Things are looking up on the work front in the Writeonmum household. Last week, just as I was thinking about a change of career (sorry – career? What career?) You know, the one I kid unsuspecting strangers that I have when I’m asked that bum clenching question “So, what is it that you do?” I always refer back to the glam days of being a hot shot beauty ed when truthfully, what I am now, many
many years on, is no more than a slovenly housewife/lazy, very part-part-time freelance journo and general procrastinator (this last title being the one I excel at most, hence lack of blogging for 3 months.) But…but, today I got a commission from a client which is quite a nice one – not a massive earner – but at least it’s something to kick my saggy old butt into gear and get the cogs whirring in my even saggier brain.
Feeling my spirits lift a bit, I told Stressed Husband about my commission while dishing up his Findus Pancakes (huh, see, a little bit of good luck and I’m going all Nigella in the kitchen!) S.H didn’t say well done -perhaps because he had his mouth full of a burning, heart exploding mix of cholesterol and salt. But once he’d swallowed and his face returned to white from green, he told me his own good news: He had just got off the phone to a v.i.p who was so impressed with one of the houses he recently built (located near a very super supermodel who likes to party) that this v.i.p would like one too. Only bigger. Hmmm, sounds a bit Violet in Just William doesn’t it? “I want one like hers, but I want it bigger and shinier and with more glitter blah blah and if I don’t get it I will scweam and scweam until I make myself sick…” But good news for me, good news for Stressed Husband and…
Then, Mean Teen slammed through the door and chucked her school bag on the floor, so (big) puppy Troy immediately stuffed in his nose and ran off with her class planner causing her to give chase around the garden screeching “TROOOOOOOOY, YOU BLOODY STINKY STUPID bleeeeeeeeeeep!” Worrying about what the neighbours thought as expletives spewed out of my cross 15 year old’s mouth, I gave chase too. Within seconds, Little Angel began chasing me, roaring with laughter as Troy bounded up onto the trampoline, then off, under it, and around and round the garden (NOT like a teddy bear) but with Mean Teen’s planner dangling from his soggy chops.
It was all very Benny Hill and, once we’d managed to retrieve the planner and wipe it down with disinfectant lemon wipes (I love them) I realised the Mean Teen was smiling at Troy who sat at her feet with his bright pink tongue lolloping from the side of his mouth like a slab of bacon. “Why are you smiling? I thought you were furious when you slammed the front door.” I enquired. “No mum, just excited. I couldn’t wait to tell you that I’ve just got a part time job as a waitress. Pay isn’t bad and the tips are wicked!” Well, how about that then? If she has her own money, I might just be able to keep a few quid in my purse longer than few seconds…here’s hoping!