Who is FishWifey?

Things change, and after passing (although I didn’t notice) two years of blogging, I thought it was about time to give my blog a new name and a new look.

‘Cause gulls (or even girls) just wanna have fun…..

In the beginning I wasn’t sure where I was going with this blog, or what I might be expected to say. I’m not really any wiser.

Except that I write, and when the mood takes me, I sometimes have the desire / time  to stick those thoughts in a blog post and occasionally people comment. Which of course is very nice.

But why FISHWIFEY?

Well, I am a wife and my alter ego @Fishwifemark2 cod be a clue  but that’s all I’m going to say.  It’s my secret. 

Of course the ‘Cornish Fishwife’ image is nothing other than a ‘red herring’ so to speak.

The real reason for the change (on the slippery slope and floundering towards 50) is that I’m conscious that I’m getting ever so slightly older. I’m quite a bit mellower than in my younger days, but at the same time a lot  more intolerant. Which of course is contradictory. But that’s the menopause, and maybe what living in and plaice like Cornwall, for you?

In a previous life, I was secondary school a teacher. I taught in Africa, which was brilliant (perhaps it was the sunshine) and in England, which was as mixed an experience as the weather. That was BC (before children).

I got married and returned to Cornwall to live (shocking admission) to just within a mile  of where I was conceived.

I’ve had three children. For no better reason than that the first was a ‘shall we see if we can have any children?’ experiment, the second because ‘one child is not acceptable’ (the husband’s words,  since he was an only child) and the third was a simple slip-up kind of ‘accident’. Incidentally, the only mistake I was rather glad I made.

My first has no better label than a “General Global Developmental Delay”. He’d definitely different since he can’t make proper words sounds. It means that conversation is a non-starter.  But he’s also unique, has a slap-stick sense of humour and is utterly wonderful.

My second will give anything a go. Unfortunately he is dyslexic and has the memory of a gnat and so remembers nothing of his experiences. On the other hand,  it’s fortunate.  Remembering neither people’s names or faces or  anything significant means he bears no grudges or holds bad feelings.

My third doesn’t stop talking. His mind is a soup of imagination. I understand very little of what he says but I love hearing the randomness of questions like: “Mummy, what’s your favourite rat-bourne plague?” (!?!)

They will all  (as of September this year) be  in Secondary School forging ahead and leaving me behind stumbling through middle age and menopause with all the accompanying absent-mindedness, hot flushes, grumpiness and reading glasses.

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