Weston

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I’d never been to Weston super Mare before. So, as Charlie was going to a wedding on his own, I looked at where the train can take you from Bristol. And the little train goes all the way to Weston. So off we trotted, complete with enormous packed lunch for Alba and small to medium expectations.

We arrived with tonnes of other people in their summer Sunday best and spilled out  from the train station.  Alba and I followed the herd in the direction they were going, thinking they must be off to the beach, because the train station opened on to a big road and a Tesco – I expected the doors to open to the Grand Pier, obvs.

The Grand Pier is wild, isn’t it? Completely hectic, noisy and with enough sugar to generate power across France; the kids were bolting round on sugar highs, there were 99s being devoured and donuts being cooked, fizz, pop, whoooosh!

Suffice to say we were only on the pier for a minute and that was at the end of our trip. Before that we walked along the seafront, watched the RNLI do tricks in their boats and ate homemade cheese scones in the park with the arrogant squirrels. Alba had a nap too, which allowed me to drink an entire decaf cap. and scribble in my notebook – like I was in a spa.

The food options I could find didn’t appeal that much, apart from the obvious ice cream sundaes, so I ended up sharing some of Alba’s lunch and then she had some bits I picked up from M&S. I felt like I should have had fish and chips or something, but nope.

The absolute highlight for Alba was sprinkling sand all over herself and me, while cackling. And it’s pretty cool seeing a baby observing, feeling and generally, experiencing this whirlwind of a world we live in – the good, bad and bizarre, for the first time. She definitely likes the beach.

The train back involved her being absolutely thrilled and desperate to chat to every other child, then crashing outc Home for bath, books and cuddles.

Ferry Dad

I’ve been fiddling around with blog themes for ages now. Charlie says as regards to my last post, that I would be able to access Tiger Notes, but I know that I have totally locked myself out of it. I think that I will move the blog posts over. Maybe. They’re almost my little pregnancy posts, I suppose. I say little, they aren’t. Anyway I think that this theme has too bigger font size but not sure how to change that. Will continue to fiddle.

So I wanted to talk about an observation that Charlie and I made last year while waiting for the ferry. Basically it concerns Dads. When on holiday and not in a point of control, i.e. a ferry queue, Dads feel the need to exit their car, while also standing on a part of their car/leaning on the car in an awkward fashion. One leg stuck out at a right angle within the car, one arm resting on the car door. Looking out towards absolutely nothing, looking adamant that this action will hurry things along, but knowing in their brains that there is no way that they can do anything. Penetrating the fluorescent backs of the ferry people with their eyes will not make us board the ferry faster. Often, no one has been waiting very long anyway, it’s just a way to look ‘active’ in the pursuit of taking one’s family on holiday.

Obviously this would not be possible on a plane runway. Standing with one leg up on a plane’s wing might look cool, but Daddy-o would definitely get arrested. Recently while waiting to disembark the ferry we looked at the cars in front of us and sure enough, the right hand car door was open on most cars. One leg stuck out, like a peacock sticks out his feathers.

Back!

So around the time that I stopped writing on here was when I fully acknowledged that I was pregnant. Then I got all scared about sharing things and then I shared completely non-discreetly on Typed Tiger Notes. It was supposed to be a private blog, but it was so clearly me. Not least because I forgot to use ‘secret names’. So anyway, I still kind of like Typed Tiger Notes and I thought there would be potential in it and Alba is a little tiger after all – but I have lost the flippin password and now blogger have locked me from my own blog. Then I thought about it a minute and decided that it was about ME writing anyway, so actually, there’s no tiger involved in the writing, only that she is quite heavily inspirational and a big gleaming light beam. Apart from all of these things, I had stopped blogging and now it is time to sort of sporadically start blogging again, for no other reason than I quite liked doing it as a way to document and rage and all sorts of other things. This really is a traditional blog. I am not turning it into a showcase, advert place or aspirational wonder wall. For one thing, I only have an iPhone camera thanks to smashing my camera on a tiled floor and another – as I said, this is a traditional blog. It’ll be messy in the way that life is. I am one of the messiest people I know, and now I have a child, I am messier. I spill everything, I am covered in banana. 

Also, I should say that I now have issue five of my magazine out and that’s extremely scary. I am not going back to my full time job and I am now actually freelance and I have launched Bristolkin with my friend Sal and her baby, Jessica. The babies are instrumental in its existence, as we are essentially documenting baby things, lessons, stories and stuff to do in Bristol. We lean to the green and we don’t dictate. But there are opinions – mainly that everyone is different. Maybe it will mean less baby on here, but probably not, because she’s pretty important is this Alba. She’s the reason I have been away for over a year. 

I think I’m different. 

Cat model no.2

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Did I mention that Ava is on the James Wellbeloved website? Ahh, but she is! I wrote this about her the other day. Bit of a rant because she’s really, really naughty. But cute. This morning she pawed a vase of flowers to the floor, where it smashed to a million mini shards & 20 petals. She puts bolts, kirby grips & plant bits into the bath, where she plays with them in her spare time. She jumps on f cat continuously and sits inside the dishwasher. She sleeps on top of a cupboard. Her cuteness is matched by her naughtiness. She’s ace! I will tell her how bad she was when she’s old.

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eight hours of sleep at eighty

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Pretty much on the dot, every night at 3am Francois howls to the skies.

This little ginger cat ensures that his elongated meows are felt and his sentiments understood by the whole household. For this, we thank him. 3am is a wonderful time to be awoken from slumber. Just ask… everyone. However, we don’t understand what the whiskered one could be moaning about. Can he see the infamous black cat that patrols the garden? Can he sense something in the ‘air’? Or has he just taken a dislike to the fact we moved the pot plant the other day? Who knows. He is a cat.

Luckily Francois has one very nice owner (not me), who will get up and cuddle him for a couple of minutes at 3am, til he is happy again. He normally instantly purrs and snuggles. Then shuts up til 7am. This is testament to the bond between F and Charlie. I thought I had an amazing bond with Ava, but yesterday she trailed after Charlie with giant eyes throughout the day. Jumping on his lap and lying on her back, and pawing at him. Ridiculous. Cute, but ridiculous. I think Charlie may be an animal whisperer.

Regardless, I believe sleep is essential and I am obsessed with trying to get my eight hours. I am not a happy CAT with less than my eight. This, Charlie tells me is silly and I should embrace late nights/talks/dances (and seemingly, cat cuddles). I used to 100% agree. Not that long ago I would have been up with the cat, looking up at the moon. What happened? What do a few more minutes matter? Interrupted sleep? Peh. Being annoyed at my lack of eight hours is a waste of energy. This is a fact. Admittedly, I still like eight hours – glorious, but if I don’t, I don’t. I would rather see and experience. I know this.

Last night, I heard Charlie get up to cuddle the F, and rather than wanting to chuck them both some mackerel and out the door for being noisy, I thought of nice things. That was it. F is silly, C is sweet/twisted round F’s paw. End. So what if I had to use that eight hour cream this morning. So what?!

(Student parties and overly loud washing machines are obviously different and not included in this relaxed outlook)

the candlelight and the patatas bravas

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Blah, blah Valentine’s Day is really commercial and an excuse for brands to… etc. But actually, sometimes it’s quite nice to crack out some love and if the V day prompts some declarations of love and forces you to look at what you have and find that actually, this Thursday morning, you’ve woken up to the equivalent of a dusting of love glitter, that aint bad!

So, I may have just had an anti-thrill sandwich (beetroot and cheese on old bread), but luckily, I am still filled with the excellence that is BRAVAS. Which we indulged in last night. MMMMM. May that happiness last, for food is the accessible heaven of life.

A tapas joint that originated as a humble supper club, Bravas on Cotham Hill (Bristol), left us utterly contented. From the gin with almonds, orange and tonic, to the patatas bravas with orangey tomato/ coriander tasting sauce, not forgetting the chorizo cooked in cider and the epic pork belly with spices atop. All winning, win, win. Plus it was packed, cosy and the service slick AND it cost just £29 for the both of us. Suffice to say, indulgence and romance is a great thing and though I love a night in, a night out – a date night out, is magnifique.

I also got some flowers from Chaz yesterday. So in a way, we did the love day, a day early – actually, never been for a meal on V day… I booked Bravas, but these flowers are something else, so I’ve got him a Kinder Surprise. Equals.

Love, love, loooove

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