I am now the proud author a monthly womens' column for the wonderful well being magazine, Vivia Maridi.
Click here to read the latest article entitled Certifiably Insane, a tongue-in-cheek look at pregnancy and ultrasounds
I could never quite understand my cousin Julie (I've changed her name. Regardless of the fact that she lives over the other side of the world, I'm still not going to invite her wrath). She is a week younger than me, we look similar - same height, same kind of weight (back then, anyway), same dark curly hair - but we were totally different. I grew up in the countryside, surrounded by animals, playing in the dirt, watching horses & cows giving birth, being chased by donkeys and geese. Julie grew up in inner city Salford (now part of Manchester) among the cars and the noise and the overwhelming number of people. She is also one of seven kids. I loved going down to their house during the school holidays because it was so different to my house. Well, I loved some aspects of it, I didn’t love the fact that they were limited in how much they could eat and drink, for example.
The lengths I go to to keep my husband alive and in one piece (and hence able to earn a decent crust for the family)...
While my husband is unconcernedly swinging on the end of a rope ten metres up in the air, having gracefully ascending a climbing wall, making the whole thing look ridiculously easy, I'm at the bottom of the wall on the other end of said rope, trying, with increasing desperation to lower him just as gracefully to the floor.
I wrestled with the descender with increasing desperation, but to no avail. Try though I might, the bloody thing wouldn't release the rope in any kind of controlled, slow manner and John got more and more alarmed as he jerkily dropped three or four metres, pretty much in free descent, every ten seconds or so. After plummeting the final few metres so quickly that he couldn't get his feet under him, he picked himself up off the floor and, swearing like a pirate, demanded to know what on earth I was playing at.
“I need help!” I said to my brother, “I’ve got these programs sitting there, ready to go and I feel bad because they’re just going to waste. You’re good at selling, and I hate selling, so can you give me a hand?”
I had a kind of vague , wishy-washy, airy-fairy idea that Alan (former radio presenter, master salesman, sports commentator and general all-round gasbag who could talk himself onto a mars-bound spaceship) would maybe do all the talking for me and somehow sell my programs. Honestly, I really had no idea what it would look like at all.
And I certainly didn’t expect what I ended up with: several hours of me and my brother laughing and poking fun at ourselves, each other and the world in general.
Hi! I’m Karen O’Connor, hormonally-challenged, menopausal writer, blogger, self-confessed sarcasm enthusiast, mother of 4, wife of 30 years, destroyer of souls... no, wait, that's just in the mornings...
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