Never will you have a wee in the peace and tranquility your urine deserves, because the minute you release those pelvic muscles (well those muscles that weren’t destroyed by the trauma that is childbirth) and the wee starts to flow , you will suddenly hear the pitter patter of tiny feet, in my case the not so tiny patter of 8 and 5 year old feet.

So it begins ” Mum, you said we could have something out the sweetie jar, Mum you said I could go on the laptop!!

Its funny I don’t remember making any of these promises.

For some reason I always start to enter into dialogue with them, then suddenly, it strikes me, why am I sitting on the loo arguing about sweets surely the sweets can wait the 5 minutes that I have oh so selfishly alacated to myself!

The bathroom for us Mums is clearly know longer a relaxing tranquil environment in which to relax and have ME time, no, it is now a place to perform every day necessary functions such as going to the toilet and washing.

Speed is of the essence, as no member of your family ( I include the fully grown adult who shares the house with you, commonly known as The Husband, in that comment) can possibly do without your presence ( the real reason 2 in 1 shampoo was invented) for more than 5 minutes.

This weekend I was having one of those relaxing 5 minute shower breaks when in bursts Youngest son. He informs me he has something really important to tell me, so I listen incase someone has drowned in their frosties. Turns out its not that important, Daddy can’t find the controls!

I look at my darling boy, but he is all of a sudden distracted…….” Mummy why is your willy furry?”.

Ok, two things, must spend time explaining to youngest son that boys have willys and girls have bitbits ( at 5 vagina seems a little harsh!), and I really must book that waxing appointment!

I’m sitting there supping on my tea, trying to eat my banana in my most non-sexual way, purve boss is clearly checking out my lip sucking skills.

The Squirrel comes in, her bag bursting with high calorie lardy snacks.

She whips open her foil package,  the smile on her face tells me, she has been waiting for this moment. The whole 2, yes 2 hours since school started this morning.

She reveals two heavily buttered slices of bread, and then cracks open a packet of salt and vinager- declaring “You can’t beat a crisp sandwich” Clearly not, you lard arse.

Just as she’s about to start describing, her love of the deep-fried foods, in walks Dumb arse bitch (DAB).

Am I about to witness the meeting of minds, retarded Nasa of the future?

DAB: ” Oh that looks nice, I haven’t had one of them in ages, my Jake loves a nice sandwich. Problem is, the bread just gets stuck in his brace” This kid must look like one hell of a freak, he has a dodgy eye, a nervous twitch and braces stuffed with last nights dinner. His class mates must be having it on their toes with that kind of material at their finger tips.

The Squirrel: ” I had a brace, I was always getting food stuck in it” I’m surprised you were willing to share your food with your brace- wonders will never siese. ” You need to make sure he brushes his teeth properly” Fuck me she should write a parenting book!

DAB: ” Well I do try. I was doing his teeth last night and I found a bit of  Tuesdays tea in it” That fucking freak could have a whole chicken stuck in his brace and it still wouldn’t detract from his twitching.

The Staffroom a place of intelligent conversation, not in my school, a place where retards are free to express themselves.

The world would be a more retarded place with those muppets educating the young and impressionable.

It’s inset day at my school, what it should actually be called is ‘Moan like a fucker’ day.

So there we all are, well those who were stupid enough not to feign illness, sitting in the conference room just waiting for him to start spouting.

He, my cock of a boss that is, stands in front of us, with his I am God, you will all respect me pose.

Errr… if God is a very small little man, wearing cords, a grey shirt and a very tight gay leather neck chain, then yes, you are he.

So he starts trying to make analogy’s about swans, and how if we don’t fly as one then we will  fail-dick.

We failed Sir boss’a'cock, when you took to the helm and made all those twatish decisions based on your ego.

I look around the room, yes, its official, this bloke is proficient in talking shit and is more effective at sending people to sleep than counting frigging sheep.

The whole room is bored as fuck with all eyes firmly glazed over, except of course Miss Petty Bitch, she’s sitting there in the front row-loser, smiling and nodding I’m left wondering, has she glazed into her robotic sex role. Just nod and smile it will be over very soon!

No, No I think she is actually falling for his bollocks. What a giant petty cock head.

Suddenly I am jolted back to reality.

The Knobhead boss is now standing in front of me swinging ropes and inviting people to join him, 6 people ( Who I have completely lost all respect for now) actually get up and start swinging, me thinks he has other swinging ideas in mind for these folks.

Then after a while, he starts.

The same old shit- no communication, at which point I have to stop myself from shouting out ” Communicate this you twat” (middle finger standing proud).

Seriously, I can’t take much more of this shit.

Everything he is standing up their whining about, originates from him and his cockhead management.

Err…Lead by example you tit.

If only these meetings were more like comedy shows, the more they take the piss the more I can heckle.

I can hear me now…..

” Get your cock out your own arse, cretin”

” Oi, little dick, those fucking heals you’re wearing, make you look like a midget Drag queen”

” That comb over your sporting- grow some balls and shave it off”

Ahhhhh…..one can dream can’t she?

But I have just watched a woman give her two-year old chewing gum.

Now, I don’t mean to be judge mental ( even thought , I am bloody good at it), but that’s fucking stupid.

Errrr, love. Have you ever heard of choking??

Or did you miss that parenting class.

Along with the one about telling your fucking kid, NO now and again.

Maybe just maybe, that’s why the world is full of obnoxious childish twats.

Because, Mummy never said NO.

Get the tit out of your mouth, he’s a big boy now and tell him fucking NO!

Deal with it now.

Or this dickhead ain’t ever gonna get a girlfriend.

 No self respecting girl is gonna want  a bloke who spits the dummy everytime she says NO!

Being the dutiful wife that I am, I always wave off my husband.

Bollocks, my car is in the way of his.

So off I trundle, in my dodgy stripey pj’s- man, I am looking mighty fine this morning.

I start the car, and………………….nothing. Just clicking.

Come on you bastard, please stART……………….

3 more attempts, and nothing.

Bloody bitch car, If you were a person, I’d bitch slap you with a giant foam hand.

You just don’t need this shit a 3 am in the morning, for fuck sake I wanted to go back to sleep, I’m tired! Oh yer, and the hubby needs to get to work.

Mr Smith jumps out of his car. I brace myself- clearly this is going to be my fault.

Hubby: “So what did you leave on?”

Oh so tired wife: “Nothing”, and I wasn’t even lying, there was nothing on in the car. Even I can’t lie that quickly at 3 am.

Hubby: “Must just have been having the doors open when you cleaned it yesterday”.

Ungrateful, slut of a car. I finely clean out the sess pool, which is your insides, and that’s how you repay me!

Fuck it.

Mental note: Keep the fucking car dirty, at least it might actually fucking work. Allowing me to get some fucking sleep.

Hubby: ” I’ll push, you steer”

Wife: ” Ok” I decide to do as I’m told, so far he has controlled himself, but one wrong move, or a slip of the tongue, might just push him over the edge.

I must be tired, normally pushing him over the edge, would be some kinda sport for me.

Anyway, he jumps starts the car.

It works -Hurrah!

Shit, no petrol to leave it running.

Will this be the moment that finely does him in.

Hubby: ” Right I’ll go “

Woohoo! No petrol stop in the morning.

I really am a first class bitch.

Hubby returns. ” leave it running for 20 minutes, if it won’t start after that, the batteries fucked” Normally at this point, I would say something along the lines of No shit Sherlock or Do ya think???

I decide to keep it to a simple ‘ok, thank you’

Hubby drives off into the sunset, having dealt with the car situation in a reasonable manner!

My car is sick and obviously needs medical attention is this a good enough reason to chuck a sicky?

Some girl comes in demanding court order referrals.

Apparently, her solicitor wrote em a letter,  and she needs it, cause she’s in court  Thursday, and she wants her kids back.

It amazes me how fucking thick these people are.

Keep your parental failings to yourself, lets face it her kids would be safer being mothered by bulimic tiger.

And why do certain woman start wearing skimpy bikini tops as soon as the sun shines, it might be sunny, but it’s still  only 14 degrees you cretin- maybe the fire on the end of her spliff, keeps her warm.

Appointment now running 20 minutes late. Be cool, someone might be dying in there.

Suddenly in walks the local transsexual.

Hello….the give away is the massive square draw and the hairy ankles.

But I can’t help but admire her use of colour clashing, in her outfit.

Appointment now running 35 minutes late. Someone best be dying in there.

Starting to feel my lungs clogging with the air of  manky ill people breath.

I glance around the waiting room.

Without warning the bloke next to me starts wiping his nose on his hand and examining it. Yes dear- that there would be bogies.

Then the snotty hand starts having, a not so sly play with it’s owners ball sack.

Errr mate, judging by the look of you, we all had our suspicions, but the ball scratching is really just confirming it for us.

Men: Leave your balls alone in public.

” Mrs Smith, Doctor will see you now”

Well thats fucking good of him, only 48 minutes left.

Off you go kids, go fight and be delinquent out of my eye view.

A well needed coffee is calling.

So I’m catching up on some gossip with a friend.

When in walks Yoda, my ever-increasing purve of a boss.

Yoda: ” Jane, I think we need to give Sarah more support with Jack” (feral boy). By we, I assume you mean, me, as you choose never to leave your lair and actually interact with the kids.

Yoda: “Could you have him in with you for a few days a week”

Feral boy, err…no.

Thanks for the offer, but I think I’m going to have to turn you down on this one.

As tempting as spending hours shut in a room with him is, being barked at and stabbed with pencils.

The idea of having my face chewed on by a Rottweiler is more appealing.

This kid isn’t stupid, in fact his language skills never cease to amaze me.

Only today he flew around the dining hall calling random children ‘fucking dirty whores’.

With his speech impediment, that took some doing.

Mental note: Must mark of speech and language in his assessment file.

The temperature is hot.

Lets do some gardening. (I know, not quite as exciting as it first sounded)

The people who previously owned our house had a weird fetish for kerb stone bordering.

I know we all have fetishes, but, kerbstones-really???

I literally have pavement kerb stones borders all around my garden. I tell you, ‘The concrete jungle’ ain’t got nothing on this plot of ground.

We attack them at first light with all the power of a randy bison.

With spades in hand, I start hanging off my spade, lets face it if my vast bulk can’t shift them, they’re here for keeps.

My mother having already suggested we keep them as a feature.

If the look I was going for was ‘ring road city centre’, with that feature I’d be on to a winner.

It’s no good, they will not be moved.

I see my hubby looking around for some inspiration, these kerbstones are no match for ‘King Kong’ over there.

He stops, and I see his eyes light up at the sight of two cannonballs sitting in the garden.

He picks one up, and then without warning , starts lobbing it at the kerbstones, like Zola Bud on acid.

What the fuck is he doing, the neighbours are going to think he’s escaped for the local mental asylum.

I look at him, a grin on his face, clearly he’s enjoying himself, a little too much.

Hubby: ” Look its working, there be smashed up in no time ” What, before the men in white suits cart you away.

Wife: ” I’ll go in, as you seem to have it covered out here”

Hubby: ” Can you just stay out and help me pick the bits up” I don’t fucking think so matey, all the time your practising your prehistoric bowling, I’m keeping well out-of-the-way.

Mental note: If  husband declares his hammer isn’t big enough, he ain’t talking about his love hammer. Back away quick, and stay indoors.

Well thanks to my kids, I do every frigging week.

I was flicking through the channels for the cartoons.

When suddenly, there on the shopping channel was….Spray on hair!

We are talking hair in a can.

At this point, I blocked out the children’s cries of ” where’s Rory, can we watch our programmes”, and sat there stunned, sickened but strangely amazed.

This man was sitting on a chair, with his bald head reflecting all the studio lights.

That must be a technical nightmare.

The man is sitting there having a mass of thick black hair sprayed on his head.

He is brandishing a head full of pubes, and actually looks pleased with the results.

Are you fucking joking, someone has just painted your head with spray on pubic hair, and you are pleased about this??

What happens if you go out and it starts raining?

All of a sudden you will have giant pubic sideburns and eyebrows of the streaked variety.

If your bald, get over it and shave your head.

Spray on hair, what a crock of desperate crap.

He the head of a primary school.

He employs mainly thin blondes with pert boobs ( I must have slipped through the net ).

Well it gives him something to look at during meetings.

You think this is a joke, but trust me, throughout my whole interview, I don’t think he looked at my face once.

To be fair he might not be meaning to look at the breast department, but it must be hard to avoid that area when you’re a balding midget, as he is.

He seriously thinks himself a little bit of a ladies man, with his swarve (creepy), masterful (little man syndrome )presence.

Oh…how mistaken he is.

He is only one up, from a poison dwarf.

Everything about him oozes creepy perve.

You enter his lair (office ) at your own risk, a wondering hand could accidently grab a wedge of your arse at any moment.

There really is nothing about this man that would turn on a normal human being.

Unless of course you like purvey, midgets who drive  bright urine yellow Suzuki’s.

I mean, what the fuck was he thinking.

You might think you look like a hunk in tunks in you bright urine yellow 4×4, but everyone else thinks you look like a massive cock.

Mind you, it does kinda suit him. Cockhead man, cockhead car.

The gay car also suits some of his weirdo mannerisms, and it certainly complements some of his twatish sayings.

Which is mainly what comes out of his shit filled mouth.