General whinging

January 21, 2018January 8, 2022

Show me a celebrity

I used to be quite good on the celebs. I watched the soaps. I watched reality shows. I knew what films were in the cinema. “Love It!” magazine was stacked welcomingly in my bathroom. (Yes, bathroom. Well, this WAS the time before smart phones.)

And then… something happened. One by one I dropped the soaps. Then the magazines. Then the reality shows. And in the mean time, celebs were spawning* like shiny, superficial, bunnies. People got famous for being able to put their make-up on quite well. Or for allowing their actual life to be scripted and filmed. And me… well I started a family, free time became a scarcity, but more than anything – I just stopped caring. Was this a reaction to the burgeoning shallowness of society? Nah. Expect it was just my age.

*There’s far too much Minecraft in my house.

Show me a celebrity

I’m forty-one, a wife, a mum,

“But hey!” I cry, “I still feel young!

My hair’s not grey, my teeth are mine,

I’d DEFO pass for thirty-nine!”

But sadly, there’s a tiny flaw,

That gives my age away for sure,

Yep – show me a celebrity,

And I’ll say, “Who the fuck is she?!”

Singers, blingers, strikers, wingers,

TV talent contest winners,

Bloggers, vloggers, shaggers, snoggers,

Over-hyped attention-hoggers,

Debutants and sycophants,

People who look good in pants,

Actors, film stars, soap stars too…

Show me one, and I’ll cry, “WHO?!”

It’s not fair game, they’re all the same,

The women with their shiny manes,

The blokes all buff with facial fluff,

Both sexes caked in orange stuff,

So how am I supposed to know,

Which one’s Georgia Toffolo,

Charlotte Crosby, Stephen Bear,

Who ARE these people? Should I care?!

Cos who has time for reading Heat,

or watching Coronation Street,

And working out who sings each song?

Got too much on! It takes too long!

There’s more to life than people who

I’ve never met. And don’t want to.

So – forty-one. Still young? Still fun?

Nope. I’ve turned into my Mum.

©️ Nina Parmenter 2018

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January 12, 2018January 8, 2022

Nothing makes me mutter more than clutter

I hate clutter. That may surprise anyone who has ever visited my house. But what’s important to realise is that there is a difference between wanting a tidy house and being able to achieve it.

I have friends with grown up, tidy houses. Friends with grown up, tidy houses AND KIDS. I’m at a loss as to how this is achieved. I’m guessing the crucial ingredients are a domestic goddess mother, and a well-trained, or at least trainable family. Here, we have neither.

So it seems that I am doomed to wake up each day, vow to have A BIG TIDY UP, sometimes even achieve a middle-sized tidy up, and then go to bed wondering which house it was that I tidied earlier.

This poem, if you’d be so kind, is to be read with a hint of insanity in the voice. Thank you so much.

Nothing makes me mutter more than clutter

Nothing makes me mutter more than clutter,

It’s the very ruination of my day,

My family, no doubt, really LOVE to get stuff out,

But I think they think it puts itself away.

I tell you, I’m not blessed with being domestic –

For tidiness, I’d give myself a six,

But my precious family would each earn themselves a three,

Which all adds up to a house which makes me twitch.

There are ninety-seven items in the kitchen,

Which are not where I intended them to be,

In the lounge there’s fifty-four, in the dining room there’s more,

In the playroom, there’s two hundred, maybe three.

There are pens and bills and helmets on the table,

There are bricks and cups and spanners on the drawers,

And upon the window sill, there’s a pile of stuff that will

Have to stay there til I work out what it’s for.

In the bedroom, there is very little legroom,

In the hallway there is very little hope,

In the bathroom, so much stuff, there is barely room to guff,

And I don’t know how much longer I can cope.

So I’ve tidied and I’ve picked up and I’ve kicked up,

I’ve ranted til I’m purple in the face,

But as soon as somewhere’s clear, there’s just one sound I will hear…

The clatter as more clutter takes its place.

By the way – if you were thrown by the word “guff”, do let me know – I’m not sure if this delightful term for a fart is only understood by those who were around seven years old in 1984. Could even be a Somerset thing, I’m not sure!

I do have in my pocket the alternative line “There is barely any fart-room in the bathroom – which I quite like – but I was swayed by the opportunity to say “guff” for the first time in around twenty years!

©️ Nina Parmenter 2018

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December 30, 2017January 8, 2022

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it

Well, here we are, coming towards that end of that magical / terrible time between Christmas and New Year. Nearly time to contemplate the dull, saintly times that lie ahead and wave farewell to guilt-free scoffing. But just about time to open one last box of choccies… I mean it can’t do any harm…

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it

Well then, my friends, it’s the end of December,

I’ve eaten more goodies than I can remember,

And left in the cupboard, one last chocolate hit,

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it.

I’ve eaten the Roses, the After Eight Mints,

The Pringles, the Wine Gums, the Lindor by Lindt,

The time will soon come to (ugh) cut down a bit,

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it.

I’ve eaten Fruit Pastilles, and hummus and brie,

And portions of pud that are too big for me,

My jeans are quite tight, but – yay – PJs still fit,

If I open the Matchmakers, that will be it.

So sod off, New Year, and the cry to “get fit”,

Cos naughty food’s yummy and healthy food’s shit.

But my stomach IS sticking out more that my tits…

I’ll open the Matchmakers. That will be it.

Honest.

©️ Nina Parmenter 2017

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December 8, 2017January 8, 2022

Let’s talk about schadmin

Schadmin… school related admin. Yet another thing they don’t tell you before you have children.

Aside from eating, breathing and sleeping (and of course, writing silly poetry), I could spend every minute of the day complying with the endless rounds of homework, reply slips, charity requests, baking, and last minute laundry which comes with having a school-age child. I also find it essential to schedule in some time for looking bewildered, shaking my head quietly in a corner, or simply wondering to myself where it all went wrong.

Oh, and by the way, this rhyme doesn’t even mention “creative homework”. THAT little baby deserves a rhyme all of its own…

Let’s talk about schadmin

Let’s talk about schadmin, the admin that comes,

Not for the schoolkids but for their poor mums,

Who some years ago, once exclaimed (the poor fools),

“Won’t life be easier once they’re at school?”

Let’s start with the homework – now that should be fine,

But hang on, what’s this? Got to do it online?

You can’t start your router, you’ve crashed your computer,

Smile Mummy! This is the digital future!

So while you untangle yourself from the cables,

You practise the reading, the spelling, times tables,

Oh yes, and tonight you must also produce,

A piece of research about Robert the Bruce,

The human anatomy labelled in braille,

A knitted giraffe (for the PTA sale),

And favourite of all, just found in the drawers is:

“Write fifteen lines with subordinate clauses”!

But it’s done. They’re in bed, and you start to feel better,

Best check the bags though. Hey presto! Six letters.

It seems that next week you’ve been asked to provide,

A “green” picnic lunch with no wrappers inside,

A world book day costume which celebrates Dickens,

(You’ve got a hen costume – did Dickens have chickens?)

Ten pounds for a school trip and warm outdoor clothes,

With waterproof trousers (whoever has THOSE?)

A tray full of cupcakes, all nice and enticing,

(“Why not let the children help out with the icing?”)

A pound for the book sale, a pound for the fair,

And a pound cos some teacher is shaving their hair.

Well after all that, you say “that’s it for me!”
“I’m off to my bed.” – but what’s THIS that you see?
A stinking PE kit thrown down in the hall,

It’s needed tomorrow – yes, washed, dried and all,

(There was once a spare kit but “Mummy, I lost it.”

– it’s probably still in the hedge where they tossed it.)

Some shoes and a coat which are utterly caked

(from commando crawls over the field at break)

And a jumper with mystery holes in the cuff,

Wasn’t the massive school dinner enough??

So as you load washing, and sew, half asleep,

You’re starting to babble and quietly weep.

Let’s talk about schadmin, the admin that comes,

Not for the schoolkids but for the poor mums,

Who are now fast asleep, with signs that say “Please,

Wake me up after the GCSEs.”

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November 27, 2017January 8, 2022

Remember, remember, it still is November

Right, a couple of things I need to make clear before we launch into this one.

Firstly, I’m not against Christmas decorations per se. I just think a couple of weeks of them is PLENTY (yes, and that applies to your Christmas jumpers too, peak-too-sooners).

Secondly, this poem has NOTHING to do with the fact that I have a mid-December birthday and think everything leading up to, and including, my birthday should be ALL ABOUT ME. So, now that’s all clear, without further ado…

Remember, remember, it still is November

Remember, remember, it still is November,

Although the frost’s starting to bite,

For while those last leaves still cling to the trees,

STEP AWAY FROM THE ICICLE LIGHTS!

Resist your fake snow, your flashing “HO HO”,

Treat inflatable Santa with caution,

For he surely will burst by December the first,

If you’re blowing him up in the autumn.

By December the twelfth, the elf on the shelf

will hide in the pub with a half,

And before Christmas Eve, all the reindeer will leave,

Because Lapland is more of a laugh.

Your nativity scene will be mouldy and green,

There’ll be actual lichen on Mary,

Your chattering Santa will be out of banter,

Having bored the tits off the good fairy.

“Will we EVER get there?” wail the kids in despair,

As they gaze through the glass, looking bleak,

“With the house so festooned, Christmas MUST be SO SOON!”

“No it’s not, kids. It’s over six weeks.”

So – you want Christmas day to be happy and gay?

Dear readers, what have we discovered?

Remember, remember, until mid-December,

Keep Christmassy crap in the cupboard!

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October 31, 2017January 8, 2022

Halloween Tat

I have to declare I’m not a lover of Halloween these days. I’m utterly depressed by the annual growth in disposable tat, and the increasing grisliness of the costumes. Call me super-sensitive, but I’m not a great fan of seeing my gorgeous, fresh-faced children dressed as corpses. Here they are in this year’s dreadful outfits; the only saving grace is that 90% of what you see here is re-used from previous occasions. You’re welcome, Mother Earth. You’re welcome, bank balance.

So I’ll say Bah Humbug, or whatever the Halloween equivalent is (Bah Special Edition Pumpkin-Themed Haribo, presumably), and leave the poem to say the rest…

Halloween Tat

There’s nothing more tatty than Halloween tat,

A bent plastic broomstick, a Styrofoam cat,

A bad rubber mask of Vlad the Impaler,

Get it all now from your nearest retailer!

Come on consumers! Now now, don’t be sceptical,

Buy all your crap for the Halloween festival,

Googly eyes, all squidgy and spherical,

Musical witch-hats (now they are hysterical),

Transform yourself to a fake plastic spectacle,

Bugs on your earlobes and bats on your testicles,

Let’s all make Poundland so much more investible,

What better use for our scarce petrochemicals?

So dress up your grandchildren as the undead,

Don’t they look cute with fake blood on their heads,

And as Halloween ends, and you turn out the light,

Have sweet dreams of landfill. How scary. Night night.

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