They say that you should start your day with a mantra and it should reflect the goals you have in mind. For example, if you want to make a lot of money, you would say something like, “I am successful.” Or, if you are battling self-esteem issues, you should greet the day by saying, “I am worthy and I am loved.” What they don’t warn you about is the fact that if you sleep deeply enough, you will forget all of this. You sleep in and then greet the morning with a certain level of amnesia that has you believing that The Sandman spent the night tea-bagging your eyeballs so violently that a few brain cells were knocked into another dimension. If there is one thing which will guarantee a good night’s sleep, it’s a good shag at bedtime. Although, I’m pretty sure that a head injury and some hard core pain killers will do the job too, but let’s not bruise my husband’s ego with that fun fact. Whatever it was, I was plunged into a dreamless sleep, cocooned in darkness that brought peace to the depths of my soul. I had been held deeply by the comfort of my unconsciousness (and my duvet) to the point I had slept through my alarm. Again.
“Oh. . . for fuck’s sake!”
Yes, this was the chant that I bellowed to start my day.
It was already after 7:30 am by the time I had trailed myself down the stairs. Waiting for me in the living room were all of my children. Jenson and Summer were quietly watching CBeebies, waiting expectantly for me to appear and feed them a nutritious breakfast of sugar-packed goodness. Miles was, shockingly, awake. While his younger siblings waited for me to feed them, Miles had decided to feed himself. I will admit, that was the beautiful thing about having a teenager. They can reach the cupboards to feed themselves breakfast, which takes one thing off the to-do list. Unfortunately, he has no idea how to cook a roast dinner so that is still on me. He was sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in his navy dressing gown, his hair a dark muddle on top of his head, and a cereal bowl which was filled to the brim and perched dangerously on the arm of the sofa. Each movement teased at my nerves as the milk touched the event horizon at the edge of the bowl.
“What the hell did I say yesterday about eating on the sofa?”
I didn’t wait for his reply. His mouth hung open as I whisked the bowl away from him, his spoon stopped midway to his mouth, his eyes opened wide as his eyebrows tried to drop down into a frown. His teenage face was a mixture of shock and annoyance. He sat like this for a full minute after I had placed his bowl triumphantly on the table.
“What? You were serious about that?” he croaked out.
“Yes, I was. We eat at the table now.” I placed my hands on my hips and hoped I was pulling off my best “mummy stare”.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, barely audible as he finally shoved his spoon into his mouth and unpeeled himself from the sofa.
“What did you say?” my own face mirroring the expression he held on his face only minutes ago,
“I said ‘for fuck’s sake’. We never use the dining table. Why should we use it now?”
His lumbering teenage frame thudded down on the dining chair as he curled his arm protectively around his bowl in case I snatched it away again.
“Let me try this again. The swearing.”
My breathing was deep, drawing air through my nose, feeling my chest rise and fall a bit faster than I would have liked. Meanwhile, Miles looked as if he had stopped breathing altogether. His cheeks puffed mid-chew and a dribble of milk escaped the corner of his mouth. After a hard swallow, he broke eye contact between us and spoke softly.
“What? It’s just a swear word. You say it all the time.”
He kind of had me there, swearing was a passion of mine. And let’s not forget the fact that my mantra when I opened my eyes this morning had been the same phrase I was giving him grief for. But he didn’t know that.
“Well. . . I shouldn’t be swearing either. None of us should. It’s bad manners and we should try to do better.”
With my chin up and shoulders back, I felt like a queen giving a royal decree. No more swearing in this house. I could only hope that I followed this new rule myself.
Buried in the corner of my garage is a collection of fitness equipment. Most of it wasn’t mine. Terry had a collection of weights and strange looking implements that made me question what he got up to out here when nobody was looking. Amongst the clatter of equipment was my small collection of odds and sods. Tiny lady weights, a pole from when I took a pole fitness class, and some items I had bought off TikTok. Last year, there was that viral weighted hula hoop that everyone had gone nuts for. Although it looked nothing like a hula hoop, it was more of a plastic belt that had a swinging weight. The weighted hula hoop was still in the packet. Actually, it was still in the bubble wrapped envelope with the invoice stuck to the outside. I had ordered it after seeing tons of videos, each claiming that buying it gets rid of the dreaded ‘mum tum’. The unfortunate thing is that you have to use it to get the desired results; forking over your money isn’t enough to battle the bulge. In fairness, trying to extract it from the envelope was a workout in itself. Adjusting it to my waist size, I slipped it on and felt the tug at my hips. They all claimed that it wouldn’t fall down. The weighted ball was designed to stay up so you can shimmy your hips and work your ab muscles until they were like rocks. To get started, you had to fling the ball around before your hip movements took over. I flung the ball. It made one circle. Two circles. Three circles. . . nope. The ball dropped from its orbit of my waist and crashed into my knee.
“OWW! FUCK!”
So much for not dropping. It didn’t take much for that ball to become gravity’s bitch. As I clutched my right knee, I remembered my decree from the morning.
“Bugger. Shit. Oh fuck! What is not a swear word? Cabbage? Sugar? Bonbons!?”
Limping around the garage, I muttered random words until I could find some that could replace my swearing. Cabbage had a nice feel to it. Sugar did not have the same spice as shit but spit had a good ring to it. I gave up with the hula hoop, it wasn’t gonna happen today.
After shoving the hula hoop back into the corner of the garage, I decided to make a cup of coffee. I also made sure that I had a glass of water to go with it. Getting more water into my system was proving to be a challenge. As I glugged the water down my throat, I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. For one thing, I was supposed to be sipping the water; I also had my phone in my hand. However, I was on Facebook for a change. Scrolling through my newsfeed, I spotted a post from a local beautician that I had followed years ago, one of those let’s like the page to support local whims we all have, but never used the services. They had posted an update the night before about an opening for a lash appointment that afternoon after a last minute cancellation.
Lash extensions?
I had them for my wedding. That was many moons ago. I looked great with them. My wedding photos, not that there were a lot of them as we couldn’t afford a proper photographer for the day, looked spectacular. There was one photo which looks at me face on, taken slightly from above. My face was glowing under a yellow bar light, my gentle fake tan gave me a healthy colour, while my lashes framed my eyes. Without thinking about it, I clicked the profile and threw a quick message over to them.
Hi there, could I get that appointment for lashes this afternoon if it is still available?
I put my phone down, sipped some coffee and tried to dull any disappointment that would come from being told the appointment was gone.
*ping*
Yes babes, the appointment is still available. It is at 2:30 pm. If you could call by at 2 pm for an allergy patch test, that would be great. Thanx.
And that was that. In a few hours time, I would have long lashes again.
It felt nice. There was a warm feeling growing in my stomach, a glow that rivaled my wedding day fake tan. Gentle, subtle, and a sign that everything was working out in my favour. The glow continued to grow. . . until it became uncomfortable. I decided to ignore it. It was probably wind. I started lifting dishes and popping them into the dishwasher, the feeling in my guts moved with every motion. By the time I had placed all of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and hit the start button, my discomfort had changed to a dull ache. It wasn’t a painful pain, more of pressure at the top of my abs that felt as if it was moving. I wiped the top of the kitchen counter with one hand, the other was placed on the side of my swollen belly. I couldn’t need to poo. After yesterday? I’m not an expert on bowel movements but I would hazard a guess that you shouldn’t need to go after a bowel baby that may have been heavier than one of your children (and the size of a honeydew melon) falls out of your bum, you shouldn’t need to go for a few days. I started moving up the stairs. Each step made me huff and heave. Was it possible that the water I was drinking was washing my insides? Was there poop that had calcified in parts of my intestines that had suddenly decided to vacate the premises? Because that’s what it felt like. That is also what it sounded like when my backside was sitting over the toilet. Rocks. Pebbles. A miniature landslide of cac fell from the mountain of my hole. When I was finished, I didn’t feel any better. In fact, I had a nagging feeling that the theme of my Upspiral was getting rid of shit.
Getting showered and ready to attack the day before 9 am on your day off felt good. It was also a bit weird. Normally I have a rule, “if I’m not going to work, I’m not wearing clothes”. Obviously, I wear clothes, if you count pajamas as clothes. But, there I was, showered, fully dressed in clothes that didn’t give the impression I’m homeless, and I had no idea what I was going to do with myself. Looking around my bedroom, it was still a mess. The en-suite was too. Maybe the best place to start was in the smallest room. After the hoard of make up was removed from my declutter session that I had started the day before, I began scrubbing the toilet and the shower with the cleaning products that had cost me a clean fortune. As I polished the mirror with the eco-green glass spray, I caught the sight of myself in the mirror. I gently pulled the plaster away from the skin. The bruising had gone down leaving a yellow stain across my cheek. Looking closely at the cut, it looked as if the sliced flesh from the tile impact had sealed over, leaving a nice pink line about an inch long within a purple puddle of bruising on my forehead. It looked bad. It looked better than the day before, but still bad. I could only hope that it wouldn’t scar. I have nothing against scars as a rule, normally people got them for cool reasons.
“Oh, this? Yeah, got it in a knife fight when some bikers were trying to rob little old ladies and steal orphans from a homeless shelter. Brought down a whole drug smuggling operation with a pair of nail clippers and some jelly beans. No big deal.”
Now that’s cool. Do you know what isn’t?
“This? Oh, yeah. Totally happened by accident. I was trying to improve my life so I tried yoga one morning, was wearing pajamas and no bra, my tits fell out and I fell over. Cracked my head off the fireplace. Oh! And my kids had to cover my tits with cushions while I was passed out. Pretty cool, huh?”
Christ, I really hope this doesn’t scar.
To this day, I still can’t work out how I managed to get as organised as I did within the first three days of my Upspiral. Before lunch time on Day Three, I had made the beds, cleaned my en-suite, and had a load of washing in the machine. Then the kids were fed lunch at a reasonable time. Ok, it wasn’t a gourmet meal, I’m not sure where in the world spaghetti hoops from a tin would be considered cuisine, but the kids like them. I do not see the appeal. Once they had inhaled the hoops, they each enjoyed a chopped up apple and some chocolate biscuits that I found at the back of the cupboard. To stay on my healthy eating kick, I had a chopped up apple and a glass of water. It wasn’t great and the dinner options weren’t much better. My fridge and freezer were sad looking. They were both messy. Plastic packaging and pre-prepared. Pizza, frozen chicken fingers, and ready meals. Maybe I was being hard on myself after watching too much #fridgetok because my fridge sure as hell didn’t look like any of their fridges. I sighed and shut the fridge door. It was only then that I spotted the time blinking at me from the microwave.
“Oh shit!”
It was 1:34 pm. I was supposed to leave the house already for my lashes appointment.
“Shoes! Now!”
“What?”
“Shoes! Now! I have an appointment in the town and we were supposed to have left by now and now we might be late!”
It took every ounce of strength and focus to get those kids out the door. And with only 20 minutes to get down to the town, we were cutting it fine.
“Why are we running?”
“I don’t like this.”
“It’s fine, I have an appointment, and we need to hurry, that’s all.”
Beside me, two little legs were power walking, a third set was ambling behind us.
“Why did I have to come?”
“Because. . . fresh air. And I need you to be in charge. . . sort of. . .”
“What? Why?”
“I’m getting my eyelashes done so I need you to watch them in the waiting area while I’m in.”
“I could have done this at home,” came the reply from behind me. “There was no need to bring us.”
I sighed between huffing breaths.
“Look, this is probably going to take at least an hour, never mind the walk up and down. Did you really want to be in charge of them, by yourself, for two hours in the house?”
Miles didn’t answer, he knew I was right. Being a typical teenager, he would never admit it. I could feel his eyes rolling behind me as he huffed at the impossible situation I had put us in.
According to my watch, it was 14:03 when we barreled through the door of Beauty Belles salon. I had also hit my 10,000 steps for the day. As I stood panting in the doorway, the girl behind the counter cocked her perfectly manicured eyebrow up as she eyed me over. In her hand was a card reader which she was holding out for another woman to tap her card who was also eyeing me up. Beauty Belle giving me the once over, I can understand. But the other one, that pissed me off. We shouldn’t judge each other. Especially if you need your roots bleached and your foundation has gone crusty in the sour puss lines around your mouth.
“Hi, I’m here for the tester for lashes.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” she smiled at me as the other woman made her exit. “Follow me, I just need to give you a quick allergy test before I can apply any extensions.”
We all followed her dutifully to a room out the back of the reception area. The room was painted completely white with ring lights lighting up every corner. On one side was a collection of equipment for lashes, waxing and god knows what else. The other, a large massage table and cleaning equipment.
“It’s just a quick dab on your arm to see if you are allergic to the lash glue. Your eyes are a very sensitive area and safety is important. But. . . ummm. . . are you sure you want lashes today? That black eye is. . .”
I had completely forgotten about my eye and face. No wonder people were giving me the once over.
“Er, no, it’s ok. It’s not sore. I fell over doing yoga and smashed my face.”
“Yeah, and her boobs fell out!” came the helpful voice of Summer.
My face turned the same shade of purple to match my bruise. Why in the actual cabbage patch did Summer think it was a good idea to share this? Signing and hanging my head, I wished the ground would swallow me whole.
“Yep. Yoga in the house. Fell over, wasn’t wearing a bra, and my tits popped out of my top.”
Beauty Belle dropped her gaze, pressed her lips so flat I thought her filler would explode, and croaked out the smallest laugh.
“Ummm. . . ok. As long as you realise that these lashes won’t be perfect. You might have some swelling around your eye still which means the extension will be applied further up your own lash. Not right at the base.”
“That’s fine,” I waved my hand across my face, “I just want them done. It might take away from the mess I’ve made of my face.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“That’s fine. I just need to make you aware that they won’t be the best. But at your maintenance appointments, we can attach them further down as the swelling goes down. It might be a while before they are attached perfectly.”
She dabbed a couple of dots of lash glue on my arm and told me to come back just before 2:30pm. If all was well, I would be going home with a fresh set of lashes.
The kids and I walked to the square while we waited.
“What do you want to do for twenty minutes? Chase the pigeons?”
Summer and Harrison were delighted by the thought of chasing the pigeons around the square. Some people might think it is cruel, and maybe it is, but I’m not so sure. I once had my class out for a geography field trip, and as GCSE students, they got to talk to rangers who deal with birds all day. While we were supposed to be working at the River Lagan as part of their coursework, we ended up with a group of rangers who were in the area to ring birds and were able to give the students a deeper understanding of the area they were working with. A massive net was placed between the trees. As the birds flew and swooped across the countryside, they were caught in the net. Each bird was checked over for any health concerns or injuries, their leg ring was checked against the database, or a ring was added if they didn’t have one.
“It’s important for the conservation of birds in the area.” the head ranger had explained to the class.
They had caught sparrows, skylarks, and falcons, among other birds. One of the older guys insisted on not wearing gloves as he held their feathered friends. He claimed he couldn’t get a proper grip on them wearing the protective mittens. A lot of the birds were pretty chill about being caught. Yeah, this happens. We fly into the net, they do our rings, this guy gives us a pet, and then we bugger off again to do bird stuff. It’s cool. Totally used to it. One of the kids, Simon (who is as thick as shit and should not have been doing GCSE geography) asked if they caught pigeons.
“Not many pigeons up here. You get the odd one but they tend to stay in the towns. Too many predators up here for them.”
“Urg! There’s so many pigeons in the town!” exclaimed Kayla (pronounced Kale-la, not Kay-la).
“My wee cousins always chase them and then they fly everywhere and shit on you.” Curtis had added.
“Language!” I shouted, “And you shouldn’t chase the pigeons, it’s not nice.”
“Actually, you should. Especially town pigeons,” the head ranger caught me off guard with that statement.
“No! Don’t chase them!” a green haired junior ranger had interjected, “it’s animal cruelty.”
The head ranger had sighed loudly at this. This was clearly not the first time that a junior ranger had voiced an opinion on facts they didn’t fully understand.
“Yes, you do need to chase them. In the town, they have very few natural predators, so they sit about and get lazy. Over time they lose their ability to dodge and escape. Chasing them, as cruel as it might seem, actually helps to keep their instincts sharp. So when a predator appears, they have a better chance of survival.”
The green-haired junior huffed and stomped off to their worksite tent as the head ranger rolled his eyes and muttered “fucking kids think they know everything” under his breath.
With this field trip in mind, I always encourage my kids to chase the pigeons. I’m sure people would prefer if they didn’t and allowed them to become easy pickings for anything that would like to eat pigeon to decrease the population, it just didn’t sit right with me. Even if there was one trying to eat the rubber sole of my DM boot.
“I can’t believe you made me leave the house for this,” Miles huffed beside me as he pulled out his phone.
I side-eyed him and ignored his tone as I watched Harrison and Summer run around. After ten minutes of silence from the big man beside me, Summer and Harrison puffed over looking for juice.
“How about we hit the shop, get some juice and snacks, and then we head around to the lash place? We can even get the bus home.”
Excited squeals went up from them, clapping their hands and bouncing from foot to foot. As I stood up, my right knee twinged. Bloody weighted hula hoop.
Inspecting the skin on my arm, Beauty Belle was satisfied that I was not about to take an allergic reaction to the lash glue as she ushered me back into the lash studio. A nervous energy came over me as I sat in the chair. It had been so long since I had treated myself to something girly. For twenty-five minutes, I lay on the table. Each stroke and touch was gentle as the lashes were placed delicately on each of my eyes. From just outside the door, I could hear the kids sitting together, giggling as Miles showed them funny videos of cats and dogs on his phone. Gentle pressure was applied as each lash was secured. Just when I thought I might fall asleep to the light touches and soft giggling of my children, she was done and I opened my eyes.
“Ouch! Fuck!”
“Oh! Stings! Happens with the fumes of the glue sometimes. Hang on, shut your eyes again.”
She blasted my face with an air blower to get rid of the glue fumes and made me sit up before I opened my eyes again. When I finally did, she had the mirror at the ready. Looking back at me was a different person.
“Noooo!” I tipped my head back and forth, examining my face from every possible angle.
“Do you like them?”
“Like them? Jesus Christ! I look like a different person! I’m. . . like. . . ten years younger!”
“Well, that’s the power of a good lash tech.”
The kids were equally impressed with the final finish.
“Wow mummy! You look beautiful!”
“Thank you, baby.” I grabbed Summer into the hug. Harrison, not wanting to be left out, shoved his way in too.
“That will be £75, please.”
My credit card was tapped on the machine. That poor critter was taking a pounding this week so far.
“Should I book you in for a maintenance appointment for four weeks time?”
“Yes, please. Also, can I use your loo before I go?”
Despite peeing in the salon, by the time we got to the bus station, I needed to pee again. I’m sure the people who work in the bus station to keep it clean work very hard. Unfortunately, people are disgusting; even women.
“It smells in here,” Summer whispered as she pulled her t-shirt over her nose.
“I know, but I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Harrison and Miles were waiting just outside the door. Summer had to come in with me. Right in. It’s not fun peeing with your five-year-old in the cubicle but I didn’t feel safe leaving her in the waiting room with her brothers. It was different in the salon as Beauty Belle locked the main door for everyone’s safety. Here, well, our bus station wasn’t known for being the safest place in the town.
“Ok, let me squash in. Turn around, face the door. No, turn around. DON’T TOUCH THE HANDLE!”
I didn’t think I would make it home from the station. As soon as the bus had dropped us off, I had trailed the kids around the corner to our quiet cul-de-sac, wrestled with the key in the front door, and shot up to the bathroom. How much did I drink? Coffee, glass of water, coffee, glass of fruit juice, water, energy drink, bottle of water. . . that may have been too much for my little bladder on a day out. Plus the bus route was different. When we got the bus two days ago, it had gone from the town straight up the hill to our stop, then continued for the rest of the route. Today, it went around the rest of the route first before coming to our stop. Apparently, they alternated the route every time to stop the drivers from getting bored. It also meant it took forty-five minutes longer than my bladder could stand. What didn’t help matters was the kid in the seat in front of me wouldn’t sit at peace, kept turning around to stare at me, and sneezed directly in my face.
While I was in the bathroom I took a moment to admire my new lashes. They were amazing. Pulling out the make up that had made the cut from my declutter session, I started adding more to my face. Foundation went over my plaster to create a seamless look, a bit of colour corrector for the bruising, some neutral eyeshadow, a bit of eyeliner. . . I looked so different. Tears prickled the corners of my eyes as my neck flushed with colour. In my mind’s eye, this is what I look like when I picture myself. Every morning, this is what I see before I look in the mirror, only to gaze into it and see disappointment gazing back. There was youth and radiance, instead of tiredness and regret. The tears spilled over my eyelids, creating track marks in my fresh make up. This was not sadness, this was clarity. Who knew that putting a bit of effort into your appearance could change everything?
When I got into bed that night, I had washed my face, got into fresh pajamas, and had another glass of water by the bed. Lifting my phone, I opened TikTok for the first time that day and started filming my daily update.
“Hi guys. So a bit of a change today. I got my lashes done. There was a last minute appointment and I jumped at it. And now I have these lovely lashes. I know I still have some bruising on my face but it is going down and the lash tech warned me that they wouldn’t be perfect. So don’t come for me, I was warned about the swelling. But. . . I’m going back in four weeks time for a refill and hopefully they will look even better. Umm. . . I got a bit of tidying down in the house, still loads to do. And I tried a different workout. Did. . . did anyone else get that viral hula hoop thing last year? You know, the weighted one? The one that isn’t supposed to fall down and works your abs? I got one ages ago and hadn’t even taken it out of the packet yet. So, I cracked it open and it cracked my knee. It kinda sucks because the whole gimmick is that it doesn’t fall down but it definitely does. And that’s the second injury I’ve got from working out. Apart from that, I’ve upped my fluid intake and haven’t stopped peeing. But, yeah, that’s it for today. I’ll check back in tomorrow with another update. Ok, bye.”
I posted my video, put my phone down, picked my book up, opened my book, closed my book, put the book down, and got out of bed to pee. Again.
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