Dickheads R Us...

Okay, there's a junction in Helston with traffic lights to control the flow of cars coming from the left (obviously, if you're on the other side of the road, it's the right...) We're on the left approaching the junction when the lights turn red. Eldest son is driving so he slows, stops at the lights, pulls on the handbrake and finds his biting point. (Are you having hot flashbacks to your driving lessons, yet??)

The lights change to green, he releases the handbrake and slowly moves off indicating his turn to the left. Now, what does the dickhead on the other side of the road do? He has no green filter and should only turn if the road is clear. Is the road clear? No, there's a learner driver there just starting to make the turn, so what does he do? Yep! You guessed it, the prize pillock just decides to pull across in front of us. And lo, and behold, a motorcyclist figures he can squeeze through too!!

Eldest son had that look on his face; I just knew he was contemplating ramming into them as just punishment for being tossers. He must have done the sums quickly in his head: smacking dickhead = caved in front of our car = car off the road = no more driving.

Sensible choice, son.

Love - Forty (Something-year-old-needing-oxygen)

Well, Spring must have definitely sprung; the back lawn received its first chop of the season and we dragged the Swingball out of the garden shed.

Let the championships begin...

I managed to smack both of the kids in the face with a ball - eldest son got his right on the nose - what magnificent aim! My left hand will, no doubt, be swollen and battered tomorrow, because I kept hitting the bloody thing with my bat. See, now that's karma; I laughed at the boys' injuries and fate redressed the balance by whacking me...several times...

Eldest son annihilated us both - mostly with brute strength, aided by the fact he's got an extra two foot in height to play with, but boy! was it fun! I especially loved the moment where I collapsed on a garden chair, gasping, "can't...breathe..." It's amazing how much a body can deteriorate in just a year...

Youngest son stole the show, however, with his comment, "They should make a game of Swingball".

"Um...they did...you're playing it."

"No, I meant for the Playstation or the X BOX."

Now, who says technology is killing childhood?

Driving Ms Carney...

Oh God, the first driving lesson hosted by moi. And I use the word 'lesson' loosely. If eldest son is behind the wheel careering along the road and I'm pinned to the passenger seat catatonic with fear, then, let's face it - there's not a whole lot of instruction going on; it's more a case of bumper-cars and trying not to vomit.

Actually, the whole experience wasn't too horrendous; there was a bit of bouncing between the kerb and parked cars, but once the Valium kicked in, I was fine. And I needed a new front nearside tyre anyway...

He's been riding a moped for a year, so he's certainly developed some road sense, but I'll be a lot happier when the proverbial penny drops and he realises a car takes up a smidge more space than a bike and doesn't quite tuck into a hedge as neatly as a ped, and when a Truronian bus is hurtling through the lanes towards you, launching yourself into the back seat, doesn't actually move the car out of its way.

Oh, no. That was just me.

Buy One Panic Attack, Get One Free...

I don't know what I've done to piss them off, but ASDA cashiers hate me with a passion. And what's more, they do it with great chuffing smiles on their faces.

Yes, I was in there again today. A normal weekly food shop - trolley overflowing with bread to be toasted and smeared with peanut butter at midnight, crisps to be snaffled and thrown on the floor and apples to decay in the fruit bowl before being lobbed in the bin next week. Dog food, loo rolls, ham, cheese, seventeen packets of pasta, twelve boxes of cereal and chocolate digestives to be hidden under my bed. When do teenage boys stop eating everything in sight?

Eldest son is seventeen tomorrow so I was also lugging a huge birthday cake, candles, banners and enough beer to floor a small army.

As I started to pile my goodies onto the conveyor belt, the smiley cashier said, in a sing-song voice, "Can I help with your packing?"

"Lovely, thanks. I'll take over when I've emptied my trolley."

Very slowly, she began to pack my shopping. Everything stacked neatly, bags not too heavy, nothing squashed. Three perfectly organised bags.

And then I took over. Within seconds, she'd whizzed half the trolley load through the scanner. The dog food was perched on top of the salad and my beautiful chocolate-drizzled cake was somewhere beneath the bleach and washing powder. Sparks were flying off her fingers and I just wanted to cry.

Why do they shove everything through at full pelt while you're still grappling to open the friggin' bag? Call me anally attentive, it's fine; I've been called worse, but I always load the groceries onto the belt in sections - tins together, cleaning stuff in one pile and fruit and veg in another. Why, oh, why do they dip in the sections and grasp the bananas and then the shampoo and finally, a lump of cheese? And do it all faster than the speed of light?

It drives me demented. By the time I need to pay, I've developed great sweaty patches under my arms, my breathing's all shallow and I'm having palpitations. There's a queue of seventeen behind me and I've run out of bags.

Grocery shopping's more stressful than being married. And just about as sexual.

Down a Dark Alley...

My youngest son and I sat in the car this evening awaiting the return of eldest son from his guitar lesson. Blinding lights in the rear view mirror, a last-minute swerve and a police car swung in beside us. Two cops leaped out and belted off down the alley way in front of us. Youngest son and I exchanged raised-eyebrowed looks and surreptitiously locked the car doors.

Forty minutes later, bored to the back teeth, because neither eldest son nor the police officers had returned, we decided to have a walk. Actually, that's a lie; Matt's lessons can drag on for days if I don't poke my head in the door and shout, "Three minutes and I'm leaving without you, darling!" (It's the term of endearment that always get him moving...)

Well, youngest son and I had exited the car, stepped in front of the cop-mobile about to walk down the alley, when from the darkness, a deep voice yelled, "Get away from the car. Move back against the wall where I can see you. Do it now!"

Son and I, limbs all a-tremble, leaped three feet into the air and flattened ourselves against the wall. The growly voice, dressed in police uniform, threw himself towards us, and stopped dead. "Oh, sorry, darling. You all right? I thought you were kids messing with the car."

"No," I squeaked. "Just walking past...innocently..."

"I'm really sorry for scaring you."

"S'allright," I squeaked again.

He leaped into the car, reversed and screeched out of the car-park. I sneaked a look at youngest son, who was still pressed up against the wall, eyes wide, mouth open. When I was sure my legs could carry my weight again, we un-peeled ourselves from the wall and scurried back to the car.

I tell you, those streets just ain't safe anymore...