I never was any good at Thursdays
Small Person went off on a school trip to the beach yesterday - they went on a train and had a fabulous time and it made me ponder the logistics and sanity of taking forty-odd five-year-old children on a day trip. What if they all needed a wee at the same time? What if you lost one? What if three of them decided to hide for three hours and give the teachers a heart attack at the thought that they'd been abducted (this happened on a school trip to Switzerland when I was twelve and was very funny indeed. Although presumably less amusing if you were one of the teachers and your career and personal liberty was on the line.)? Not for me thanks - entertaining one five-year-old child is more than enough for me most of the time. I had to pick her up from the childminder's last night as the Ex was stuck at work. He came to collect her and I had to suffer another fifteen minutes of excruciating boredom as he talked at me about things I have no interest in. The only thing that prevents me from sticking a fork in his eye and setting him on fire is the gleeful jump-up-and-down knowledge that I'm not actually living with him any more and that at some point I get to close the front door and flick him the v's from my kitchen window as he drives off in his shitty car with his shitty music playing. Musical differences are often cited as the reason for a band splitting up, and I believe it can be a fundamental dealbreaker in a relationship too. When the Ex and I first got together I spent a day in his house while he was out at work. After I'd done all the obvious stuff (looked through all his cupboards, read some personal correspondence, checked his bank statements etc) I went through his record collection. The twelve inch picture disc of Samantha Fox's "Touch Me" should have alerted me to the fact that some point he and I would be dividing kitchen equipment and arguing over who got to keep the baby photos. But like a fool I ignored the evidence and we spent the next eight years becoming increasingly bitchy about each other's taste in music. On one memorable evening towards the end of our relationship he locked me out of the bedroom for the night on the basis that I had denounced his Pink Floyd dvd of The Wall as "shit" in front of our friends and put Motorhead on instead. If we went on a long car journey there were three neutral cd's we could listen to, or it was the radio all the way. For eight years. Sweet. So, be warned - if you ever meet someone with Jean Michel Jarre's (I'm ashamed that I even know how to spell that) entire back catalogue on cd please for the love of god don't marry him - he'll turn out to be a dull, possessive, unpleasant human being with a lack of personal hygiene and a persistent nose whistle. And a Land Rover. And some deeply horrible shoes. And a rubbish beard. And skinny chicken legs. And a padlock on his wallet. Probably.
Right, that's enough of that. I'm going to have a competition with myself to see if I can stay awake til Big Brother starts. I bet I win.