The Cringe Chronicles Continue

I do not have the ability to go any length of time without making a complete tit of myself. It’s simply not possible. Or if it’s not me, it’s my children. I have a few good weeks and I get all cocky and confident and then bam…I find myself off the wagon, having a cringe binge like there’s no tomorrow.

A couple of weeks ago, my son started school after an excruciating a very long summer holiday. On the first day of school, I spotted a woman who I knew was expecting a baby. She’s already got a troupe of kids. Four or five, I think. I lose count. Anyway, in the spirit of first-day friendliness I trotted up to her, looked directly at her tummy and said “Gosh, you must be due any day now. So exciting!” She looked at me deadpan and said, “I had the baby three weeks ago” and then proceeded to open the compartment of her pram underneath her seated toddler to reveal a tiny pink bundle. I gushed like an idiot over the newborn to try and mask the awkwardness. And then to fill the silence, I said: “Ah, Josh must be so thrilled to have a new sister.” She looked at me. Deadpan again. “Who’s Josh?” I let the question hang, pretending not to hear her. I mumbled a hasty goodbye and bolted.

As I was queuing with my son to get into his classroom, I remembered. Her son’s name is Dylan. There is no Josh. Not only do I tactlessly allude to her size, I insult her further by not even knowing her kid’s name. I avoid her now. It’s safer that way. And it’s ok because she avoids me too. My work with her is done. I outdid myself. Couldn't have cocked that conversation more if I tried. Well I suppose I could. I clearly have a gift.



At each of my antenatal consultations, they make you pee in a tube the width of a narrow hosepipe. I always end up with pee all over the outside of the tube. Pee on my hand. Pee everywhere. But this isn’t the story. The story is that for my first antenatal visit to this swanky clinic, I’m too lazy to walk to the ladies loo. I figured I’d use the disabled loo, which is located directly across from the consult room. The disabled loos are private. They’re always cleaner. There’s a lot more space. And there’s usually a mirror. After pissing all over myself, collecting a bit in my tube and washing my hands, I absentmindedly pulled a cord by the door that I assumed was the light-switch. An alarm went off. I could hear it faintly. I figured there must be an emergency somewhere. I pulled the cord again. It must faulty I thought. I gave it a final tug. The alarm screeched in earnest. I heard lots of shuffling feet. I opened the door to find three concerned-looking nurses – one with a key in her hand – standing in the corridor ready to swoop in. “Um, I’m so sorry”, I stammered. “It’s no emergency. I’m not a...er...disabled person. Just pregnant. I just needed to fill this.” I presented them my sample. “But I peed all over the tube. It’s ok. I do it all the time. And I pulled the cord because I thought it was the light-switch. It wasn’t. My bad. So sorry.” 
I skulked back to the consult room, pee in hand, face burning as a trio of nurses tut-tutted in my wake.

Following the medical theme, last week I had to go to a specialist dermatologist. I have waited four months for this appointment. In May while on a visit to South Africa, my father-in-law spotted a mole that he was worried about. Said it looked dodgy. So he cut it out and sent it away. My father law is a doctor. He's qualified to cut stuff out of bodies. Good thing he did remove it, because the mole turned out to be basal carcinoma.

Anyway, the day finally dawned that I was scheduled to have an appointment with a medical professional here in the UK to take a candid look at the other dodgy moles that may be lurking on my person. In my head I knew I’d have to be naked for the procedure. But I didn’t register this until she politely asked me to remove my clothes. I certainly didn’t think of it when I was getting dressed in the morning. I remembered with horror the fact that I was wearing a pair of knickers that should’ve gone to Jesus a long time ago. They’re certainly holy holey enough. They used to be white with blue polka dots. They’re now grey with beige splotches. And the elastic is shot. Which is actually just how I like them. They’re malleable to my ever-changing shape. They grow with me.
 So what if I have to cut strands of cotton from the seams. My gran used to say that you should always leave the house with your good underwear because you may get hit by a bus. Out of respect for the paramedics attending to you, she said, it was only good and proper to ensure your underwear was your best. In my head, I figured that if you did get hit by a bus, the state of your underwear is the least of your worries. So I’ve never bothered with her advice about Sunday's best underwear or matching my top and bottoms for that matter. Ever. Certainly not at 7.5 months pregnant. So there I stood… with my massive bump in ill-matching undergarments in a pair of knickers that shouldn’t be allowed out of the house let seen alone in public while every inch of my body is being scrunitised by a doctor with a magnifying glass type tool with a built-in torch thingie. Her assistant looking on and another nurse thrown in to join the party. When she said she was done, I’ve never scrambled so quickly into my clothes. My one-size-fits-all knickers have finally gone. They’ve retired now. To the resting place for underwear that’s delivered above and beyond the call of duty. Every time I miss them, I think of that hot room, those six pairs of eyes and that torch.

My son and daughter like to play in the boot of my car. They’re weird like that. They also like to eat yoghurt while they’re in there. I usually sit in the front seat and listen to the news or Facebook while they get on with it. One afternoon while they were romping in their boot fort, my son said he needed the loo. I said, “Ok well then let’s go inside”. He asked if he could come back to play in the boot after he’d been to the toilet. I said no. He quickly replied that actually he didn’t need the toilet after all. Typical. They played and screeched and jumped around. As they do. After about 10 minutes or so, my son said: “Mom, quick I’m having an accident! Quick, open the boot!” I whipped it open and my son sprang on to the pavement. Before I could ask him what had happened, he shook one leg and out from the bottom of his trousers plopped a big solid brown poo. Straight on to the pavement. He shook the other leg, and another log joined its friend. I stood horrified looking at his work, not quite believing my eyes. My son of 5 and a half, who’s been potty trained since three, had just crapped in his pants. On the street. Our street. Where we live. Outside our very house. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I also didn’t want to draw attention to what he’d done in case someone came to investigate. My daughter, reveling in the drama of the situation, kept screeching “Uggh. Yuck. Look at Ollie’s poo! Look at Ollie’s big poo!” I had to practically muzzle her. How does one explain human faeces on the pavement outside one’s house? We don’t even have animals to blame. Not even a cat. Can you imagine the neighborhood banter? “Stay away from No. 27…they’re Africans. Their son defecates on the street. Barbarians.” I sent him inside to fetch a wad of loo paper while I stood guard over the crap. He remerged trailing a long while trail of toilet paper and I collected his business before I bolted inside. Shepherding my feral children indoors. I still shudder at the memory of the trauma of that little incident. My kids are now prohibited from playing in the boot. For Health and Safety reasons you understand.

Some people binge on chocolate and wine. Some folk binge-watch a series. Others binge on sushi. Me, I binge on all of those. And then I add a generous and regular dose of shame to the mix. I'm special like that.

Things that Go Bump in the Night

So I’ve been struggling to sleep lately. I toss and turn and listen to the gongs of the Catholic Church chiming each hour, on the hour. This state of perpetual wakefulness is dangerous for me. Not just because I am Satan’s spawn in the morning – grumpy, miserable and hateful. But also because in those hours between midnight and ridiculous o’ clock – I start to think. About stuff. All sorts of random stuff. And I ask questions. And that’s never a good thing. Here’s why:

Why do we say that a person lost their battle with cancer? “After a brave fight, so and so sadly lost their battle with leukemia.” As though they had choice in the matter? It implies a sense of responsibility for a battle that no individual has chosen.



Why too do we say that a woman fell pregnant or fell in love? What’s up with the falling theme? We say too that someone fell ill, or fell on hard times. So how can we possibly describe birth and love in the same way as we do sickness and bad fortune?



Literally where on earth is that Malaysian Airlines plane? How can an entire aircraft with 300 people simply vanish? Someone knows something.



Literally where on earth is Madeline McCann? How can a little girl simply vanish? Someone knows something.



What moron came up with the oxymoron ‘Holy War’? And how stupid is fighting and killing in the name of religion anyway. Seriously. We’re all shocked and sickened by the Holocaust, by genocide and war – and yet we continue to allow the carnage to continue. And what’s worse – we watch it live on television. We shudder. We cringe. And then we carry on with our lives as though nothing happened.



How come the people with the most wisdom and experience of life (the elderly) are treated the most appallingly? They’re hidden away to die. Instead of learning from their history, we negate the value of their experiences. We treat babies like demi-gods and they offer us nothing of real value until they’re no longer babies. How can a society have it so backward?

Why do dogs eat poo? All dogs. All poo.

Why do nuclear weapons exist? In an age of (supposed) enlightenment with the tenants of basic human rights espoused at every turn, how can there still exist the power to wipe out humanity? And who has the right to sanction this power?



How can a plane carrying innocent people be blasted from the sky? And no one takes any responsibility for it? It just happens. And we leave it at that. 


Why do good women – intelligent, kind, beautiful – struggle to meet good men? How come they seem to attract dickhead after dooshbag followed by cockrod? Where's the logic in that?

Cancer makes profit. It’s in the best financial interests for pharmaceutical companies and the health insurance industry for there to simply be ‘no cure’. 
People die so other people can get rich - in an industry ostensibly committed to saving lives. Really?

If olive oil comes from olives and sunflower oil comes from sunflowers…where does baby oil come from?


Celebrities pursue fame relentlessly. They strive to be recognised. Then when they achieve fame, they dedicate the same energy towards becoming unrecognisable?

How can ministers in parliament change portfolios after re-elections? What does a Minister of Sports possibly know about the Department for Correctional Services?

Shouldn’t everyone be an organ donor? Like it’s a given. Like getting a birth certificate or something.



Why do we sleep so much better to the sound of the ocean?

Why do dogs sniff your crotch? Every. Single. Time.

No fat, low fat, high fat. What’s up with that?

Why are the people who do the most important jobs in life – teachers, doctors, civil servants, charity workers - remunerated less than people who’re paid to hit balls, kick balls or hoop balls simply for the entertainment value of others?


Some pregnant women dream of a giving birth to a pineapple or an octo-baby. That would be bliss. Give me a mutant cyclops any day. I lie awake worrying about problems I cannot solve. And then I worry about worrying. And so the cycle continues. And along chimes another gong…signaling the ever-approaching dawn of daylight. And with it, comes relief from the things that go bump in the night. In my head. Hopefully the baby’s not the only bump that will emerge from my body come November. Sweet baby cheesus, I hope so.

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