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Tag Archives: swimming

When I wasn’t kidnapped by a lunatic and didn’t have to go home naked

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So since I went ghostbusting last weekend not much has happened TBH.
I did run for the bus twice in one day and not piss myself though, so that’s a massive success at my age! Proves that the old pelvic floor exercises are working. I’ll be opening that Marmite jar before you know it. (See this entry from January this year World’s strongest Vajayjay)


Also managed to take 2 hours to get home on Saturday thanks to the 508 being an utter bastard. WYMetro FFS! It’s all very well having digital bus timetables telling passengers how long it is until the bus comes, but if you’re stood waiting, watching it countdown from 14 minutes to DUE and then the fucker doesn’t turn up – it would be an understatement to say how annoying that is. Especially when it happens twice.
Ended up getting a 72 and sharing a taxi the rest of the way with a random lady I got chatting to at the bus stop.  In retrospect she could have been a serial killer with an elaborate ruse to lure me to her underground sexual torture bunker. A female cross between Ted Bundy and Josef Fritzl or Tubbs trying to get a wife for David. 


Luckily she either wasn’t a serial killer or she is, and didn’t fancy the cut of my jib (or the all pervading whiff of chlorine).


Yesterday I had a micro drama at work when I got out at the end of my classes to discover that the key was no longer there for my locked locker. I keep it in my phone case on a stool at poolside but it wasn’t there at 7pm. I suspect it may have come out of the case and fallen into the pool and gone down the side of the bench.  


It’s not my nude day

After an initial panic and an offer from a swim parent to have a go at cracking the lock with a screwdriver, I managed to find a spare key in the office so was able to get dressed. At least I didn’t have to go home on the bus with my parka on over my damp swimwear or wrapped in a towel.  Bman’s car was in the garage so he wouldn’t have been able to come collect me if I’d rung him.


I’m sure it will turn up somewhere random eventually.


Think I might venture into Leeds tomorrow in an attempt to not sit at home on my day off, snacking gratuitously.  Otherwise by Christmas I will look like Baymax from Big Hero 6.


Must stop eating my own homemade cereal bars

Viva España

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Let the post-holiday blues commence after our trip to Tenerife.  I’ve already had a meltdown this week about feeling useless because I had the oven on too high the other day.

Holiday was great.  A bit Nimbo Cumulus on first couple of days, which was rather disappointing. (See Poula Fisch of Fast Show – Nimbo Cumulus) but then it was back to the usual scorchio times.  I am nicely baked.  Even Bear who usually goes nutmeg after 10 minutes of sun, was a bit burnt in places.  Youngest one got quite burnt then stayed covered up and in the shade for the rest of the jolly.


Who tans better?

Highlights included,  an enormous breakfast buffet and having separate rooms for the kids, who I think enjoyed their relative independence (and neither were kidnapped by paedophiles, which is always a bonus).  Also, jumping off a sailing boat into the Atlantic was good fun.  Bloody sea was warmer than the hotel pool aswell.  Although we were a bit nervy after being told just before we threw ourselves in, that 40ft squid can sometimes be seen in the area and they get into fights with the sperm whales.  I was like “Pardon me Maam? What now?”


We also saw Bernie from ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ on board – so that was nice that he’s still getting about.



Other comedy moments included Bman attempting to transfer an old spray nozzle to a new sun lotion bottle and failing quite spectacularly.


Was all over my back aswell. And on the ceiling!  Just glad he did it and not me. I’d never had heard the end of it.

I watched English and German tourists swimming in the choppy cover from my balcony. Gin in hand and wondering how long I would have to leave it before I had to go all Mitch Buchanon and run down the beach to throw myself in and rescue them.  Note to self people.  If your toddlers in armbands are getting battered against the rocks, it’s probably time to take the headphones off, put down the can of Dorada and hotfoot it into the surf and get them out.

Usual end of holiday threat to do a Shirley Valentine and not get on the plane.  Bear says she’s going to get a job being the person who returns all the confiscated beach rocks from the airport to the beach. Then she’s going to paint them and sell them to tourists on the other side of the security scanning area.

Just realised that the only picture we’ve got of all 4 of us is this quality helado based selfie.



Until next time.

Adios todas Xx

Keeping my own company & not needing a black dog for company thanks

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So what’s been occurring? 

I’ve been feeling a bit like a dinosaur this week and a sad solitary one at that. There’s a lot going on in the world that I don’t understand and at this stage, can’t be bothered to learn about.

Why do people talk on their mobiles so loud? and so constantly? Not everyone in the street wants to know your business. Be quiet y’all!
Why is my life ruled by sodding passwords and memorable words?  Don’t have the same password for everything they say? Yet I’m meant to remember 50 different passwords when I can’t remember what day it is most of the time?  Couldn’t read a bloody email yesterday because I had to log in with a username, password and memorable word just to read a flipping text from Scottish Widows.  FFS!

My kids tolerate my ‘mumness’ with love, but often make me feel like a clueless fuck-up because I don’t understand what they’re saying half the time. My husband tolerates my ‘wifeness’ most days, but also sometimes makes me feel like a clueless fuck-up. (Or maybe that’s just me listening to the inner demons).

I’ve realised that the only human beings I have actual face to face conversations with regularly are my children and my husband. Not that there’s anything wrong in that of course.
I do have the occasional conversation with swim parents but mostly the sum total of my weekly conversations are more like instructions, along the lines of;
“Kick” “Blow bubbles through your nose” “push and glide”  “front crawl, let’s go!” – that sort of thing.  Also not complaining about that, because it sure as hell beats the old me of the permanently strained voice and grumpy face and getting cross at unruly children.


My old teacher face

So, no, I am not missing the school teaching.  Had a nightmare about being back in school the other day. The children were wild and one kept punching me in the nose.  Senior leaders were telling me “It’s fine, just ignore it, there’s no point telling him off” while I was going apoplectic with rage at the injustice of it all.  I woke up in a sweat.


I had a niggling feeling earlier on this week whilst in the midst of sorting swim certificates, medals and timetables (if people could stop changing their mind about bookings or timeslots – that’d be great!) that I was forgetting something important.  I realised that due to the date being so close to the end of term, I was thinking I should be practising leavers assemblies, planning French story assemblies – ‘Le Chennile qui fait de trous’, ‘Les oeufs vert au jambon’ etc. Buying bottles of wine and other miscellaneous thank you gifts and all that sort of thing. But nope, not for me that stress this year.  Just my certificates to award and swim school insurance to renew next month. **and breathe**


One bonus of abandoning ship and going solo is leaving behind the stresses of having to deal with children who perhaps, shall we say, might have benefited from a little more discipline.  A downside is that I have no work friends. Just me, myself and I.
Unfortunately most of my work friends while I worked in school turned out to be my only  local friends (for local people).  This is what happen when you live and breathe school.  Out of sight out of mind though and not for the first time, I realised this week that I’m not as likeable as I thought.  Always considered myself a bit of an irritating cunt and it turns out I was right. (Possibly because I use words like ‘cunt’)


Definitely feeling rather surplus to anybody’s requirements this week. Perhaps that could be my epitaph? “Here lies Kit. She was good…But annoying”.

These thoughts brought on by the kind of petulant teenage behaviour I’m always talking to my eldest about – I got the huff for about 2 seconds when I saw pics on FB of some pals all gussied up for a night out. I let it slide, thinking, fair play to them, enjoy! Until the next day when I realised that even more of them had met up and gone out than I first thought. I was now looking like Malificent,  left out of Aurora’s christening.




So then I felt somewhat ostracised from the group and I tried to brush it off because I’m a 47 years old and not a 15 year old girl, but I won’t lie, it still stung.  Particularly as this wasn’t the first time this had happened.  Felt marginally better when I found out that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t have the requisite requirements to warrant an invite Still a bit miffed TBH.


Meanwhile, I had a CT scan* this week too. That was fun. If your idea of fun consists of wearing hospital gowns, getting dye fed into your veins through a cannula which leaves a bad taste in your mouth and makes you feel as though you’re weeing, all whilst lying inside a noisy Stargate type machine while a bunch of nurses loom over you, asking if you could manage to keep your heart rate down a bit please.

*routine test booked by GP family dudes.  Don’t start planning my wake just yet (nobody would turn up anyway I expect)


Just checking if anyone likes you – it’s a negatory I’m afraid 

Scruffy and I know it.

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This week Boris Johnson surpassed himself by using the phrased “spaffed up the wall” when describing money spent by police investigating historical child abuse cases.  A day when an Australian man shot and killed almost 50 Muslims at prayer in his attempt to halt immigration in Europe (hello Irony?) and an Australian senator essentially blamed the Muslims for their own deaths by saying “The real cause of bloodshed on New Zealand streets today is the immigration program which allowed Muslim fanatics to migrate to New Zealand in the first place.” – Riiight? Okaaaay.  

Can I get a For Fucks Sake!


So Bman and I watched Ed Stafford’s documentary about the homeless in Britain – ’60 Days on the Streets’.   Bman took great delight in pointing out that it had only been on 10 minutes and he’d already seen 3 homeless people wearing the same coat as mine.  It’s a good job I don’t give a fuck isn’t it really?  I seem to surround myself with piss-taking cunts.  I think it’s safe to say that I can give as good as I get though, if not better.  Anyway I love my Shadwell jacket it‘s a great coat – clearly favoured by the dispossessed and streetwise of the nation for its warmth and practicality.  

It did occur to me yesterday though that since leaving the education profession, I rarely have the opportunity to make a sartorial effort.  My poor husband only ever sees me in PJ’s, naked, or in my walking to work ensemble of trackies/Koolkids tee, hoody, and the trusty Shadwell.  Of those three outfits, obviously, the naked one is the most attractive.  Would be nice to make an effort sometime though, so he could see me with tidy hair, some make-up and a something slightly more feminine – a dress & heels maybe.
He did take me out for lunch on Thursday – at Morrisons cafe because he knows how to treat a lady – but it was before work so, no make-up, barnet all over the place, slackydaks and work tee shirt as standard!

Maybe I should get him to take me out somewhere (but not to a dodgy German techno sex party in a derelict building*).


*see these previous blog posts Bman’s dodgy night out


There is some remaining glamour under there somewhere


Workwear these days




Techno fails and minty tits

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So the supercalifucktallulahwhatsthedifference fibreoptic gizmo is installed. Hurrah!  

However, despite the promise of a simple plug it in and away you go, which did actually turn out to be surprisingly painless. Not so much with the resetting up of various passwords around the house.  Wifi printer – interestingly, the only bit of tech that still worked while the Internet was out – almost went out of the sodding window yesterday.



Fuck it! I’ll hand write my invoices you bastard!

Eventually got that sorted out. Then decided to watch something on BBC iplayer.  Needed to log in and change some password on that – every time I tried, the flippin’ TV turned itself off.  I bombed that task off and thought “fuck it!” Let Bman do it tomorrow on his day off.

Next up, I’ll put something on Netflix.  Nope!  ‘Chromecast cannot find your network do you want to search for a new one?’  Yes, I do, thank you for asking.  Then sat watching the little buffer icon thingy spinning around and around on my phone saying “connecting to chromecast”.  And around and around and around and around.  I was starting to become hypnotized.  I forced myself to look away before I started barking like a chihuahua or cycling down Stanningley Bypass on a child’s trike every time I heard the Intel Inside jingle or some such.


You will no longer wish to watch Netflix…. Kill everyone!

I was in no mood. I had felt a cold coming on and couldn’t afford to be ill. The pitfalls of self-employment.  Had to get popped up on Beechams cold and flu capsules and crack on. These children won’t teach themselves to swim efficiently.


A successful evening with 4 new learners starting from next week, then home to bed and more cold remedies.  I thought that lathering myself in Vicks might ease my journey to the arms of Morpheus.  I hadn’t anticipated how sensitive my skin is after months of being in chlorinated water for 12 hours a week. Vicksed myself up front and back and within seconds knew I was not sleeping for a while unless I got up and showered the shit off!  The best description I can think of is that I was in some kind of Bushtucker Challenge from ‘I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here’, and 11,0000 woodlice, ripped to the gills on Extra Strong Mints were having a rave on my tits!  It was not a pleasant sensation.  Given the fact that I hadn’t washed my hands after application I thought it prudent not to rub my eye (or have a wank).  Eventually, I got to sleep and feel decidedly less crap this morning, so perhaps the minty insect irritation therapy was worth the pain.


I’m going to leave you with that image of thousands of mint eating insects dancing on my chest and also this track which was stuck in my head like an earworm all last night as I tried to tune out the fire on my skin.. and the cute as a button (but could probably fuck you up in a heartbeat) Yolandi Visser  Ugly Boy – Die Antwoord


Sandwich anyone? – Why yes, I do believe I would

2018 and out…

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Time for the annual round-up of the year in news stories, pictorial, musical, and meme-based form.

Clearly, the news story of the year (well the past two years TBH) is bloody Brexit. Well, fuck all that. Nobody knows what’s going to happen there and after this long, I’m not sure anybody cares anymore. Yet still, people are trying to get into this country in inflatable dinghies.  Why? I’m not entirely sure…


Jack remind me again why we’re heading to Britain 


Meanwhile, for those of us convincing ourselves that we’re going on a health kick in the new year (yawn), let this lady be our inspiration… World’s strongest Vajayjay 


Forgotten your bag for life at Lidl – no problem with the vag for life

World’s Strongest Vagina – and if that’s not a pitch for TV show for Channel 5 then I don’t know what is!  Women from around the world compete to lift and throw various items with their undersmiles.  If we’re not all lifting, nay, opening, jars of Marmite and cans of beans  with our twats by this time next year then I feel we haven’t put enough effort into it.  My aim is to lift, open and spread the Marmite onto my toasted soldiers and dip those bad boys into my boiled egg!  Pulling trucks with it. The lot!  Go big or go home y’all! 

(hands up who is clenching and unclenching right this moment – yeah you are, don’t deny it).



Highlights of the year for me was probably seeing Die Antwoord at Boomtown Fair.  Right up there in my top lifetime moments. Enter the Ninja


We’re gonna have a nice time kids


I may have had some tequila at this stage


Shambala was, as ever, a brilliant 4 days too.  That time I jumped into a cloth vagina onto a pile of strangers shouting “Wassup Cunts!” Am already looking forward to next years Adventures in Utopia and I apologize in advance to my Childerbeast for being an ’embarrassing mum’ (but TBH I often relish it, just to annoy you).









never too old for a bit of roller disco with sis and the kids


Early in the year, I started a second job, teaching swimming. Then in July, I left my job of ten years to do it for my actual job and as my own business! No danger of becoming a millionaire anytime soon. I’m happy if I make enough to pay my bills with a bit left over each month if I’m honest.  Mentally though, much happier and a lot less grouchy, even if I am constantly damp and stinking of chlorine.



This is me now


What will 2019 bring?

Who knows.

Got some gigs to go to. Visits booked with old mates. Hopefully, there’ll be more ghost investigations to do.  Family holiday booked for summer. It’s Rho’s GCSE year! My baby bird is so grown up. I’ve got that prom dress to ‘Molly Ringwald’ to the max so she can actually wear it in June!

Resolutions? Nah, balls to that. Am going to try and be a bit healthier, not as a New Year resolution but as basic common sense really.

Be nice, be kind, laugh more, sprinkle some fun into peoples lives; have a ‘pile on’ with sibs and friends; reconnect with people in real life instead of just ‘liking’ their posts on ArseBook.  Be silly, do something you’ve not done in ages or never done before (but not kiddie fiddling, robbing grannies or kicking dogs or anything).  Get a tattoo, learn to swim (I can help you with that), take up a hobby, wrestle in glitter, talk to a homeless person, quit your crappy job and get a new one.


Choose Life people!


This applies to a few – which makes me one lucky lady



Duuuuuuuuuude! Pile onnnnnnnnnnnnn!




Hey Lamo, you know I mean you here right?


Big fish in a small pond

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When you work in a pool but you feel like Daryl Hannah in Splash or one of those dolphins at Zoo & MarineLand in Scarborough in 1979 in an inadequately sized tank.

Could do with being out of my depth and spreading out a bit.  Might have to venture to Pudsey Baths in half term which has a 3m deep end (but I’d also quite like to steer clear of chlorine for a week).