June 2025

We bought a Ninja Creamy, so the fridge is crammed with fruits waiting to be whizzed into something with a million calories, by the time they’ve added the condensed milk, cream and pistachio cream, because we’re nothing if not on the zeitgeist in this house. I mean, are you even alive if you haven’t made several versions of Dubai Chocolate? So yesterday, when I reached in to find dinner ingredients, out tumbled  grapes and strawberries and I shouted ‘F**K’S SAKE,’ then, ‘Sorry about that girls!’ and LSB says to me, don’t worry, you’re in esteemed company, obviously referring to Trump’s blooper when he stepped off Marine One and lost his shit.

Poor LSB is sick looking at my ‘ What The ABSOLUTE F**K?’ face. The news gets worse every day, and I’m screaming at Alexa to turn it off when it pops up on BBC Six Music on the half hour, with that reassuring ‘sonic thud’ as an intro, which seriously, they need to address because it’s become a total trigger for me.

So I try not to listen, and endeavour to avert my eyes in the shops lest I catch sight of whatever apocalyptic headline the Daily Mail have decided to run with, to generate as much terror as possible. Their sole aim, I am convinced, is to stir up as much fear as they can and make us believe that the way to peace is to follow the warmongers’ lead, which sounds a tad counterintuitive to me. It’s all very Orwellian, but hey, what would I know- I’m only a teacher, not say a property mogul or a tech bro: apparently they have all the answers.

But needless to say, the news abroad and the news at home, has my nerves royally shattered. Generally I have a somewhat tenuous grip on sanity, so to be living in these “interesting times” has been testing. (LSB will attest to this.)

It’s why I haven’t been on here much, because in the light of global catastrophes, it seems trite to whinge about a rubbish ski trip, a shit house-sitter, or when my children turn up their noses at the wild Norwegian line-caught cod fillets I’ve sourced for their dinner.

To be ‘proactive’ I contacted my MP, (Gavin Robinson) about the situation in Gaza. After two e-mails, a Facebook request, and a phone call to his constituency office, I finally received a mealy-mouthed two-line response. Big Angry Gav doesn’t seem bothered– I mean, if you want a bag of flour in a war zone, you can only expect to first be hounded into a cage and then shot at, right?But what to do? I’ve kept e-mailing. I’ve kept signing the petitions, I’ve kept making donations. And I’m breathing deeply, running a bit and holding it together, because rocking back and forth in the corner isn’t much help to anyone.

If you would like to share your ways of coping with apocalyptic news I’d love to know. I also forget how much doing anything creative soothes me, by means of distraction. So thank you for reading my words. My mental health is the better for blogging, so I’m grateful that there is an audience out there for my musings. Happy Summer everyone.

Meanwhile:

What I’m watching:

 Ghosts with the family. A bit late to the party with this but it is hilarious and clever; a gentle watch if you will, so apt for troubled times.

What I’m reading:

I just finished ‘Lost for Words’ by Stephanie Butland as recommended by Lucy Mangan and it’s wry and poignant: a perfect summer read.

About to start The Dream Count by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

In some of my past Father’s Day posts, things have taken a mundane or even scatological turn. In the interests of continuity this post will be no different. Poor LSB- he earns his moniker for a reason.

What the man needs, above all else, is an uninterrupted night’s sleep. I don’t think he’s had one since 2009, and even those were scarce because we used to live beside a Daniel O’Donnell super-fan who would croon plaintive ballads with gusto at all hours. Strange sort of a fella: on occasion he’d decide to play evangelical tapes featuring the Rev Willie McCrea, delivering a full-on hell-fire and brimstone sermon.  Ruined many a moment, did that neighbour and his antics.

Speaking of Satan, and other things ruining your sex life, we may have two of his willing servants here, in the form of our cats. Not a moment’s peace to they give us, determinedly scratching at our door and mewing pitifully for their pre-dawn snack. Yes, you read that right: PRE-DAWN. Soft-touch that he is, LSB wends his way downstairs to heave food into a bowl. It’s a wonder he hasn’t broken his neck on the stairs because they are quite narrow, especially for one in a somnambulant state.

‘Just put the bastards out,’ I hear you shout at your screen, but alas, they have honed a myriad of ways to torment. If we DO put the tortoiseshell outside, she has found a way to land at our bedroom window, from where she yowls, sometimes standing on her hind legs for emphasis. Relaxing it is not: looking up to see her demonic little head and wild eyes demanding to be granted access.

The dog, not to be outdone, was also in fine fettle this morning. Hearing LSB up and about, ministering to the demands of cats, she begged to be let out too. I woke up alone in bed, and found both dog and husband in his study on the sofa together. ‘I just gave up on sleep,’ said LSB miserably, staring ahead while robotically stroking her back. ‘She cries if I stop,’ he added.

 ‘Is that shit on her paw? I said, instead of ‘Happy Father’s Day,’ by way of greeting. Reader, it was. In her excitement at her early excursion she’d ploughed through some of her own excrement. How lovely. Off to the bathroom then, to fill a bucket and don a glove and soak a cloth and tend to soiled paw.

She then had to be walked early, so Himself did that while I went for a run. I did buy him brunch later though, by way of thanks.

Frankly he deserves more than pancakes and bacon for his trouble.

Still, he’s an easy-going sort, and as long as he has an hour in the evening to play ‘Doom, The Dark Ages’ (with his trusty hound on the bean bag beside him,) he seems happy enough. Apparently it’s actually set in hell, so it says a lot that this is where he turns for light relief.