bieber’

In a final attempt to salvage my son and my own reputation I replied in as calm a tone as I could muster while going for full chipmunk effect

‘But, you would have to sing ‘baby, baby, baby ooowwwww’

The boy started to jump up and down in excitement

‘Yes!’ he squealed and ran off singing baby on a loop. My final bomb had blown up in my face and I am left to contemplate my abject failure.

The fact it will be his teacher not me that has to listen to the boy for the rest of the day is a double edged blade in itself, yes my ears are spared, but his teacher will know.

Looks like I am going to have to fling as much as I can into a bag and catch the first flight out of the country. I shall have to sacrifice the girl by the looks of it, I can’t risk it but given my new status it is probably in her own best interest, I clearly can not protect her from terrible pop music and silly hair styles.

She can go with the boy to the Institute of Silly Hair and Irritating Tones (I.S.H.I.T). I hear they have a very good set up these days, mush better than when my own Mother abandoned me there as a child.