I first ‘met’ Sunita, writer of Lucky Things blog via Instagram last year. Details of exactly when are a little hazy in my mind, a bit like a boozy first date. Shortly after meeting (I use this term in the ‘online’ sense) Sunita invited me along to an event she was hosting in London. It was apparently going to be a small, informal and friendly, with a fabulous Weleda arm massage thrown in for good measure. I didn’t know anyone else who was going, and having been to big blog and smaller meet ups before, I was a worried about feeling a bit lost. The big events I’ve been too, I’ve found to be rather impersonal, as those who already know each other use it as a chance to catch up (quite rightly) but the problem being that they tend to stick in their set groups (what’s a group of bloggers called? A Click perhaps, with all that phone and keyboard tapping?) And a few other more low-key, supposedly super friendly and pressure free meet ups that I’ve been to, I’ve found to be exactly what they were claiming not to be. So would going to Sunitas’ event leave me feeling on the outside?
Fathers day is fast approaching and it’s not just all about mothers day anymore and making a big fuss of mums, oh no. Dad’s quite rightly deserve a day all about them with just as much fuss and maybe even a gift or two (if they’ve been good). But if your dad or partner is anything like the men I know, then they are impossible to buy birthday presents for, let alone a fathers day gift. My dad doesn’t even bother giving me any ideas anymore and my husband says helpful things like, ‘you should write down all the things I mention throughout the year’ which obviously, I never do. So with no particular gift ideas in mind, I headed into Kingston, to the Bentall centre to see what inspiration I could gather.
Mothers Day is fast approaching and I’ve been thinking about the fact that as my years creep ever closer to forty (I mean, really?!) that I’m slowly but surely turning into my mother. Actually scrub that, I don’t notice it so much, it’s my husband who tells me I am. It’s inevitable really isn’t it what with the DNA and all, it’s something that can’t be helped or stopped, no matter what your relationship. I love my mum dearly, she’s done so much for me over the years, the one I look to for advice but it hasn’t always been this way. We had a rough ride when I was younger. I was a typical teenager and I caused her a lot of heartache and grief, for which I carry a lot of guilt for (it’s okay, I’ll be punished via my own daughter, karma and all that) I used to hate it when people told me I looked like my her but now I love it, I’m her daughter, that’s our eternal link and bond. Now that I have a daughter myself I understand that link that will always be there. Plus I know that I can’t fight it, it’s happening whether I like it or not. I’ve had a bit of a think and here are a few signs that I’m turning into my mother.
A story cropped up in the media over the weekend that caught my eye. Now before I prattle on, commenting on news stories isn’t usually my thing, but after reading this I wanted to write a response of sorts as the article irked me a little. Firstly let me talk about me (standard) and my Instagram page. I love posting photos of lovely (or terrible) food, coffee (lots of the stuff), occasional photos of me or the kid doing something silly. I generally try to write a comment underneath each photo that is true to life, something about that scenario, something funny the kid has done or something going on in my life at that moment, like clearing up toys or being so tired I need matchsticks for my eyes, that kind of thing. I want to show and comment about the reality of parenting. It’s not all pretty filters (although they help, obviously) and smiling children. Quite often it’s lots of wine, poo, tears from both the baby and you and sleepless nights. In fact when I started my page, one of my most popular photos was one of me covered in sick, at a soft play. It showed me that fellow parents liked this disgusting but funny and truthful side to Instagram.
After a planes, trains and automobiles style journey to The Royal Albert Hall (because of course, it was the one and only night it decided to snow which meant the trains went up the spout) Me and the Mr arrived late, somewhat stressed and ready for a glass of wine. Which saw dry January go out of the window. Oh well, when needs must! As we settled into our seats I wasn’t too sure what to expect from Amaluna, my first Cirque Du Soleil show. The Mr had been to one in Vegas and described it to me as, ‘a bit like a posh circus’. So could I expect cannon firing and tight-rope walking? Well, not quite but essentially, a ‘posh circus’ is a good description of what Cirque Du Soleil is. But as I soon saw for myself, there is much more to it than this.