Glen's Life in a nutshell - part 2

This blog is not called Glen’s Life for nothing, I might wander off in my thoughts now and again, but usually it is only a matter of time before something happens to bring me back to me.

Some of you may remember last summer, when I wrote part one of Glen's Life in a nutshell; if not then you should go and check it out, even if only for the photo of Ewan McGregor and Emily Blunt getting friendly. Part 2 may be missing in the celebrity undressing department but it still tells you everything you ever need to know about me.

Take last Tuesday evening, for example…

I rucked and mauled my way through the usual Paddington stampede to board my train home, desperate for a seat after a long day sitting at a desk. In an age of miracles, it still surprised me that I found and claimed a seat in only the second carriage that I walked through.

A man was sitting in the window seat but I paid this fact no heed, it was surely not going to make any difference to my journey. What possible blog post could be born from the line, “A man was sitting in the window seat”? 

My next task was to find some space for my bag and coat in the luggage rack above. As usual, the fact that I’d boarded the train some fifteen seconds after it was announced meant that I was twenty seconds too late. The luggage rack was jammed. Except for the one space – barely wide enough for my bag – but maybe…

I managed to widen the gap enough, and lifted my bag into place.

My bag was a bit full, so it was a little fatter than usual and I just couldn’t seem to push it in. I pushed harder. I patted it down. I took a run up and heaved. The bag just didn’t seem to want to go in properly. I lifted it out and jabbed it back in. 

Suddenly the man in the window seat joined the story.

“It won’t squash down any further! Just leave it will you?” His critical and overly annoyed tone surprised me. I can understand that having someone almost leaning over you, trying to sort their bag out when you are trying to get comfy is mildly annoying, but I wasn’t actually touching him, I wasn’t doing anything that bad. 

“I’ll decide” I firmly replied – determined to prove him wrong. How dare he tell me what I can do with my bag?

He mumbled something under his breath as I continued to ram and jab my bag about but I missed the actual words. Eventually, though, I had to concede that the bag was too big and pulled it back down between my knees to the sound of an enormous huff and a seemingly smug “Utterly ridiculous”.

I huffed right back and made a big show of putting my earphones in  to block him out and claiming the middle armrest for myself – the height of commuter indulgence. Well he had to learn that he can’t go around butting into other people’s luggage arrangements. Hogging the middle armrest may sound a step too far to you, but I thought the situation called for strong measures. I’m not afraid to make a point.

Then we arrived at Reading.

A rather miffed sounding voice asked to be excused so that he could get out and off the train. So, because I’m not an animal, I got up.

As the man stood up, he fixed me with a stare, reached up and took his soft, leather briefcase down from the gap. 

My gap. 

His gap! 

I hadn’t seen it at all, but his bag was already there all the time. When he was getting cross and telling me that it wouldn’t squash down any more, he wasn’t criticising my luggage rack technique at all, he was just fed of me wrecking his paperwork.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d then forced myself into his half of the armrest.

The man walked briskly away, carefully rifling through his briefcase looking for damage and I attempted to hide, using a modern take on the Ostrich theory of camouflage. With music in your ears and your eyes firmly fixed onto your laptop screen – no one can see you. Fact.

This is Glen’s Life. It’s what I do.

Happiness is...

Should Male Grooming be illegal?

So not only can I smugly pat myself on the back for taking part and speaking out about Domestic Violence, but I can also now pat my legs Pantomime style at my luck.

As part of the Speak Out campaign there were some giveawaysand I won one! 

There is a part of me that feels a little guilty about benefitting from something like this – like it takes something away from what I was saying if there were prizes involved. However, I did mean what I said and I do support Kristin’s case.

I’m just luckier than I thought.

I certainly don’t feel guilty enough to turn the prize down – let’s put it that way!

Meanwhile, you should know that The Regular Guy is back at ‘in the powder room’ and today he has some very strong views about Male Grooming – views that I just can’t seem to help agreeing with. 

Please go check him out to see what you think.

Thanks

Click me

Married, Working Mums are people too

At last – it’s Monday!

Yes I know you are supposed to look forward to Fridays, but I think I prefer Mondays nowadays. I’m sure it’s a coincidence, but I started to feel this way around about the same time as the kids started doing weekend clubs and my wife started insisting that I ‘help out a bit’.

Weekends are tough.

It usually takes the peace and quiet of work until Wednesday for me to recover from the reality of a parent’s weekend. How do ‘stay at home’ parents survive? When do you get your weekend? I get a five day break every week and would be an absolute gibbering wreck without it.

Let it be said that mums or dads who wind up being the main carer at home through the week are the ones who are really the breadwinners in a family. I couldn’t do it.

Then there are the never mentioned heroes that deserve to finally get revealed.

I’m not the first to say that those people giving up their careers and independence to raise kids are important. I’m not even the first to remember to point out that men do this too these days. It would be predictable too, if I suddenly tried banging on about how wonderful ‘Single Mums’ are, for coping how they do.

Yes they are, but everyone always says that.

Today I’m going to give a shout out to another bunch of people who make a difference.

Married, working Mums.

Take my wife… please…

 (hey, I was born in the seventies, what did you expect)  

You see, the weekends in our house are fairly busy, the constant pressure of balancing between getting jobs done and having some decent time with the boys is always there; always. We never really sit down.

Then on Monday, I drop the boys off at breakfast club at about the time that Jo has arrived at her work. I work in London so I commute on the train. I can’t get to work for nine, so I’m lucky in that I can start at ten. This means I work until half past six and then travel home, arriving sometime after eight, feeling a bit tired. I usually am just in time to pop upstairs and give the boys a kiss goodnight in their beds, if they aren’t already asleep.  

However, my lovely wife rushes home from work in order to pick up the boys. Helps them with whatever they need, breaks up their fights, feeds them and shepherds them into their beds, then heads back to the kitchen to make dinner for the two of us.

From the moment she gets home, knackered after working a full day WITH KIDS (Jo is a teacher), she is head first into the world of parenting, and this continues until I walk in just after eight and romantically ask, “What’s for tea?”

Jo does this for five days and then comes the weekend, where she has three boys to hassle her instead of the usual two.  I think I’m beginning to understand why it is that every evening, when I sit down to relax in front of the TV, I get a foot smacking into the side of my face asking for a rub. 

And Jo is just one of millions. There’s an army of them out there.

So let’s have a big cheer for all the married, working mums who do everything they do so that us men can have our weekends during the week!

Love you babe x

Speak Out

I made a promise ages ago to a woman I’ve never met, to write a post about a subject I know nothing about.

Why?

Because I believe her.

That’s why.

I’m talking about KB over at Wanderlust. You probably know who she is already. You probably know about the devastation she has been through too. If not then what I suggest you do is go and find out.

Currently Kristin is driving a campaign called Speak Out, and this is what I’m here to talk about.

Or not.

You see, I’ve thought long and hard about what I could write to discuss the very serious issue of Domestic Violence which is what Speak Out calls for, but I have a problem. I’m too damned lucky.

I have no personal experience of domestic violence at all – ever. I’ve never seen it. I’ve never felt it.

I’m lucky.

And yet, though I’ll never truly understand it, I know about it. How? Because some people, some very amazing people, are starting to Speak Out about it; letting their stories be heard and drawing strength from each other to make the changes to their lives that they desperately crave.

So I made a decision. I’m not going to try and talk about something I will hopefully never be able to relate with, but I will do all that I can do.

Which is to read.

Which is to learn.

Which is to listen.

Even someone who has lived in such an easy world all his life can see that this is something important. 

If you, like me, know nothing at all about the true horrors of domestic violence then please click here and visit Kristin’s site to learn more about it.

If you are suffering, if you think you have no voice then please go and maybe – maybe – you could find a voice.

Speak Out.

It’s time to say something.

Sticking a finger up for men's health

I think I look like Magnum P.I., however one of my friends decided I was more like Higgins.

Higgins

 I’ll let you decide on that one.

Anyway we are here at the middle of Movember so I thought I’d give you an update on things. Firstly, you can already see that my Mo is coming on nicely, so I think that is well covered. My lovely wife is still very much a ‘No Mo Ho’ as we established last year, so it will certainly be coming off in time for December’s Christmas parties.

As far as collecting is going I have to say I have been very impressed with people’s generosity. Family, friends, colleagues and even some amazingly generous readers (you know who you are) have all clubbed together to raise a brilliant £125 for the prostate cancer charity on my MoSpace.

Thank you everyone.

What else was there….?

Oh yes.

I decided I should put my bum where my mouth is.

I went to see a nurse.

I was actually there for a regular check-up that I have to have for a repeat prescription (long story – involves blood), so there was no natural lead in to raise the subject of bottom based jiggery pokery, but still…

I finished getting my blood pressure checked and there was an awkward silence as she wondered why I was still sitting in her office. I’d decided that I would stick a finger up for men’s health (I think that’s the official slogan?) when I made the appointment and I’d been trying to work out what I would say for some time, with absolutely no success.

I just don’t know how it all works. What do you say? How do you ask? It’s really not something that comes up in conversations naturally is it? None the less, I was committed to asking about getting my prostate checked and nothing was going to stop me. This is the second year that I’ve grown a Mo and harped on to people about raising awareness, or trying to convince men to stop being scared to take action, yet I’ve never in my life had it checked myself.

Well not officially any way.

I carefully showered before leaving the house. I had no idea what would happen when I got there and was taking no chances. I thought she would make an appointment with a doctor or a specialist nurse or something, but I couldn’t be absolutely certain that she wouldn’t jump up with an excited “YES!” and throw on some gloves. You can never be too careful.

The awkward silence grew into a painful hush. Dryly, I opened my mouth.

“Er…”

“Yes?” she asked.

I stumbled. I honestly did dry up. I shouldn’t have felt embarrassed. I shouldn’t have felt stupid either, but I did. Eventually my brain decided that this wasn’t any of its concern and the whole matter would resolve itself easier if it just ignored the situation and left my mouth to fend for itself.

My mouth has never really known what it is talking about.

“Er…  You see this dashing moustache?”

“Er…?” She gave nothing away. At no point in the following discussion did the nurse show any sign that she had ever heard of Movember. In fact all she did was put her head firmly down and refuse point blank to look me in the eyes for the rest of the meeting. I suspect she may have been seriously struggling to either supress giggles or sickness at the image that I was presenting her.

“You probably think I look this sexy all the time…” Yes my mouth actually did say that, I was seriously panicking by this point. “…but no, normally I don’t sport a moustache at all.”

“Do you not?” The nurse was talking to her monitor, not able to look at me at all.

“No,” She wasn’t giving any vibes that she knew about Movember so I pressed on, “It’s a thing called Movember and it’s about raising awareness about prostate cancer. As I’m here anyway I thought…”

I may have misheard, but I’m sure I heard a faint “Oh good God no” during the coughing fit that the nurse suffered at this point. She had a sip of water and composed herself.

Very quickly and with the best poker face I’ve ever seen (seriously, if you ever sit across from this woman at a poker table, just save yourself the time and pay her your money at the start) my nurse let the wonderful NHS come to her rescue.

I was asked if anyone in my family had ever had prostate cancer – no.

I was asked if I had any issues with going to the toilet, needing it loads for only dribbles or waking up in the night etc. – no.

Finally a flicker of relief revealed itself on her face.

The NHS has, it seems, an opinion on this and, at my practice at least, a doctor will only have a rummage about if he thinks you probably already have cancer, or your dad does. Otherwise could you kindly pull your trousers back up and wipe the plastic seat down, thank you very much?

So I failed.

I completely failed to get myself checked and be able to bring you the blog post that I had already started writing in my head. I even had taken my camera with me, because I intended doing it properly.

But don’t let me stop you trying. Even with my trousers on it was mortifyingly embarrassing talking about all this in front of an actual nurse, but so what? I lived. I like living. 

If you suffer from any of these symptoms, or have any family history of cancers, please go now – I’ll wait. Go now, actually walk in there with your pants off and demand someone puts some gloves on.

Do it

photo credits:

http://supermercadoproject.blogspot.com/

 

http://www.sofeminine.co.uk/star/pictures-81881-tom-selleck.html

The unbelievable truth of it

I know.

It's uncanny.

I might even have to keep it!









Original mage credit -

http://www.sofeminine.co.uk/star/pictures-81881-tom-selleck.html