Jump to content

Diary Of A Redhead


Recommended Posts

I think also Bex,


You make a really good point - to take note of the little things! And enjoy and be thankful! It’s true.


My main restlessness comes from a feeling of - are we maki by the right lifestyle choice for our family that will affect us for the next 10, 20 years? Is this what I want out of life? My principles - am I sticking to my personal principles?


As much as I may not come across, I am a highly principled person, when it comes to myself individually. And; I think I am a big picture person who often forgets the little details. A scatterbrain who semi-functions! I think… huh… 🥲 


I am always eternally questioning myself and what is going on around me and inside me. I don’t know whether I will be able to release myself from this as it seems to be a bit of a personality trait of mine and deep seated. It helps me in so many ways as well as hinders me, making it hard to even try to relax and let it go! 

But I do need to take note of the small things. So many big things going on, so much pressure, so much hustle, so much, all at once. 

I keep seeing the finish line and I know once there there will be other challenges, mostly financial, but after that, at least we can get in and settled into a home that is ours. We have really been “homeless” since November and it’s been getting too me more than I probably realise.


Everything will tick along great for a few weeks then I’ll have this big outburst, always unfairly directed at THE HUSBAND! And it’s not fair! Or, everyone will say how happy and relaxed and yadda yadda I look but really I am dealing with trepidation and nervousness by cleaning loads and obsessively shopping! 


Link to comment
Share on other sites

Also, being in here has been an escape but I know it’s no good for me.


The days I spend too many hours online are the days I actually feel my worst and most lethargic. Getting out with the kids, as hard as it is initially to get everyone ready by myself and just get out the front door, is worth it in gold once we hit the fresh air.


I think the hubs working away a lot, and me having no help from family, means I am doing this mostly solo. The day night day night by myself situation is great for the first few days, but then I start thinking wow, I need D back. And I miss him, so badly, the second he leaves. I really do. He has stopped going away half as much since the kids were born. He hates leaving us and he misses me too. It’s affected the business. We don’t make half the money. But he wants more time with us. It’s a trade off.


Something has to give. I have to stop living like I did a year or two back, and reign it in. Once you get used to a type of lifestyle, it can feel like some kind of failure to revert back to something you once came from. Like stepping back instead of forward. But it isn’t! Not if it’s for the good of your family and well being.


Spending money never makes me happy or content anyway. It’s just a thrill, temporarily. Then I always feel bad and deeply regret it.



  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Also - HA - I always thought everyone was the same but, I am learning, not.


I am constantly; and on a daily basis, concerned with if I am being authentic to my true self. In some shape or another, I am asking myself, am I being real? Basically, am I being honest and truthful to myself? To my little beating heart and it’s deep buried passions and more obvious passions?! Am I authentic? Or have I gone and… worst of the worst… SOLD OUT?!


I thought everyone was wrestling with this internal telling off but I realised as I got a little older, thankfully for them, no. Some people aren’t bothered by this! And that is a relief to think someone somewhere is happy - LOL! And unquestioning of themselves.


If I feel like something is going against my personal belief system, I will never do it, or if I do do it, the world collapses, I hate myself, and out flows some of the strangest and embarrassing behaviour from me.


I don’t know. Maybe this is loony thinking?!


The worst part of it is, I don’t actually want to really change this part of my personality! I feel it keeps me moving and grounded. BUT! I would like a little rest some days. In the real world; and mentally!


Gotta find that thing people talk about… begins with a ‘B?’ Balance? What is that? 🥲



Link to comment
Share on other sites

Posted (edited)

As a big old splurge of thought here…


…I am often maybe, quite hard on myself? But then again, I think that is a good thing. 

I have always thought, it is not up to you, yourself, to say, “I am creative”, “I am intelligent”, “I am a good mother,” “I am a good wife”, “I am a good friend”, “I am gifted”. Anything similar. Those judgements fall to other people. 

I would say - am I a good mother? You’ll have to ask my kids! Or my husband! Or my family! That isn’t mine to declare. Am I a good friend? Ask my friend. Am I a nice person? Ask the people who know me. That is not mine to own. I can think what I like about myself but it doesn’t make it true.


Same for creativity. I don’t know. What do you think? It’s not for me to say. The mob decide on those things.


I will take all this stuff onboard in life, then let it go through my filter, and then after all is said and done, I’ll try and make my mind up. Often it won’t ever be fully made up.


Is this just me or what?!




Edited by mylolita
Link to comment
Share on other sites

On 6/27/2022 at 3:07 AM, mylolita said:

The days I spend too many hours online are the days I actually feel my worst and most lethargic. Getting out with the kids, as hard as it is initially to get everyone ready by myself and just get out the front door, is worth it in gold once we hit the fresh air.


Yes, this is very true.  

I've been way too much online in part because it's been a really slow two weeks or so... but it isn't a replacement for real life, and real life stuff just feels so much better, even if it's something small.

The beach sounds AMAZING, Lo... that is incredible!  

And yes, the spending money thing... if you can try to force yourself to keep track of a budget, even if it's not perfect every month  and you make mistakes, etc. that really shows you where you're spending and kind of helps, "reality," of your choices set in. I speak from experience 😉.  It helped SO much once I started tracking *almost* everything... it helped to reign me in, and be able to say No more to anything I'd regret later.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 1 month later...

The whole way, since November - the whole way to getting those keys in the door - has felt like a meandering, wasteful, incompetent indulgence. 

Time has dragged on and moved too fast all at the same time.


Now we find ourselves in the dip of a luscious, remote valley, cocooned in a static caravan, a drive out to any near shop.


I wake up to the cockerels crow at dawn. I hear the cries of strutting peacocks. The kids break out onto the flaking wooden veranda, that wraps around the whole van, and gleefully chase the chickens, and beg D to catch them a chick.


There is hardly a soul here on this maintained, hidden little park. The descended drive on down is almost spiritual, the elevated speed bumps force a slow crawl. You are pushed to take it all in. And it’s okay. You can’t help it anyway.


This place has soothed me into dreamless sleep on nights when the rain has bounced so hard off the tin roof, it has created mystic music. A million children playing the drums. The heat, trapped between the surrounding hills and patchwork fields, is contained when it comes, and doesn’t let up till late. The eternal blow and scan of the fans scattered across each room has been as comforting as the rain song. The tiny bathroom has muffled my tears. The light filled lounge has witnessed hysterical piggy back rides. The stream out front is cast off in a mini glow from my string of fairy lights, that warming twinkle from 7pm till past midnight.

The first day we came, I noticed the van next too us had two big floor to ceiling windows. In front there were two sagging armchairs, angled towards each other, a little low side table in the middle, with symmetrically arranged Nick nacks that never moved. The big tv would be on, and consuming the chair, would sit Kenny. Always bare chested, massively over weight, with his boobs resting on his tummy. His booming, jovial voice made the kids smile, and he always, always sang (“I sing cos I’m happy!”) 


As soon as we said hi, we struck up a kind of unlikely friendship. He would shout across, “Up to owt or nowt?!” In his beefy Yorkshire accent. I’d laugh and tell him if we’d been out or not. He always asked if D was away. Often he had been. There was always friendly, warm sympathy and a “just ask me anytime” helpfulness that came off his big juicy frame. He walked in a struggled shuffle, and used a stick. An old football injury, he said, compounded and made worse with his weight. He was also on a relentless diet. 

Last night, the clouds rolled over and the mild temperature dropped. I slipped a jumper on and one on my little bambino. She had pulled herself up to stand against one of the lounge chairs outside on the deck. D had taken the older two to the beach. Everything was quiet. Birds sung, but no one was about. The luxury of being nearly alone came over me.


I decided to reach in and open a bottle of champagne that had been moved around with us back and forth over the year. It had been a present. I never drink champagne when you’re supposed too, and I don’t like it much by its self, but I topped the glass up with fresh orange and threw my book onto a spare chair and told babe, hey, lets chill baby girl!


Kenny had his curtains drawn all day, his door open. Everyone kept their doors unlocked here. As soon as you came here, y’knew it was just that type of place. I had a weird and morbid thought as I settled down with the bubbles. Was he dead? Heart attack? All day?! I imagined him slumped over his bed, his mouth open. Was the condensation on his window some kind of, moisture release from his already decomposing, humongous corpse? I had wanted to ask his address, to send him letters, and a Christmas card. I started thinking I should go on up and call for him through his door.


If in answer, his whistle fluted through the air and there he was, shuffling down the path. “Kenny! Ken doll!” 

“Hey doll!”

He was chuckling the way only a Yorkshire man chuckles. We had a little chat. This and that. Over the fence, as we have come to do. Then I raised my glass and said, “You have to have one!”


”What is it?” He boomed.


”A chick drink. Hold on.”


I skipped back through to the kitchen, broke ice off, loaded up his glass, putting more champagne in his than mine, coupled up bambino and took the wooden steps down from the veranda to be standing where I always stood, underneath his raised lounge floor, at the alter of Kenny’s resting t**ts. 

He took a sip, saying, “You’re a diamond you are.” He paused. “Ooo it’s right nice!”


We got chatting then he ushered me up. “Come on, come on in pet.”


My babe played with all their old peoples ornaments. We gossiped and laughed about park rules. I called the manager the Gestapo. He told me all about his retirement. He told me about his ex wife. He told me about Lorraine, his long term partner. He told me that I reminded him of his daughter in law, who was due to have her third. We silently agreed with each other in between the talking that we both didn’t take life too seriously in the end, and mutual easiness made it’s little happy way into that primly kept living room.

He was lonely in a way, and so was I. It got late, and I took up and thanked him. Babe still had a long handled duster in her hand. I said “She thinks she’s Freddy Mercury at Live Aid.” More chuckles. He took my invite to come check our van out, he was genuinely curious. He helped me fix a handle back onto the drawer. I was disappointed to see him huff back the stone throw to his chair.

D came back, and I was pouring a third glass. I asked him to take another over to Kenny. More diamond sparkles for me! He raised his re-filled glass up our way, reached for the remote and settled into his quiet sports channel life for the night.


I don’t know why. Seeing Kenny made me happy. Seeing Kenny made me sad. 

I feel like there is a struggle ahead. I feel like, we are close to something we might have to then give up. I feel like, I will be digging out thick jumpers to put on top of jumpers this winter, lighting the old Victorian fireplaces come October, wondering if we will weather this storm, but in what way? Will it be, alright on the night?


The kids like to pile into our big bed at the back of the van after their bath. They take up my books, open them and pretend to read them very seriously, scrunching up their cherubic faces, my daughters full lips pouting in a heart killer rose bud.

“Do you think Mammy could write a book?”


My son lifted his head from the second hand pages of Jane Austin’s ‘Mansfield Park’. 

“Sure Mam.” He took a moment. He looked a bit confused. It was a confusing thing. Especially to me. 

“What would it be about Mammy?”


I looked at him. He was perfect. I really didn’t know. I never thought much about what it would actually be about! 

“It would be, about a girl. A girl, and the night.”









Edited by mylolita
  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Some days, I’m so inward, I wonder how I’m supposed to shake it off and be out in the outward world? 

Some days, I could think and think, and write and write; and maybe never stop. 

True luxury for me is - to always be left alone, but to never be alone. 

Does that make any sense?



Link to comment
Share on other sites

When I rock my baby to sleep, I received access to an inner world I forgot even existed. A sweet spot between just about to fall asleep, and not being asleep. Drifting asleep, whilst fighting to keep awake. A lucid slide. A happy doze dream. A stolen wink. 


I will find myself in a matter of a micro second (probably a drop of the head and back up again), being transported instantly to the exact and perfect reality of walking through dark, thick wooden doors, into a small, select Spanish shop in the old capital city of Menorca, Ciutadella.


I can smell the exact smell of fresh, blowing, conditioned air. The aroma of new lace, hung with space to breathe around it. A drifting scent of another woman’s perfume who probably passed by five minutes ago across the cobbled street. Everything - light, sound, and smell - contained and preserved by the high walls of this fortress Marina. The hum of traditional music played softly over the speakers. And my eyes falling instantly to a white, lace skirt, the hem trailing off to one side, as if to conceal only one knee and reveal the other in an elegant peekaboo. 


Then I come too. 


I had been 14 years old. It was the first expensive shop I had ever set foot in. I was instantly highly self conscious and my senses were elated. I hadn’t been self conscious of myself. No, I thought vainly, even without a pound of pocket money to my name, I fitted in. It was my parents and sister who didn’t. They were causing me my awareness. My Dad, a notorious penny pincher and horribly practical dresser, was already desperate to leave. He saw the lack of price tags and wanted escape. My Mum was looking fretful and embarrassed too. My sister was trailing behind them, bored of it all. I wanted to head deeper into the back. The place got whiter and more minimal and more beautiful the more I absorbed. Before my Dad could say anything, I started parting clothes on a section of rail. To his horror, browsing, like a little lady. The shop assistant looked up. She was slim, olive skinned, with a high forehead and a thick fringe. She was beautiful. She gave me a little smile then looked away. So I had permission. 


I pulled out the first thing I could set my eyes on. I knew I didn’t have much time or Dad would change his mind. It was a white lace skirt, with an asymmetrical dipped hem. I turned to my Dad. Him and Mum were talking in hush tones. My Mum was on my side. I knew she secretly wished she had been so bold and picked something out to guilt my Dad into buying. We were on holiday, after all. But she never did and never would. My sister wanted to leave. I plucked something out for her too. The same skirt, but in pale blue. My Dad was rolling his eyes. He reluctantly didn’t want a scene. I did a mini jump in glee! I hugged him tightly. Okay okay, he was muttering. He was smiling slightly. A rare treat. I knew it was expensive. It was probably the most expensive item of clothing I had for decades to come. I wore it all holiday; and I felt like a damsel meandering those dinky, winding, Mediterranean streets. I felt pretty. I felt worthy of anything. I forgot all about my family and would walk ahead in my own world.


Other days, I have found myself simply sitting in a room of a long forgotten flat I stayed in with D. I look up, dreamlike, from another micro doze, taking in the lemon flavoured light transpiring off magnolia rental walls. And in the corner, my mother in laws old chest, the only thing passed down through their family. No one else wanted it. I was the only person to appreciate that chest. My speaker used to sit atop of it, and play lounge lazy house music all day and all night. The image of that chest, and the black curved speaker - plain as day. 


Sometimes, I drop away to feel the hard plastic of a school chair cupping my bum. My old classroom waits in front of me. It’s boiling hot. A packet of Smarties sit on the desk. I have a pencil in my hand, and I’m letting it tip tap quickly between my 8 year old fingers. The teacher, muffled by memory, is telling everyone to stop would they please fanning themselves, because it only makes you HOTTER!


I have travelled back to the sun coming through wooden blinds in striped shards, to lay on the bed. I see the bumps of my feet underneath the duvet. I can smell the musty, masculine smell of a man who has simply gone to bed, made love, then gone straight back to sleep again.


I travel through woods, through rooms, through areas and through time. I revisit the curve of someone’s lips, the way my Grandma’s voice would trail through from the garden to the hall. I smell the scent of my Uncles booked piled in arches over doorways, mingled with stew boiling, stone flags made cold in Autumn, and dusty, decades old woollen jumpers, a dog collar and lead waiting on a stand. I re-visit moments, huge and small. I wonder after, is this what dying feels like? 


That lucid moment, only brief, when I rock my baby to sleep. 



Link to comment
Share on other sites


  • Create New...