I try to be a good mother. I really do. It’s at the top of the list of things I’d like to be able to do properly, like ride a horse and sword fight at the same time, and knitting. I keep The Moo warm and dry, and make sure she has nice clothes to wear so that she can look fly when them fashion bloggers snap her street style, innit. I also endeavour to keep her fed and watered, and to change the straw in her cardboard box every now and again. See? Good mothering, for the win. Go me! Yay me!
Only there’s one thing I’ve noticed happening which is starting to piss me off a bit, and it kind of gets in the way of this good mothering business, cos it makes me not be a good mother very much at all.
Moo keeps nicking my food. MY FOOD. Mine. She STEALS it. Right in front of my face. Just HELPS HERSELF like she has higher authority over me, or summink. I mean, hello? It’s not like I eat a lot anyway, but when a baby-faced criminal is swiping the good stuff from my very plate without even so much as a ‘please may I taste your hummus, oh darling mother of mine?’ then BAM I find myself lying in bed at 3am with a growling stomach and a simmering resentment to my only child. Egad.
Apples. Biscuits. Crisps. Sandwiches. Alphabetti spaghetti. Yoghurt. Chicken goujons. Toast. Lettuce. Cucumber. Chips. Broccoli. ALL FOOD WHICH HAS BEEN STOLEN FROM ME IN THE LAST FEW DAYS. That’s not a bizarro shopping list. That’s a farking CRIME SCENE, mate. She is having a laugh. I give her exactly the same food as me, on one of her special plates, and still she half-inches my grub. Even if we’re having a cuddle on the sofa and I’m sipping a cup of tea, she’ll be like, ‘Tea! Tea! Tea? Tea! TEA!’ until my head explodes. But I ain’t that stupid – she ain’t nabbing my cuppa. No way, no how.
This is just a precursor to when she’ll be nicking my clothes and make-up and giant lasers, isn’t it? I’ve tried firmly discouraging her from grabbing my food, but I usually end up saying, ‘No, Moo, that’s mummy’s cake. That’s your [much smaller] piece there, on your plate. Eat yours. Not mine. No, not mine. No, Moo, NO FOR THE LOVE OF JEEZUS JUST EAT – oh, you’ve eaten mine. Oh great’ ad infinitum.
Am I being a tad over-sensitive with this? It’s OK to NOT share your food with your kid, isn’t it? Or should I just accept that what’s mine is hers from now until the end of days?
That’s that then. I am now officially existing on benefits.
Yes indeedio, I am one of them unwashed scroungers that the Daily Mail hates! WAHOO! The government decided that, yeah, actually, me having no income and no savings and no immediate means of supporting myself and my child is reason enough for them to help me out. Thanks, government. Cheers, DavCam! It’s a princely sum you’re spaffing into my bank account on a fortnightly basis. ‘Princely’ as in, the prince of crap. I still can’t pay my rent or bills but hey, at least now we can eat something other than dust.
No, really, it’s cool. I’m not complaining. I’m grateful. I need the money. It’s just, my head’s spinning a bit, y’know? I’ve never been this dependent on a faceless entity before. In my head, the government is a big, knobbly, posh-looking building with hordes of peasants camped outside of it. Kinda like the Houses of Parliament. But with a giant photo of DavCam’s giant shiny head sellotaped to it. So not that faceless then. But you know what I mean. It’s a THING. A collection of NOOBS. Making shite decisions that are supposed to HELP US and stuff, and yet DON’T really. I’m not a political person but I know what makes me mad. And that’s posh people keeping all the money and chopping up poor people and baking them in pies. WHICH IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN. You’ll see.
So, benefits. Again, WAHOO! Man alive, it’s good to have some pressure taken off. But fark me, it’s tricky having no money. Like, before, when I was earning some moneys, if I wanted to buy some new pants, I would just go out and buy pants? Usually some nice ones – maybe from Marks and Spencer? Cotton blend, leopard print, a bit of lace. Scented with unicorn pheromones. Innit.
Now, however, if I want to buy some new pants, I can’t. I have to wear my old ones till they fall off me in wispy tatters. Then it becomes a bit desperate, and my need to acquire pants becomes acute. The present options for my pant buying is limited. No Marks and Spencer for me now: I get SPAT ON BY MYLENE KLASS AND TWIGGY if I go within fifteen feet of M&S. Nope – now I am a benefits tart I have to buy my knickers from charity shops, or, cos charity shops are a bit pricey these days, I may have to steal pants from old ladies instead. I think it’s a farking good indication that you’re a povvo if you’re prising the mouldy knickers from some crusty granny undercarriage. Like, erm, Robin Hood. But with more underwear theft?
And pants are just the crotchless tip of the iceberg. I also cannot buy gin, books, tartan clothes, diamonds, flying monkey nuts, crack cocaine, stuffed animals or interplanetary pirate ships without thinking very carefully about whether I can afford them or not first. It’s a very new mindset for me. I don’t like it much. I hate not being able to treat Moo to stuff every now and again. But I’ll just have to get used to it, I guess, until I work out how I can
marry a fragile old man with heaps of money get a job.
I’m not alone. We’re all struggling financially. Unless you’re rich (in which case, I might marry you. Or steal your pants). Such a switch in circumstances is a bastard. When have you had to cope with something like this? And HOW did you cope? (you may be able to surmise that I am not coping that well, mahahahaahhahah *falls over*)
HUZZAH! Metal Mummy‘s back! And she only went and did anuvver meme! This week the theme of the meme is Detectives/Crime film. Hmm aaah ooh a tricky one for me. I don’t read crime novels or watch crime TV shows or wash with crime shower gel. It’s not my genre of choice. But that’s not to say that there aren’t any good crime films, there are loads. There’s uh, that one with the criminal and er, that one with the detective. You know.
So I’ve gone a bit old skool with this and chosen The Untouchables (dir. by Brian de Palma, 1987).
It’s got a detective in it, and a criminal. Well, quite a few of each. Famous ones, too. Starring Kevin Costner (remember him?) as Eliot Ness and only Robert de blooming Niro as Al Capone, this is a period piece set in the Chicago mob wars of the 1920s (a favourite era of mine in terms of fashion/art/culture), so the costumes and sets are rather snazzy looking, which is always a bonus.
Despite being based on real people this a fictionalised account of Al Capone’s arrest. I seem to remember there being lots of running around and shooting guns that look like they’re from Bugsy Malone and Sean Connery with a dodgy Irish accent.
Actually, let’s just take a moment. Sean Connery is Scottish. In The Untouchables, he plays an Irishman. He still sounds Scottish. Sean Connery is a legend.
Also there is a Battleship Potemkin-esque sequence when a perambulator bounces down some stairs. I don’t know why this is important, it just happens.
Anyway, The Untouchables is a great film, I’ve seen it a few times and I’m always surprised at how good Kevin Costner is because he has done some really shit stuff recently. So that’s my entry.
OH I ALMOST FORGOT – Andy Garcia is also in it and he’s also a great actor!! That’s a plethora of great actors! We are truly being spoiled!