Thursday at the HogHouse


Today began early – 3.36AM to be precise. This was when the Man-Hog’s ritual cries of epiglottis-shaking joy (or horror, who can tell?) breached the decibel tolerance levels of even the dead. The dead being me. Refraining from stuffing left-over dried apricots and last month’s Land Rover Monthly up his nose sideways, I decided instead to just get up and de-camp to the sitting room.

Sleep eluded me: mainly, I’ll admit, owing to a film about rugby on Anytime; always worth a watch and a sigh of once-youthful yearning. Two hours later, the somewhat thinly veiled troubled-teenager-nice thighs-but essentially a sod-finds rugby-coach turns out to be a brick-wins National playoff-changes life-wins girl plot whimpered to its final lame-ass conclusion and I was still wide awake watching the credits roll.

At this point, toast and a comfort vat of Ovaltine with extra sugar were the only obvious choices. As I slapped the butter on so thick it melted and ran like lava into my cleavage, I lifted a silent middle finger to cholesterol monitoring, WeightWatchers and Hogboy upstairs. Diets always start tomorrow, don’t they?

Cookery School starts at 5.30AM for those who are interested. It consists of a rotundly arrogant Chef (there’s a surprise – someone really should study the chef size to over-inflated ego ratio – there’s definitely a genetic link) undercooking meat in a frilly fashion whilst his female-totty-for-the-masses sidekick smiles sweetly as she assassinates the hopes and dreams of the victims – sorry, contestants. She even CROSSES THEIR NAMES OUT on a blackboard in front of them before they leave with the Chef’s Hat of Shame tucked into their undies. Heartless harpy.

Having despatched some poor woman in tears in this manner to lay her head in her inadequately pre-heated gas oven, I was left feeling FINALLY a little drowsy. The excitement had been too much. I drifted off.

My mobile shrilling in my ear heralded the start of today’s traumas. My pre-teen son has been at Chelsea football camp since Sunday, has worked super-humanly hard and was today supposed to be heading off to his reward – a tour of Stamford Bridge complete with dressing room sweat, a potential rub-up against an actual player, finishing with a presentation which his proud parents would attend in order to worship him.

Not to be. Viral plague; dehydration from unexpected and unseasonal sunshine; and/or a surfeit of Haribos consumed in a single sitting had done for him sometime in the night. Vomit was his task and Bucket his reward.

So I set off at just before 8AM after inadequate mumblings from the man in charge of hurling minors to drive the equivalent of the Paris-Dakar Rally to collect said Puker. I’m exaggerating OBVIOUSLY. You know me by now. But at that time of the morning and with unattractively wet hair (no time to primp for fit Chelsea coaching staff) it felt far! The dulcet sound of his nodding head clunking into the stainless steel bowl I forced him to hold in front of him all the way back will live with me a long time. It was like a lackadaisical steel band who simply couldn’t be arsed to stay in tune.

Since then, my day has been filled with intermittent gagging, loud shouts from Man-Hog of “Not on the carpets, Son!!!”, a Vesuvian pile of ironing, braving the supermarket for more butter (don’t say a word) and “When are we eeeaaaatttiiinnngggg?” on a plaintive wheedle loop from the older and clearly insensitive-to-situation Teen with the Bottomless Pit for a Stomach.

*Sigh* Motherhood? Marriage? Honestly? Poke it.

Photo credit: www.tedhickman.com

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About pigletinapoke

I am a forty-something married mum of two, working in London and commuting a crazy amount of hours so I can enjoy living at the coast at weekends! I'm into netball, jointly coaching and running a successful ladies club. I also sail whenever I get the chance and took part in the Trans-Atlantic leg of the Clipper Round The World yacht race in 2009. I like movies, particularly stuff by Nancy Meyers in whose set designs I want to spend my life. I devour novels, biographies and anything to do with self-improvement. I like to drive fast and live slightly dangerously, attempting to experience everything and everywhere before my time is up. That's me in a nutshell - I hope you enjoy my blog. If you would like to use any of my articles or the pics, I would appreciate very much if you could ask me first. Never known to refuse to date. Thanks!

Posted on August 18, 2011, in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 10 Comments.

  1. Hilarious. I was living every minute! X

  2. This is hilarious ! Though, obviously I am sending you lots of empathetic hugs etc etc, but blimey you made me laugh ! Hope your day gets better and puker stops puking 😀
    x

  3. Nice. I’m the snorer inn our house which means basically my husband is lying, naturally a lady like moi doesn’t snore. Urgh to vomit. And oh no to missing Stamford Bridge tour. A blow indeed to a boy. Now to my own vesuvian pile of ironing. Sigh. I wish I had some of those Haribo.

    • I click a little, but don’t snore I don’t think. And you don’t need Haribo with all those gorgeous cake-type creations you have been coming up with. From your lips to your hips #just saying….. 🙂

  4. fabulously funny, but i was looking for a romper suit? x

  5. Absolutely loving this newly discovered blog. Funniest I’ve read in ages! Your tweets keep me chuckling through the day too.

    But seriously, you need to march man-hog down to the gps and get him referred to an ent sleep/snoring clinic!

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