Jigsaws

When a group of friends get together for food, drink and jigsaw building, the conversation can become somewhat nonsensical- primarily due to the lack of consensus re vocabulary. 

I have tried googling the correct anatomical terms for commonly shaped jigsaw pieces but can't find any. So either there are none, or they do exist but are not shared outside some secret jigsaw builders society- you know like Freemasonary or Mormonism- but for jigsaws. 

Rock

I love rock. You know where you are with rock. What you see at one end of the bar continues right the way through, no matter where you break it or bite it. There's a consistency and knowledge of what to expect.


Some people are consistent like rock. They are genuine. Their words and their actions match. Their words and their words match too as the content of their speech is not dependant on the presence or absence of anyone. But we all modify our behaviour on occasion. It would be odd if we didn't- job interviews have a different set of rules than conversations with your grandparents. A night out with friends means a whole different set of social norms than a parents' evening or paying the milkman. Everyone knows this and we somehow adapt to fit in. We understand the rules and are grateful that they help society function. But at what point does over-thinking and moderating our behaviour become deceptive?

I can only presume that Danny, a character met by Dave Gorman at the end of his 91,000m Googlewhack adventure crossed that line (wherever it is) a long time ago. Compromising in a million different ways over time and cyberspace, Danny eventually finds himself with 2 completely separate identities, each tied to an aspect of his sexuality and both completely independent of each other:

Every year I go to the (Mardi Gras) parade with my girlfriend and every year I think: This is it. This is the day that my 2 worlds collide. This is the day my world ends. I see gay friends of mine in the parade and in the crowd and I see straight friends of mine in the crowd and I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who to be. I don’t know how to wear my hair, my collar, my jeans, how to behave. Which me do I be?

OK that's an extreme example, but Danny started somewhere. And employees of MI5 and everyone on the Witness Protection Programme aside, there are a whole host of small and subtle ways to compromise who we really are:

• Hiding texts from a partner
• Taking sides in office politics
• Tweeting/posting stuff to carefully reinforce an edited version of ourselves
• Downplaying or adopting a belief depending on company

The list could go on and on. I don't presume to know where the line is in every situation or necessarily think it's in exactly the same spot for each person - I just know it's not normal to bite into rock and find cola bottles.
Or porridge.
Or cabbage.
Edible, but unexpected.
(And may cause retching)

Book review

This book is doing my head in. They should have called it 'Inept parents who constantly reinforce negative behaviour then whinge when they get it'.

Theology

Bedtime. We are discussing The Lord's Prayer which I was shocked to discover our children actually know (we didn't teach them - at least not the trespassey version that they recited to me in Borg-like unison tonight).

Me: What do you think this bit means, 'Let your will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven'?

J: It's like God's in charge of the Earth too, just like he's the boss of Heaven.

M: Heaven is just the same as earth you know. Except there are no toilets.
Me: Um, yeah... There are a few other differences too I think...?
M: Yes- you're not allowed to be sad or punch people. Because nobody can cry and nobody can be mean.

Me: Yep! What else might be different?

J: God will be there.
M: Of course, God will be there. But... that isn't really a difference really because he's here right now as well but in Heaven he won't have his invisibility cloak.

Cooking issues (ongoing)

Our Cookiemoon is definitely fading. There's less enthusiasm for picking menus. Shopping is still fun and educational, but I only get willing volunteers if the alternative involves homework or getting ready for bed. After 20 years of meandering up and down the aisles in a carefree manner, I falter and panic without a list. The putting away of stuff on return home is getting old with K and me doing rock paper scissors to see who gets the fridge, and that's before the cooking part has even happened yet.

Hmm.

I can scrutinise our lifestyle and analyse it to death, but I think my basic problem is I like the kitchen to look like this:

But it often looks like this.

It also involves me spending much time doing this.

When I'd much rather be spending time with them (plus the 

biggest one who has refused photography permission).

Doing things like this.

And making things like this.

Then arguing over this.

Can someone please hurry up and invent this?

That would be great. 

Boredom

E passes me a pen to sign his homework diary. There's a curl of plastic casing peeling away from the nib end, like the pen is unravelling.

Me: Did you try to sharpen this pen?
E: Yes I did.
Me: With a pencil sharpener?
E: Yep, that's right.
Me: But... why?
E: I was in French. 
Me: ...?
E: I was bored.

Cookies

Give a child a cookie and he shall eat for 60 seconds.

Teach a child to bake cookies and behold- you shall both eat cookies and cookie dough until you are satisfied.

And the kitchen floor shall be hazardously slippy until you mop it twice.

And you shall find remnants of flour in all rooms of the house for many days henceforth.

Storage

I recently found myself back in the house we used to rent. Only one kid was present and he was a toddler again which is very weird as he's the middle child and there was no sign of the other two. My cousin was pleading with me to help her die as she could no longer cope with depression. After explaining that an overdose would take too long and anything involving blunt or sharp instruments would create too much mess, she outlined her method to me. I accepted her rationale, helped her climb into a duvet storage bag then vacuumed packed her to death with the hoover hose. Then I hid her body in a kitchen cupboard, which was now no longer in my ex-kitchen but in Molly and Arthur Weasley's. Disturbingly, there were MORE vacuum packed people in the cupboard, all stacked neatly in the fetal position, head to toe. I knew nothing about them. I don't think I did anyway.

Oh.

Dear.

God.

Maybe I do...

I have never been more relieved to wake up. Ever.

My dream hangover lingered way longer than one cup of tea. Normally I wake from much more pleasant (or at least neutral) scenarios and can literally feel the details slip away from me as I become aware that the thing that just happened was a dream. The very decision to recall the finer points of events only speeds up their escape from my head.

Not this dream.

Honestly, this is concerning.

Would the argument for efficient storage and containment of bodily fluids be compelling factors for my subconscious' agreement to participate in assisted suicide? Perhaps on more than one occasion?

There are many reasons I left the NHS. This should have been one of them.