Starting school.

Summer 2019 has been a time of running around the garden naked, barefoot and gorging on ice pops. I have played in the sand pit (which the Big One has managed to keep surprisingly free of cat/fox faeces this year) and been for many a walk in the woods. Despite the ingrained dirt under my finger and toe nails, I have managed to avoid the dreaded sunburn of which people of my hair colour are prone. This is mainly down to the fact that Primark started to sell a range of affordable factor 50 sunblock, therefore allowing my Mother to protect me from the sun without having to sell a kidney to fund the usual bottles of high-end Nivea.

However, summer is fading as fast as my mothers Superdrug brownest brown hair dye which means I now must enter the school system and start to be shaped in to an up-standing member of society. I know my mother is dreading this. Despite the fact she has already forced two other children down this route, she is apprehensive. I have been given strict instructions to “do good listening” and “Don’t hit people” and “Keep your bloody clothes on”. The uniform I need to wear is green and compliments my complexion amazingly. So I was terribly sad to discover when wriggling into this new ensemble that the material is rather tough and scratchy. The trousers are made from cloth akin to hessian and could also double up as an outside door mat. The shoes I have to stomp about in (and stomp I shall, believe me) could be worn in the event of a chemical spill they are that sturdy and utilitarian looking. Dreadful, albethey purchased from Clarkes. I feel my individuality is being wrung out of me. As soon as I step through the front door after school I release myself from the ugly constraints and fling them into a corner of the hall. I am back in my natural state of nakedness save for my ear defenders and ninja headband.

When the hefty one appears at the school door ready to collect me after my hard scholarly day, I know she has a tasty morsel for me hidden in her disorganised shoulder bag. The first week of school she came bearing fancy cakes from the bakery and had obviously planned ahead. As the days pass the treat proffered is going rapidly down hill. Instead of the intricately iced gingerbread men of last week she is now scrambling about in the bottom of her bag amongst the tatty sanitary towels, old receipts and loose change to find a crumbling Freddo. After shooting her a swift look of distain, I accept the Freddo in the hope she steps up her snack game next week.

Homework is another new creature I am learning to handle. I am going to be quite frank and say I am finding it fairly easy so far. The reading books have no words, just pictures. Much easier to deal with than the Oxford Reading Tree books my mother spent a fortune on earlier in the year and I have already made a strong start on learning jolly phonics. I enjoy the ten minutes she and I spend together in the evenings. It’s entertaining to see her try and decipher the actions and sounds. It usually ends up with her red faced and muttering under her breath, “f**king stupid…. what happened to Peter and Jane…?” as she heaves herself up from the sofa to return the books to my bookbag.

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All in all, I have made a strong start at school. My teachers are happy and I have managed to stay off the sad face on the class behaviour chart.

Long may this victorious streak reign!

Peace and love, dear Reader.

Ed. x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The littlest hobo.

The novelty of being a vagabond has now worn off and as the shock has faded we are left with reality. We literally have a few bags of clothes and a couple of framed photos which serves as evidence that we did once have a normal (ish) life. Big Mama doesn’t wake up with a spring in her step and a determined glint in her eye any more. She is now scouring the internet and making furtive phone calls to try and find us a home. She looks older than she should because the lines on her face deepen each day. Having left without her GHDs she is also sporting wild frizzy hair which is wrestled into a “mum bun” each morning. Unsurprisingly, there are not many landlords willing to house a single mother of three who now relies solely on benefits to get by. Money is non existent because the child benefit hasn’t began yet. It’s a good job I have a bit of a penchant for Pot Noodles although I do crave the roast chicken dinners Old Ma used to rustle up (in fact, it was the only thing she could cook which was edible). Everything is off-kilter. It’s terribly upsetting. I find myself missing the dog quite regularly and when I ask about Molly’s current whereabouts, I am told repeatedly that she too, like us, is taking a “Little Holiday”. I was previously led to believe that holidays were a time of rest and relaxation. Why then does Mum look like she is suffering from shell shock? Like a solider who vacantly carries on with the mission despite the landscape around her exploding in a rain of bullets, she struggles on. I can see she is having a difficult time. I am aware of it. I am trying my very best to be good. However, I am three years old and I find it tricky to curb the tantrums when I am refused the sweets in the shop or the coin for the surprise ball machines.

On Monday I was collected early from nursery and escorted to the doctors. My name was called and I went into a room where a nurse was sitting with a little tray beside her. She greeted my mother and I with a massive smile and I knew in that moment something untoward was afoot. I was sat upon my mothers spongy, ample lap and held tightly as I was jabbed sharply in the upper arm not once, but twice! I let forth a scream so impressively high pitched and loud that I am now considering a career in the torture horror film genre. After the attack I declined the offer of a panda sticker which proclaimed, “I was very brave”. For I was not brave. I was scared and it hurt. A lot. Apparently these were my pre-school injections. I need them to fend off the nasty diseases and illnesses which you can catch when you start school. So at least now I am protected and safe when I make the foray into primary school. Now, this idea led me to stumble across a fabulous entrepreneurial thought. What about an injection for when you become a mother? The vaccine should offer protection from the let downs life inevitably chucks at you and also fend off any nasty germs (be they in the form of mounting debt or dubious prospective partners) which an adult may encounter. I am sure there would be a queue a mile long for this solution and I am currently in the process of emailing GlaxoSmithKline with the outlines of my idea. I know my mother would be first in line to have her flabby derriere pierced with a needle that contains a miracle potion.

I hope you are well, dear Reader. I am wishing you, as always, peace, love and light.

Edward x

The curse strikes again…

We had nearly six months in our lovely house until it all turned rotten and we had to leave. We left our garden, our dog and the massive, dangerous trampoline. We are now hiding out in an undisclosable location until we can resolve our housing predicament.

This unforeseeable turn of events has led me to question my mothers sense of judgement. I am beginning to wonder if indeed she has any clue about what she is doing with her life. What on earth is she thinking uprooting us and making us essentially homeless?! I have none of my toys, I am behind with my work on the garden Wee-Hole and quite frankly, the excuse of “it’s just a little holiday, darling” doesn’t cut it when I am tired at bedtime and just want to go to sleep in my cozy bed back home.

I have come to the conclusion that this woman is cursed.

She is never happy for long. Whenever she is happy it never lasts and culminates in a massive drama. When the curse strikes she is left down in the dumps and swallowing double the dose of her green and yellow pills in order to muster the motivation to get her dimply backside out of the house in the mornings. I must confess, I don’t even feel sorry for her any longer. She makes bad life choices when she should know better at her age.

Whilst there has been an enormous upheaval in my home life, I know that sooner or later the incompetent old witch will get her head together and rectify the matter. Already she has spent time sniveling down numerous council offices and furiously filling in forms like our lives depend upon it (which I guess they do!).

I have no idea what is going on, or what will happen. But what I am 100 percent certain of is that she loves me and whatever she does its because of this.

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Peace and love, people.

Edward x

All change.

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There has been an extraordinary amount of change recently. And, surprisingly, all for the better. No longer am I sharing a bedroom with my Mother and sister in a cramped, over crowded flat. We have moved to a beautiful four bedroom detached house with a garden. It has stairs…STAIRS!! I cannot believe my luck. The amount of fun a set of stairs can produce is practically endless. From pelting people with miscellaneous objects whilst they are making their way up, to setting traps on the bottom step using small, sharp toy cars. The twice daily outbreak of fisticuffs when I am told to brush my teeth has been enhanced by the introduction of these marvellous steps. I can scamper away, out of the upstairs bathroom, lead the chase all round the ground floor of the house and have my unfit (in oh so many ways!) mother huffing and puffing and red faced before 7.30 am. The feeling is exhilarating and a super start to the day.

Instead of the communal outdoor space we now have our very own garden. It is edged with trees, blackberry bushes and a patch of what looks suspiciously like Japanese Knotweed. There is also a very large, ominous yew tree which stands next to a peculiar small stone wall which could, at a glance, be mistaken for a headstone. Nobody has been brave enough yet to make a thorough inspection. My mother has placed a single colour changing solar light by the stones to try and make that section of the garden less creepy however, it has only added to the macabre scene. It now looks like a very weak nod towards festivities for the Day of the Dead.

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At the end of the garden we have installed a trampoline although at present it is minus the safety enclosure net and I must say, I do not hold out much hope for this being put up. I fear the occasional bellow of, “BE CAREFUL! YOU’LL CRACK YOUR BLOODY SKULLS OPEN!!” absolves my mother (in her head) of any responsibility should an accident occur. The redundant foam covers for the netting poles make fantastic swords. My siblings and I use these in bouncy wrestling matches as they cause minimal damage yet are still capable of  satisfying the aggressive streak needed in such a situation. Therefore, the Lazy Trampoline Maker and the Over Excited Bouncers are both happy to forego the usual safety standards making it an all round win/win.

The one thing I was missing from our old abode was the hole in the dirt my associates and I had been cultivating near the patio. I took it upon myself to rectify the matter a fews weeks after we had moved in. I started digging by hand a new hole right by the conservatory step. It was a work in progress and would take many months of toil to create one similar to the last. I was pondering this whilst gazing into the shallow hole from the conservatory step when an idea formulated in the back of my mind. I had an opportunity here to mastermind a new project and start something of my very own doing, something that I could call my very own work. It was at this very moment “The Wee Hole” was born. I quickly did some rough calculations and found that if I stood on the step with my toes gripping the edge I could urinate in an arch and make the golden fluid land quite gracefully into the hole in the lawn much like a real life cherub at the centre of a water fountain. I am not one to brag, but this idea was genius and I even stunned myself  by how utterly creative I had been to perform this inspiring tableau. I was able to keep this secret project to myself for a few days. My mother who, as we all know, is oblivious to the world of culture and art, happened across me performing The Wee Hole one sunny morning as she ventured into the garden to peg the tea towels on the washing line. The eyes of the uncouth swine widened to the size of cereal bowls and she proceeded to scream like a peasant at market selling her wares, “JESUS CHIRST! THAT’S REVOLTING!! STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!!”.  I most certainly did not stop. I carried on until I had finished my business like any true actor would. I hitched up my jogging bottoms and sauntered back inside to catch up with Cbeebies.  The Wee Hole has now become a guilty pleasure I can only indulge in when nobody else is around. My mother knows The Wee Hole lives on in secret because of the way it becomes damp and muddy every so often yet she lacks any real proof to accuse me further. Ha!

It has only been a few months and already I can feel myself reaping the benefits of all the new space we have now. I can feel myself unfurling like a beautiful butterfly emerging from his chrysalis and I await summer and its long hazy days with bated breath.

Sending love and light to you all, dear Readers.

Edward x

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photography; the Snapchat series.

When you look through other people’s baby photos you usually encounter the same kind of scenes-cheeky photos of bare derrières in the bathtub, smiles mid air in a swing and of course the shot where baby is wearing the parents sunglasses on a lovely summers day.

However, this is not true for myself. My mother has a serious addiction to Snapchat. My formative years are being captured and recorded with me wearing dog noses and bunny ears. She always has to get in on the action too and subsequently change her Facebook and WhatsApp profile photo.

In twenty years time, when I look back on these photographs with my future life partner, what on earth will they think?

Oh! The shame…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bad day.

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Today I have screamed constantly. I screamed on the way to nursery and I screamed on the way home from nursery. I screamed at lunch and I screamed at dinner and all the time in between. It has been one of those bad days where I’m just not feeling my usual jolly self. Everything has annoyed me. Not being allowed to dispense my mothers hand cream all over the interior of the car was definitely the trigger this morning and the frustration and aggravation has carried on from there.

I will be the first to admit that I am  an emotionally charged creature. I find it cathartic and essentially necessary to release my emotions into the atmosphere like a confetti bomb which explodes and rains down on the people around. Most days this emotional bomb emits sparkly joy and glittery laughter however, occasionally, you may find it shatters the sky with tears of annoyance,  screaming tantrums and general non compliance to any reasonable request.

My mother has many ways of dealing with days like this. These include stepping over me and totally ignoring my screams and frantic rolling about on the floor to consuming one Turkish Delight after another whilst hiding in the bathroom until her nerves have stopped jangling.

I shall now retire to bed, rest my bones and collect my thoughts.

Tomorrow is a new day…

Edward x

 

Self care.

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Every once in a while it is important to take time out, put life on hold, and concentrate on yourself. Even if its just for an hour or two, everyone should undertake some self care. Not only is it important physically, it will do wonders for you mentally too.

I have now started attending nursery every weekday morning. Whilst enjoyable I have also found it quite exhausting so its imperative I find time for some relaxation. Here are a few ways I like to unwind;

  • A nice warm bubble bath. Chuck in a few bath toys and novelty soaps and you have a heavenly recipe. (I particularly like the squirty soap from the Paw Patrol range. It lathers wonderfully and leaves just enough scum for my mother to moan about the messy residue).
  • Meditation. I often find the method of zoning out useful when I need to relax. The tradition way of meditating is to concentrate by repeating a chant or visualising a calming image in ones mind. However, I have found my own unique way of centring. I like to turn the television to the children’s channel and watch the same episode of Bing over and over again until my eyes glaze, my mind numbs and  I am practically in a coma. Curiously, this has the opposite affect on my mother who seems to acquire more anxious ticks the longer the television is left on. By the end of a session, I emerge from my meditative state to find Fat Thighs twitching about in the kitchen with her hands over her ears mumbling, “that bloody Bing bunny” under her breath.
  • A spruce up. I love a good hair cut. I enjoy sitting in the hairdressers chair and making general chit chat whilst my red mane is tended to by a professional. I also feel refreshed after a jolly good trim as more often than not the barber presents me with a lollypop for sitting very nicely. I also like to indulge in a manicure and pedicure every once in a while. I do not believe in paying extortionate, sky high salon fees so I always do it myself at home as I achieve an almost identical job as you can see from these photos;

 

I implore you, dear readers, to also have some well deserved me-time soon. You shall find that after you have spent quality time with yourself you will feel renewed and ready to take on the day.

Peace, love and light to you all.

Edward x

New Year.

After long consideration I have decided I should cast off the shackles of the name “Toddler” and embrace the passing of time with a new moniker for this diary. So, as we head into 2018, my writings shall now be known as the more mature, “Diary of Edward James”.

One cannot remain a small child forever and we all must grow and assume responsibilities. It is inevitable (much to my mothers upset). In 2017 I accomplished some large milestones. Everyone is delighted I no longer require nappies or swim pants. We can all venture out of the house safe in the knowledge that if I need to evacuate my bowels I can alert someone by bellowing, “I NEED A POOOOO”. I shall then be ushered into the nearest lavatory, no questions asked. There are other benefits to having trained everyone to escort me to the toilet when I shout my magic statement: it works wherever  I may be, day or night. Which is why at bedtime I frequently use my battle cry in order to prolong my slumber. It. Never. Fails. After having been transferred to the bathroom I can quite comfortably sit on the toilet for a good fifteen minutes and witter on about any topic that cares to enter my head.

2017 also bore witness to me acquiring the skill of lying. Now I can vocalise my thoughts and ideas I no longer need to run and hide when faced with a tricky situation. I use total denial of all knowledge of whatever I may be accused of to escape detection and in turn, punishment. The benefit of the doubt has worked in my favour this way many times.  Placing my hands on my hips and declaring through pouting lips that it certainly wasn’t me who emptied the fridge all over the kitchen floor and fed the dog raw bacon can convince any doubting Thomas of my innocence.

The last twelve months have also seen my dancing skills come on in leaps and bounds. My favourite genre is Interpretive Dance as it can be applied to the theme tune of Paw Patrol just as well as any classical tune on the radio. At last my talent is being appreciated and in the new year I am heading off to my first dance class at the church hall! 2018 will be the year I hone my skills and share them with the world! Joy!

I sincerely hope you all have a wonderful 2018 full of happy new experiences too.

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My return.

After a somewhat hectic period in my life, I have returned to this diary to record my recent on-goings. I shall start in chronological order.

My 3rd Birthday.

At the end of October I turned three years old. As always, to celebrate this milestone there was a Halloween party in the garden. This year the festivities included an enormous dragon bouncy castle with a slide, apple bobbing and a homemade piñata (which lasted two whacks). I refused to wear anything other than my twinkly witches dress and I must say, in which I  was definitely the belle of the ball. IMG_2763

 

Daddy nonchalant with gossamer piñata.

 

 

 

 

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Could not get my little pearly milk teeth into the apples so opted to lick the fruit instead. This was not successful.

 

 

 

 

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This years birthday cake was shop bought and not lovingly hand crafted by Fat Thighs in the filthy kitchen. Thank God. This in itself was a birthday treat.

 

 

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Day trip to Butlins.

In the October half term we were dragged to Bognor Regis for the day so I could experience that very British institution; The seaside holiday camp. Butlins is a place where you can go to the funfair and engaged in other entertainment as a family. Apparently when my mother was younger it was a budget style get away. Nowadays you need at least £3000 in order to last longer than half an hour in the arcade. It is an expensive escape, which is why we only went for the day.

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Nativity

I played the very important part of a shepherd in my nursery nativity this yuletide. Both of my parents came to see me perform and I can tell they were considering a placement for me at Stagecoach by the way they kept snapping photos and clapping rather aggressively. I do like to consider myself a bit of a thespian however, I have to admit that half way through the play, I got slightly distracted and started nibbling on my shepherds crook and absentmindedly attempting handstands. (In my defence, the main Angel did bang on a bit and dragged her two lines out unnecessarily).

 

 

Christmas 2017

Surprisingly, Christmas this year went quite smoothly. No one was being violently sick or in the throes of a nervous breakdown as experienced in Christmas’s passed. Santa delivered a generous amount of gifts (well, I have been extraordinarily good this year) and the Large One home-cooked our Christmas dinner so as to avoid another festive feast at Jimmy’s World Buffet (Our Christmas at Jimmy’s coincided with the breakdown).

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Although obviously quite dry and overcooked, it was slightly better than the predominantly Indian buffet of Christmas Day 2015.

After our Christmas lunch we all settled down to watch a film. As usual the great debate of which movie to select got out of hand and mother commandeered the remote control and that is how we all ended up watching Splash and shovelling Milk Tray into our faces.

I hope I haven’t spoken too soon when I say I feel our family has ended the year on a high.

I am eagerly awaiting the new year and look forward to what 2018 has in store for me.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year.

Edward x

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Photography. Series 2

I am having a great run of amazingly artistic photography recently and it would be selfish of me to keep them to the confines of my mothers iPhone. Enjoy!

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Traffic.

A photo capturing the hustle and bustle of the hall. My fleecy red onesie is hanging on the door in the background. Does it symbolise a comfortable family home? Or just highlighting the fact my mother isn’t exactly house-proud?

 

 

 

 

 

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Manna.

Pepperoni pizza for dinner. Nourishment for the soul.

 

 

 

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Constraints.

In this picture I have paired the dogs harness and lead with the hallway clock. Its represents how in life we are all bound by the constraints of time. It also shows that we were running late for school.

 

 

 

 

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Self portrait after eating black Playdoh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Siblings.

“Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet.” – Vietnamese Proverb

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am thoroughly enjoying my new hobby. She has moved the charger to a higher power point so my photos may not be so forthcoming now unless I can manoeuvre my trusty naughty chair to help me reach up when nobody is looking. I shall try my best, as always.

Love and light x