sports and chocolate

Well, the school sports evening was as expected.

Sports day. Discuss

My sports day post from last year:
Sports day. What does it mean to you? Me, I have mixed feelings. If we go home with a medal it is a great day out. Wonderful for the kids, all good, clean fun and weren’t we blessed with the weather?

If we go home without a medal it’s a cruel, heartless event, especially designed for show offs who deliberately grind my children’s self esteem under their heels.

This year we arrived in the usual state.

car park rage

I got to the school car park late one day last week. So, being one of the last in meant I drove past all the cars parked neatly in rows and went to the back of the yard, where I just about fitted in, at an angle. I could have to-ed and fro-ed a few times and got a bit straighter but I didn’t think it would make a difference. I said this to the woman who came in behind me, who was at a worse angle, but she said don’t worry, makes no difference to me either. Then, just as I was hopping out, toddler on hip, I saw two men, one granddad, one younger approaching. Like a fool I made eye contact.

not very bright

I don’t think I inspire confidence. Yesterday, I was coming home from the school drop off and stopped at a little park on the way. My toddler was straining at the straps on the buggy and I had his wellies with me so it made sense to stop for a bit of a run. There are a few benches to sit on and the nearest one to me was occupied by a familiar woman. I think I knew her from school. So I perched on the end of it, got the boots on him and said hello. She smiled and said “I’m just waiting for my dog to go to the toilet.” I smiled back and said nothing. God, people and their dogs. 

the one about fake tan

It seems only right that after my last two posts on facials and high heels that I complete the trilogy with one on fake tan. Also, we had a First Communion in the house yesterday so obviously I’ve been in a spray booth recently.

My first spray tan was was a revelation.

In her shoes

High heels.  I don’t find them easy. Those of us of a certain age know that they weren’t always that high. Two to three inches was quite acceptable at one point. No longer, sadly.

My first foray in proper heels was about three years ago. It was my birthday and we were having a gang of friends to dinner. I got a pair of green suede peep toes with five inch heels and an outfit to match. Standing in front of the mirror (key word here; standing) l looked great, and the first three times I walked from the kitchen to the front door to answer it and greet guests, I managed ok. The fourth time I could feel my heels bleeding and my back click in the wrong way. I clomped along bravely and my good friend sitting at the kitchen table beckoned me over.

“Take them off” she said kindly “You look ridiculous.”

diggers

So, if anyone needs to know about minor road works in the Dublin area, go no further. I spend my mornings trawling the streets with my Bob the Builder obsessed toddler, looking for construction vehicles. Just today we found a digger, a roller and a big thing that lays the tarmacadam before it is rolled flat. A tamper?  A stamper?  I haven’t a clue.

To a man the “workpeople” (always, always men) give my little boy a hero’s welcome. They wave, offer seats to try out driving, quack, chat and in the face of his stony face or shy downcast eyes are the epitome of kindness and cheer.

God I’m sick of it though. I mean, apart from the noise and the mud and the dust, it’s the hanging around just looking at people that gets a bit uncomfortable.

Because we are sort of “in their workplace”, I think it’s only polite to say hello or ask what they are doing. For some reason my voice always comes out very “lady of the manor” ringing rich, dulcet tones that can be heard easily over the machines.

“And what, may I ask, are you working on here, young man?”

For probably the same reason they never actually answer me, nodding and looking away as if embarrassed by my existence and also thinking, we can tolerate the little fellah but we’re not going to listen to this shite. I don’t blame them; I can hardly listen to myself.

And sometimes, on our approach I can see that they are chatting and laughing, sharing a joke and enjoying themselves. But once we take up our position and I start spouting nonsense they look as if the headmistress has arrived in their classroom during lunch break.  Caps are doffed and my little boy is greeted but their comfortable laughter is definitely over. I’m almost tempted to say “As you were!” but I doubt it would work.

Anyway, like I said, if you need to know the whereabouts of diggers in Dublin, I’m your woman.