So whoop whoop, big-wow, I’m bored. DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, you shout. Let me tell you, I spend 90% of my waking day (and with my sleep-immune children, that actually encompasses much of the night too) thinking about what to do. How to escape, even just for a few minutes. The problem is, I live in Stepford – there’s not a whole lot to do around here when tedium strikes, hence me finding myself in more and more obscure situations. These are just a handful of the things I have done as a bored mother that I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have done pre-kids:
* Started knitting classes with a local woman called Ros. She had 8 cats, one of whom had sinus issues and snorted his way through every session. Not only did Ros tell me all about knitting and purling, she was also fantastically indiscreet when it came to dishing the dirt on Bob, a local tranny who commissioned her to knit his fluffy crop-tops under the pretence they were for his, somewhat masculinely-built, girlfriend.
* Signed up for a foraging weekend – one of my maddest experience of living in the sticks yet: a little light racism, double entendre that I only got the giggles at (bulbous sac? fat stalk? c’mon!) and a woman called Mo with an unnerving obsession with the deadly mushrooms. Oh, and this:
* Developed a manic obsession with becoming a butcher. To the point where I enrolled on a course, carved up half a pig with a hacksaw and took the trotters home to my husband, waving them around like I was the deranged lovechild of Hugh Fearnley Whittignstall and Hannibal Lecter. “Look!”, I shouted, “they’re his feet! I cut the pig’s feet off!”. My husband took a few days off work to ‘give me a bit of a break’ not long after that
* Asked an embittered, over-sharing gas man to ‘tell me more’ about his ex wife. Said gas man was then so pleased to have someone listen to the story of his tattered love-life, he returned the favour by telling me I was doing a ‘great job’ with the kids. I then cried. Crying. In front of a stranger. Hooray!
* Worked my way through the local college’s Adult Learning prospectus. Soft Furnishings. Breadmaking. Christmas Cake Decoration. You name it, I’ve either done it or at least put my name down on a waiting list for it. My husband threw the brochure away when I started making noises about cross-stitch. “Who are you, Kirstie Allsopp?” he asked. I of course took this to mean he thought I had a big arse, and we had a row. Hormones! Wahey!
* Bought more knitted food off ebay than any one person should ever have, let alone need
* Did this at Tesco. I totally don’t regret this one because it’s VERY funny:
*Decided to become a face-painter. After putting the fact I have very little patience for my own children, let alone other people’s, aside and spending a small fortune on special face paints that don’t make kids’ faces swell up, this is what I came up with. Look at him! See how miserable he is!:
It wasn’t so much my children’s distinct lack of interest in my new-found career that knocked the idea on the head, it was more the issue of my son getting hold of and eating a full pot of body glitter that made me realise this wasn’t meant to be. You can’t polish a turd? No, but let me tell you from experience, eat a job lot of silver glitter, give it a couple of hours and it would seem you can certainly make one sparkle.