Mental Health Week

I would like to point out that lots has been happening in The Funny Little Bungalow recently. Big Seymour has been very busy, as always. But I am sure you don’t really want to hear that he put another strip of architrave on the bedroom door, or that I whitewashed the dry plaster on the ceiling. You see, we are down to the nitty gritty bits now. And they, my friends, are BORING. Plus, on top of those monotonous tasks, and the never ending cycle of chaos, and aside from the nitty gritty, there is still a hell of a lot of major work to be done.
Which leaves us feeling somewhat deflated.
There was a major development last weekend, when the water tank and boiler-y thing arrived. We had been waiting for them for a while, and their arrival might have signified a future with hot water in the house, and therefore, a giant step forward. But instead, Big Seymour now faces the tricky task of running pipework and cables for those beasts, and he, I can tell, is daunted.
I think I have said it before, but I repeat: when Big Seymour is daunted, I panic.

Aside from the continued renovations, all sorts of things have been conspiring to make me lose my mind – nothing major, I am grateful to say, but niggly things that once again make me wonder if I am actually functioning at all in any of my roles.
In my role as a wannabe writer, I have just delivered a manuscript to the most discerning yet also the most biased editor there is, my mother. I dread to think what she will make of the latest fictional outpourings of my brain. In truth, I think she will hate it.
In my role as housekeeper, I have decided I am rubbish. The flies have returned to The Shed, and yesterday, rather like a scene from The Twits, I ended up with Hugtight Sticky Glue and flies in my hair as I failed to dodge to flypaper inconveniently dangling in the middle of the one room we have. It took me ages to remove the debris from my head, leaving me to wonder if I shouldn’t just hack the lot off, as it now smells decidedly fly-y.
In my role as gardener, I appear to have allowed the slugs to get at all my seedlings, and now I feel guilty as I have been committing regular murders after dark with scissors.
In my role as blogger, I have failed to update you all, and will therefore never make it as one of the blogging elite. I accepted this months ago, though, thereby taking the pressure off. It wasn’t long before I realised that my “content” is just not that interesting, and cannot be defined. Which is fine, actually.
In my role as a parent, I am constantly cocking stuff up. My poor kids don’t know whether they are coming or going; the two bigger ones even sat there at the weekend and calmly commented on the fact that I am inconsistent: “Isn’t it funny,” observed Number One to Number Two, “that sometimes, she says “You have to clear it up because you made the mess” and at other times, she says “I don’t care who made the f*$%*g mess, just clear it up!”. They chortled quietly to each other, and smirked. I wanted to resign.
I am clearly a rubbish tutor. Little Seymour Number Two is dreadful when it comes to homework, and refuses to tell the time. I don’t actually think she can. And Boy Seymour’s handwriting is still atrocious. And Mini Seymour, despite not being that mini any more, has approximately nineteen tantrums a day.
And finally, in my role as Safety Officer, I have failed. Last night, at Cub pickup, I found myself standing in between The Shiny Van and a reversing car, actually thinking that I’d rather it hit me than do damage to the bumper. A nice chap who sounded like a viking pointed out to me how dangerous it was, and then I quickly re-adjusted my perspective. But what an idiot! Someone save me, quick. I am not safe to be out.

And then there was the Royal Wedding. How lovely it was. But it also upset me. Why am I not royal? Why were the Beckhams there? And where was Baby Louis?
I like him.

I think I will put this last week down to experience and try harder to be positive from here on in. And I will attempt to update the blog more often, too. Even if it does just tell you about the latest screw to go in.
At least that will be less depressing than the latest screw up!
Wish me luck.

Yes, that is the fly paper in my hair.