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I’m back.

It’s been 6-7 weeks since I was last in touch (and none of my uncaring Readers asked when the next post was which tells me one thing – that we (that  is you and I, blog)  are BOOOOOOOO-RING).

The night that I actually felt fully recovered enough to drive, I had an appointment with the osteopath.

‘So your daughter…?’

‘My son, you mean?’ I reply – the osteo was referring to Fatty who came with us to my first appointment and had to sit in the waiting room for an hour and a half so naturally wasn’t feeling too co-operative when the time came for my husband/him and me to talk to the osteo, post neck and back cricking.

‘Yes. Your son. Does he have nightmares often? Is he hyperactive?’

This guy is about to give me free parenting advice as well as a neck manipulation. Hang on, if he is dealing with my neck, why is his hand under my butt and he is twiddling his fingers?

He went on to talk to me about Fatty’s behavior and if we didn’t sort it out, he would not be accepted by society. Whilst his hand was still place under my buttocks, i was concentrating hard on not passing any air, shall we say?

This relaxed me no end.

‘Ok, stick out your tongue’


‘How do you say?’ as he pokes out his tongue

Here we go again, I think.

He waits with a tissue in his hand and his fingers in my ear, whilst I stick out my tongue.

‘I am going to pull on your tongue and you are going to try and swallow. This might be difficult.’

I kid you not. He nearly pulled my tongue out of my head whilst jamming his fingers into and pulling my ear.

What makes it worse is that I paid for this torture. However, I’m still fairly happy as it’s my first fully recovered evening and I go home and think of all the things that I can now do until…


I wake up at 3.00 a.m. with the worst bout of cystitis that I’ve ever had.


The 5 boys

What Fatty says:

‘I know that you are a mum but who are you?’

‘My Daddy lives in England. He has lots of money and he will send me some and I will give it to you, Papa. He is bigger than you, Papa….’

What Fatty does:

Toilet training, Fatty style equals squatting in the garden doggy style, letting his load  drop and then checking it’s all out and then wiping his fingers on himself.  I don’t have to worry about picking up his deposit as Lidl Supermarket Chain dog always gets there before me.

The Prof & Lips

Fighting less (but that’s because it’s hard to get a punch in when the Lips and Fatty are fighting).

Pokemon card CRAZY. THese bloody cards are the bane (bain? that looks a bit French) of my existence. I’ve had to deal with pokemon cards for the best part of 10 years.

The Face

Is still extremely popular. His herd fan club of girls regularly hang around the village hoping to get a glimpse of him. As he has a 24 hour on call hairdresser (the Prodigal), the Face always keeps his hair looking tiptop

The Prodigal

Where do I start?

When will it end?

I’ll cut out the nonsense of the last 7 weeks with the story of Mothers Day evening. It goes something like this:

‘Dinner, Prodigal’

He comes down (finally) and I realise that he is smashed. We exchange pleasantries for about 5 mins and he leaves to stagger back upstairs.

I decide that rather than have an escalation of his drunken bad behavior and as it is mothers day and as I still have feckin cystitis, I will just not deal with him and put it off until the morning.


It doesn’t work out that way.

How it does work out is the Prodigal speaking to me in an unacceptable manner; me putting it to him how I feel about this; him giving me a demented look and walking over to his bedroom window, climbing out of it and dropping about 10 or so feet down onto a SLOPE where I hear some words that I couldn’t repeat to my own grandmother and look down to see him struggling to get up.

A trip to the casualty, another trip via ambulance to another casualty and an operation for his smashed up ankle scheduled for the next morning.

This has NOTHING to do with the fact that he had exams the next two days……….don’t ever let it be said……just not connected at all……really…..


I call his Dad who actually does live in England but who has NOTHING to do with the biological make up of Fatty and explain what’s what.

That told me.

Within a few days, the said Dad and the ex of me together with my charming Husband are sitting down to lunch together at this house.


My one concern was that Fatty would start calling him Daddy.

My unknown  but what was soon to become apparent and greater concern was how drunk my husband was getting. My husband, stressed up to the eyeballs had decided the day before to give up his 4 year nicorette addiction (and I don’t use that word lightly).

If you have seen the Hangover films, you’ll understand what happened next.

Still, all is well that ends well and the Gendarmes only knocked on our door once and no one was arrested.

Blog, as I’m nearly at the 1000 word mark, I’m going to clear off but rest assured, I shall be back within the week. Can’t wait?