I was BANGING ABOUT quite a bit by breakfast time today; the morning had begun cheerfully enough with a spot of housework, inspecting and sniffing clothes left for me on the floor and categorising them as ‘absolutely filthy’ or – the only alternative - ‘clean!’. Clean items were hurled vigorously at the relevant child’s bedroom door in the laughable hope that they’d pick them up and put them away when they came out of hibernation; the absolutely filthy stuff was bundled downstairs with me into the kitchen, where with some dismay I came upon a mixed up mountain of screwed up school uniforms, uneaten packed lunches made by me, revision notes, football boots (uncleaned by busy husband), important letters for parents to read and return the slip two months ago, etc etc - all dropped on the floor to keep me humming. The brain-mangling thought of asking the children to tidy their stuff up, and them replying ‘In a minute!’ for six years made me hang onto the wall for support. No, I’d be Nice Mum - ‘Quicker if I do it!’ - and started putting everything away. But in my experience there is an inverse relationship between shovelling shit and good cheer, so soon I was muttering ‘...I am just a drudge. They are animals!....Jesus!..’ working myself up into a lather as they slept on and on...
So when Bonnie came down for her cornflakes and placed a note regarding Christmas presents under my nose: ‘I want a pet – any pet to call my own’ (a dog – she’s had all the others) the answer was ‘No, definitely no!’ And Alan has provided bullet points: 1. buying Bonnie a dog would be rewarding bad behaviour 2. if you can’t find time to iron a shirt once in a while, how will you walk a dog? (and it will be you y’know!) 3.training a puppy would make raising Bonnie look like a picnic…but Bonnie wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer, so it was mind games (‘if you loved your child…’) and then a little picture to show how she felt - of a sweetie jar, but labelled ‘Mummy Posenings’(sic) carefully placed next to the first note. Nice one.
Never mind – Bonnie and I had plenty of time to sort out our differences for we were going to spend hours and hours and hours together buying her a Christmas present at Build-a-Bear in Covent Garden which if you haven’t been there is a soft toy shop where children ‘make’ (loosely) their own unique mass-produced bear: they stuff a (rather grotesque) empty bear skin, rub its heart against their own to show how much they love it, (gush), rub it on their ears so it listens to their secrets (gushgush), and give it ‘the kiss of life’. ‘I’m sorry’ I interjected at this point ‘is it dying then??’ (sharp look from Bonnie)).
Bonnie named her bear ‘Treasure’ (oh please) amended to ‘Max’ due to me raising my eyes to the ceiling, and then chose Max an extensive range of fashionable outfits and accessories. We queued with the other harassed Mums and Dads preparing to cough up, and the Grannies shakily writing cheques for God knows how much, thinking ‘bless me, that’s three million shillings and 29d – I had to make do with a walnut!’ We were even offered an extra Christmas Build-a-Bear for only £5!! instead of the usual £10 because we’d already proved we were stupid so maybe we‘d go round again and buy some more clothes for that one!
By the time we’d reached the Underground, Bonnie’d had enough of rubbing Max on her heart, ears, and wherever else - indeed she’d had enough of carrying him at all, so it fell to me to lug him and his wardrobe home, despite my bad back acquired in the name of love (and a good bargain) the day before; I’d bought a second-hand table football table for Alfie's Christmas present. ‘No, I don’t need any help getting it in the car!’ I’d trilled, (musn’t be any trouble!) then fought with the thing for half an hour, its rods sliding in and out of my hair and hooking my trouser belt, trying to look as if I was merely interested in all the packing options. Eventually I lay under the thing, raised it up on my back and charged at the open boot of the car with such force I managed to launch myself and the table up and over the middle seats, only casualties a few staples in my thumb, and a bad back.
That’s two presents ticked off already – easy!
Showing posts with label drudgery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drudgery. Show all posts
Friday, 17 December 2010
Friday, 19 November 2010
Oops!
Alan has taken my advice – plan ahead! prioritise! – and wrapped it up in a super little management mantra: ‘Fail to plan - plan to fail!’ (uh huh!), which he recites to me with the zeal of the reformed whenever we run out of milk.
I’ll give you planning, I thought. So today, I decided to print all my ice-cream labels for the Christmas season in advance. But the computer had other ideas: ‘Oops - you don’t appear to be connected!’ it said. I chortled a little to be polite, and my fingers started trembling. By the time I’d exhausted my self-help checklist (switch off switch on/stare at the screen and cry/whack the keyboard hard) it was time to text Alan ‘THREE COMPUTERS NO INTERNET’ (no pleasantries) but he must have had something trivial on like a deadline so it was back to the computer for round two. I was down in one - the computer was now so infected, it was DEAD - my ice-cream labels were probably being virally annihilated right now!!
I hurtled downstairs and threw myself at another computer: ‘Oops – you don’t appear to be connected!’ It was getting funnier all the time. At least this computer was still allowing word processing (for how long ??) so I began making all the labels again, quick, heart thumping, but the lettering came out all grey! DELETE! DELTE!! DELETE!!! ‘GO AWAY YOU GREY STUFF!!’ I shouted. I texted Alan ‘WORDS ALL GREY EMERGENCY!’
Then the doorbell rang and it was the plumber about our stinky loo.
I hoped he hadn’t heard me shouting at the computer and showed him to the offending toilet, at which point we both started breathing through our mouths. Could he find the leak please, said I? His investigations concluded that somebody had had ‘a little accident’ (‘no offence, Madam, do you have sons?’) and urine had collected on the floor around the base of the toilet.…the cure was disinfectant (ie clean it). Feeling like a clot I forced a laugh as I handed over £45, but boy was this plumber thorough! Just to be sure, we were going to do a ‘controlled experiment’ (scientific!) which was to flush flush flush (that was my job!) but not use the loo (finger-wag) and keep an eye out for ‘fresh moisture’. No fresh moisture - no leak! Brilliant! No sooner had he gone than I was wrapped around the toilet, sniff-sniff-sniff, wipe-wipe, flush-flush, noting with mixed feelings that I was better equipped for solving problems involving urine than software.
That was the successful part of the day. Toilet ‘fixed’ (we won’t tell Alan the full story), it was time for self-improvement, a two-part affair: first, try to switch the TV on, second, watch the news. I retrieved handfuls of remotes from their storage locations on the floor and worked through them all press point press point press point (which was cheating) until one of them switched on our snazzy digital flat screen TV, Alan’s pride and joy, which boasts fantastic picture quality and advanced facilities such as moving pictures on the first Wednesday of the month, but otherwise offers a random light show with sporadic commentary, the missing clauses probably nestling in the underworld somewhere with my labels…MY LABELS!!
I swooned to hear the key in the door. Alan had barely got his coat off and I had him by the scruff of the neck, pushed him towards the computer screen and hissed in his ear ‘Look at it! Look at the stupid thing! The writing’s all grey!’ He did a little lateral thinking, and, with infuriating calm, downloaded the evasive ice-cream labels onto a memory stick from the dead computer (‘it was dead, completely dead!’) during some viral remission advertised exclusively to people who already know what they’re doing. He gave me the memory stick. ‘All sorted – and you should have a back up, anyway: fail to plan – plan to fail!’
I’ll give you planning, I thought. So today, I decided to print all my ice-cream labels for the Christmas season in advance. But the computer had other ideas: ‘Oops - you don’t appear to be connected!’ it said. I chortled a little to be polite, and my fingers started trembling. By the time I’d exhausted my self-help checklist (switch off switch on/stare at the screen and cry/whack the keyboard hard) it was time to text Alan ‘THREE COMPUTERS NO INTERNET’ (no pleasantries) but he must have had something trivial on like a deadline so it was back to the computer for round two. I was down in one - the computer was now so infected, it was DEAD - my ice-cream labels were probably being virally annihilated right now!!
I hurtled downstairs and threw myself at another computer: ‘Oops – you don’t appear to be connected!’ It was getting funnier all the time. At least this computer was still allowing word processing (for how long ??) so I began making all the labels again, quick, heart thumping, but the lettering came out all grey! DELETE! DELTE!! DELETE!!! ‘GO AWAY YOU GREY STUFF!!’ I shouted. I texted Alan ‘WORDS ALL GREY EMERGENCY!’
Then the doorbell rang and it was the plumber about our stinky loo.
I hoped he hadn’t heard me shouting at the computer and showed him to the offending toilet, at which point we both started breathing through our mouths. Could he find the leak please, said I? His investigations concluded that somebody had had ‘a little accident’ (‘no offence, Madam, do you have sons?’) and urine had collected on the floor around the base of the toilet.…the cure was disinfectant (ie clean it). Feeling like a clot I forced a laugh as I handed over £45, but boy was this plumber thorough! Just to be sure, we were going to do a ‘controlled experiment’ (scientific!) which was to flush flush flush (that was my job!) but not use the loo (finger-wag) and keep an eye out for ‘fresh moisture’. No fresh moisture - no leak! Brilliant! No sooner had he gone than I was wrapped around the toilet, sniff-sniff-sniff, wipe-wipe, flush-flush, noting with mixed feelings that I was better equipped for solving problems involving urine than software.
That was the successful part of the day. Toilet ‘fixed’ (we won’t tell Alan the full story), it was time for self-improvement, a two-part affair: first, try to switch the TV on, second, watch the news. I retrieved handfuls of remotes from their storage locations on the floor and worked through them all press point press point press point (which was cheating) until one of them switched on our snazzy digital flat screen TV, Alan’s pride and joy, which boasts fantastic picture quality and advanced facilities such as moving pictures on the first Wednesday of the month, but otherwise offers a random light show with sporadic commentary, the missing clauses probably nestling in the underworld somewhere with my labels…MY LABELS!!
I swooned to hear the key in the door. Alan had barely got his coat off and I had him by the scruff of the neck, pushed him towards the computer screen and hissed in his ear ‘Look at it! Look at the stupid thing! The writing’s all grey!’ He did a little lateral thinking, and, with infuriating calm, downloaded the evasive ice-cream labels onto a memory stick from the dead computer (‘it was dead, completely dead!’) during some viral remission advertised exclusively to people who already know what they’re doing. He gave me the memory stick. ‘All sorted – and you should have a back up, anyway: fail to plan – plan to fail!’
Friday, 5 November 2010
Trick or Treat!
Having been tricked into going to the Imperial War Museum right at the beginning of half-term before they’d had a chance to gather their wits and superglue themselves to the TV, the children were no way going anywhere interesting (free) again; they were not legally obliged, or paid, to do so, and there was plenty of sitting to be done! So by the time Halloween arrived at the end of week, the unremitting tedium of tidying up and wiping down after them without going anywhere or doing anything had put me in the most fearful grump.
When Maddy hauled a sack of oranges through the door for carving into ghouls, there being only one rotten pumpkin left in the shops by reason of its vast dimensions and putrid stink (which she bought too, oh good!), I should therefore have encouraged the urge to do something. But the mood I was in, I foresaw mountains of orange gloop topping off my week of slopping out all things uneaten, regurgitated or fallen off a shoe, and, miserable old goat that I am, supplied every kill-joy discouragement I could muster.
The children ignored me (rightly so) and got on with carving the oranges, nominating me – told you! - as orange slush wipe-upper. ‘You should be eating all that lovely orange inside!’ I winged. 'We need to leave room for all the trick or treat sweets later' they said, sensibly, which left me to sloosh down so much orange pulp I was bloated enough to stand in for the mouldy pumpkin. They did have a go at carving the yukky pumpkin as it happens, using pins to hold errant soggy fangs in place (which incidentally put paid to the horrible baked pumpkin I like to unveil around this time of year) and I have to say we had quite a lovely display of Jack O'Lanterns out the front this year, thanks to Maddy.
Bonnie wanted to dress up as a spider, and had the ridiculous notion of buying it, but I reminded her that in this house we were too mean to buy costumes so we made them, and anyway wasn’t it more fun? (clearly, from the stony look on her face) ‘We’ set about creating Incy Wincy with old black tights and tissue paper and she sulked, envisaging the hugely expensive bought spider costume she’d be wearing if she wasn’t so underprivileged.
Josie saved the day, thank goodness, by drawing a fabulous spider’s web all over Bonnie’s face, which moved when she screwed up her nose, and which Alfie thought was ‘sick’ when he returned from the golf course with Alan!!! (it’s a conspiracy now; additional golf slotted in under the heading ‘childcare’). I was so grateful Alan had returned after I’d cleared up for the fiftieth time I told him to get off the bed he was planning to have a rest in, he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying himself for such large chunks of the weekend, and to help by putting the carved oranges and rotten pumpkin out the front with candles inside.
Before you could say ‘Woooooooo’ it was time to step out. A few witchy rags, a wrinkled and craggy face that only forty-five years’ neglect could conjure up, and ‘Abracadabra!’ I was a witch to be reckoned with. Unfortunately, Alfie was more scared of knocking on strangers' doors than the householders were of his age five Devil outfit, so a certain large witch ended up with the starring role, cackling ‘Trick or Treat!’ in his place, which was very grim indeed. We were home again in twenty minutes, where a shiny-eyed Bonnie was flaunting a full bucket of sweets commensurate with a proper evening’s trick or treating, kindly ‘sharing’ the ones she didn’t like with her siblings. ‘Don’t steal any!’ she warned us as she went up to bed, and I nodded and swallowed whole the chocolate toffee already in my mouth.
When Maddy hauled a sack of oranges through the door for carving into ghouls, there being only one rotten pumpkin left in the shops by reason of its vast dimensions and putrid stink (which she bought too, oh good!), I should therefore have encouraged the urge to do something. But the mood I was in, I foresaw mountains of orange gloop topping off my week of slopping out all things uneaten, regurgitated or fallen off a shoe, and, miserable old goat that I am, supplied every kill-joy discouragement I could muster.
The children ignored me (rightly so) and got on with carving the oranges, nominating me – told you! - as orange slush wipe-upper. ‘You should be eating all that lovely orange inside!’ I winged. 'We need to leave room for all the trick or treat sweets later' they said, sensibly, which left me to sloosh down so much orange pulp I was bloated enough to stand in for the mouldy pumpkin. They did have a go at carving the yukky pumpkin as it happens, using pins to hold errant soggy fangs in place (which incidentally put paid to the horrible baked pumpkin I like to unveil around this time of year) and I have to say we had quite a lovely display of Jack O'Lanterns out the front this year, thanks to Maddy.
Bonnie wanted to dress up as a spider, and had the ridiculous notion of buying it, but I reminded her that in this house we were too mean to buy costumes so we made them, and anyway wasn’t it more fun? (clearly, from the stony look on her face) ‘We’ set about creating Incy Wincy with old black tights and tissue paper and she sulked, envisaging the hugely expensive bought spider costume she’d be wearing if she wasn’t so underprivileged.
Josie saved the day, thank goodness, by drawing a fabulous spider’s web all over Bonnie’s face, which moved when she screwed up her nose, and which Alfie thought was ‘sick’ when he returned from the golf course with Alan!!! (it’s a conspiracy now; additional golf slotted in under the heading ‘childcare’). I was so grateful Alan had returned after I’d cleared up for the fiftieth time I told him to get off the bed he was planning to have a rest in, he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying himself for such large chunks of the weekend, and to help by putting the carved oranges and rotten pumpkin out the front with candles inside.
Before you could say ‘Woooooooo’ it was time to step out. A few witchy rags, a wrinkled and craggy face that only forty-five years’ neglect could conjure up, and ‘Abracadabra!’ I was a witch to be reckoned with. Unfortunately, Alfie was more scared of knocking on strangers' doors than the householders were of his age five Devil outfit, so a certain large witch ended up with the starring role, cackling ‘Trick or Treat!’ in his place, which was very grim indeed. We were home again in twenty minutes, where a shiny-eyed Bonnie was flaunting a full bucket of sweets commensurate with a proper evening’s trick or treating, kindly ‘sharing’ the ones she didn’t like with her siblings. ‘Don’t steal any!’ she warned us as she went up to bed, and I nodded and swallowed whole the chocolate toffee already in my mouth.
Friday, 8 October 2010
Very Rewarding!
I’m not quite sure how it happened, but we have taken the plunge and embraced the convivial family evening meal! The full a la carte is back on of course, which means tipping out the fridge and cupboards on to the table and getting stuck in; and for me, it means being butler, chef and general drudge as usual, but also eating and looking as if I’m listening to the conversation as well. But surely the laughs, the debate, the refuelling amongst those you love, will repay the effort ten-fold - this could be very rewarding!
Conversation is tops:
‘Soph, I had a very productive DMT meeting with the LGO sub-committee today – Bonnie, I said I don’t want a ponytail, take the ribbon out!‘
‘Mummy when you make this stuff can you not put all those kinda like green bits in it, then I won’t have to pick them all out-’
‘Maddy, why are you holding your spaghetti up to the light?’
‘I’m checking there’s nothing in it.’
‘Sorry Alan, very productive what?…Alfie! Don’t you dare put your cucumber under the chair – PICK IT UP NOW!’
‘I can’t reach…can you get it?’
‘Bonnie knitting needles don't go in tomatoes!’
‘Plate in the sink please’
‘Oh my God, that’s so unfair! I’m only taking my fork!’
Current affairs thus mulled over, it’s first to the top of the stairs gets to put Alfie and Bonnie to bed (which used to be the short straw) because the other sucker’s got the entire contents of the fridge and cupboard to put back in again, and the whole kitchen to clean up, including fifteen items of crockery and cutlery per child because each food must be served separately so that nothing touches anything else, obviously.
At least I had a stage for my latest dramatic outburst. I spoke my opening lines gulpingly (so’s I could barely swallow my mash):
‘Has anyone noticed that I am very unhappy?
I can’t go on any more,
Asking you to do your jobs,
For you to then ignore’
There followed a moving soliloquy describing the life of Poor, Poor Mum (“Practice! Do your homework! Go to bed! Get up! What’s that doing in the middle of the floor? Brush your teeth, I shouldn't have to tell you! Turn off the telly! Pick it up, who do you think is going to pick it up if you don’t – me!..”). I explained that Poor, Poor Mum kept this jabbering up fourteen hours a day minimum, but that YOU ( and I cast my eye around the table, very effective) just move off out of earshot, rendering Poor, Poor Mum increasingly dispirited and stompy.
I think I pulled it off. At any rate, everyone came in with ‘Sorry, Mummy, sorry, sorry’ and there was alot of patting of my arms, and hand-squeezing, which led to me cancelling the seriously shouty climax I'd planned. A daily checklist of chores was drawn up, which everyone agreed to observe in a responsible and cooperative manner - it's all been very rewarding.
Conversation is tops:
‘Soph, I had a very productive DMT meeting with the LGO sub-committee today – Bonnie, I said I don’t want a ponytail, take the ribbon out!‘
‘Mummy when you make this stuff can you not put all those kinda like green bits in it, then I won’t have to pick them all out-’
‘Maddy, why are you holding your spaghetti up to the light?’
‘I’m checking there’s nothing in it.’
‘Sorry Alan, very productive what?…Alfie! Don’t you dare put your cucumber under the chair – PICK IT UP NOW!’
‘I can’t reach…can you get it?’
‘Bonnie knitting needles don't go in tomatoes!’
‘Plate in the sink please’
‘Oh my God, that’s so unfair! I’m only taking my fork!’
Current affairs thus mulled over, it’s first to the top of the stairs gets to put Alfie and Bonnie to bed (which used to be the short straw) because the other sucker’s got the entire contents of the fridge and cupboard to put back in again, and the whole kitchen to clean up, including fifteen items of crockery and cutlery per child because each food must be served separately so that nothing touches anything else, obviously.
At least I had a stage for my latest dramatic outburst. I spoke my opening lines gulpingly (so’s I could barely swallow my mash):
‘Has anyone noticed that I am very unhappy?
I can’t go on any more,
Asking you to do your jobs,
For you to then ignore’
There followed a moving soliloquy describing the life of Poor, Poor Mum (“Practice! Do your homework! Go to bed! Get up! What’s that doing in the middle of the floor? Brush your teeth, I shouldn't have to tell you! Turn off the telly! Pick it up, who do you think is going to pick it up if you don’t – me!..”). I explained that Poor, Poor Mum kept this jabbering up fourteen hours a day minimum, but that YOU ( and I cast my eye around the table, very effective) just move off out of earshot, rendering Poor, Poor Mum increasingly dispirited and stompy.
I think I pulled it off. At any rate, everyone came in with ‘Sorry, Mummy, sorry, sorry’ and there was alot of patting of my arms, and hand-squeezing, which led to me cancelling the seriously shouty climax I'd planned. A daily checklist of chores was drawn up, which everyone agreed to observe in a responsible and cooperative manner - it's all been very rewarding.
Friday, 11 June 2010
Happy Birthday Darlings
Maddy and Alfie decided on ‘proper’ parties this year ie. get your cheque book out, no pass the parcel. Maddy’s was first, so on Saturday night Alan and I were under lock and key in the kitchen of the local hall with strict instructions to be neither seen nor heard. The children hollered ‘Your Sex is on Fire’ on the other side of the shutter - it was a disco, what do you expect? - but soon Alan’s nosey side got the better of him and dolled up as he was in his best check shirt, extra Tuff Stuff on the remaining strands, he emerged rather brazenly from the kitchen to take his chances on the dance floor, and get a better look at the glamorous girls and idiot boys, returning to me rather surprised that no-one had wanted to talk to him. Well, we had a whole hour to talk to each other in the kitchen, so Alan went for a long walk and I fiddled with my phone until the coast was clear and Maddy let us out to scrape chocolate butter cream off the floor, lug everything home and then be neither seen nor heard there, while she had her sleepover.
Forty-eight packets of Sensations was just enough to give the kids a treat, judging from the crumbs left for me in case I got any funny ideas about sitting down any time this life. At 3.15am in the morning, while the rest of the world thought sleep not a bad idea (including Alan) the girls were bouncing each other on the floor above my head and howling because it was so DAMNED funny that I had to say things to them you only think of when you’re really serious about stopping really serious fun.
Rising refreshed three hours later to start the usual one thousand point turn putting everything back where I put it back the same time the day before, and to prepare for Alfie's party, I realised with horror I’d forgotten his party bags. Goody! A Sunday morning trip to Sports Direct, doubling as quality needling time on the bus for Alfie and Bonnie, since Alan was, with regret, required at the golf course or his name would be mud (I could think of others). I guess it’s best at least one of us keeps their work-life balance in perfect working order.
We returned from our shopping jolly to find the kitchen coated in green pancake mixture. This day was turning into one big laugh! I smiled – those girls have been up to something! I waited for a scene change in the teen flick they were watching in the other room to enquire, begging your pardon ma’am, whether any help was on offer with the green kitchen. ‘I have cleared up’ said Maddy, and silly me, she was right, for there in the sink, was a dirty frying pan! I took up my default position under the kitchen table, starting with syrup-covered lemon pips, moving onwards and upwards, until there was a clear space just big enough to fill with lunch time.
And then it was Alfie's turn - a Circus Skills party with the lovely Nathan, Alan on duty as host ('I think the boys would like a man there' was the best I could come up with). I was at home pretending it took an hour to open the jammie dodgers for the buffet tea that I hoped would encourage mixing if any of Alfie’s guests were shy. I swung wide the door - ‘Hi boys, jackets go-’ - picked myself up off the floor in time to see the last of them catapult into the back garden whereupon an hour of violence and intimidation to man, beast, and tomato plant took place. I ventured out with pizza but gave up after the second football knocked me sideways, and set up a first aid post inside, Alan singing Happy Birthday with me as a duet through the cat flap to anyone who would listen. Happy Birthday one and all
Forty-eight packets of Sensations was just enough to give the kids a treat, judging from the crumbs left for me in case I got any funny ideas about sitting down any time this life. At 3.15am in the morning, while the rest of the world thought sleep not a bad idea (including Alan) the girls were bouncing each other on the floor above my head and howling because it was so DAMNED funny that I had to say things to them you only think of when you’re really serious about stopping really serious fun.
Rising refreshed three hours later to start the usual one thousand point turn putting everything back where I put it back the same time the day before, and to prepare for Alfie's party, I realised with horror I’d forgotten his party bags. Goody! A Sunday morning trip to Sports Direct, doubling as quality needling time on the bus for Alfie and Bonnie, since Alan was, with regret, required at the golf course or his name would be mud (I could think of others). I guess it’s best at least one of us keeps their work-life balance in perfect working order.
We returned from our shopping jolly to find the kitchen coated in green pancake mixture. This day was turning into one big laugh! I smiled – those girls have been up to something! I waited for a scene change in the teen flick they were watching in the other room to enquire, begging your pardon ma’am, whether any help was on offer with the green kitchen. ‘I have cleared up’ said Maddy, and silly me, she was right, for there in the sink, was a dirty frying pan! I took up my default position under the kitchen table, starting with syrup-covered lemon pips, moving onwards and upwards, until there was a clear space just big enough to fill with lunch time.
And then it was Alfie's turn - a Circus Skills party with the lovely Nathan, Alan on duty as host ('I think the boys would like a man there' was the best I could come up with). I was at home pretending it took an hour to open the jammie dodgers for the buffet tea that I hoped would encourage mixing if any of Alfie’s guests were shy. I swung wide the door - ‘Hi boys, jackets go-’ - picked myself up off the floor in time to see the last of them catapult into the back garden whereupon an hour of violence and intimidation to man, beast, and tomato plant took place. I ventured out with pizza but gave up after the second football knocked me sideways, and set up a first aid post inside, Alan singing Happy Birthday with me as a duet through the cat flap to anyone who would listen. Happy Birthday one and all
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Jam Tarts and Sag Aloo
Alone this weekend; Alan's away on a luxury golfing foray! Well, he needs a rest from the stresses and strains of life at the cutting edge of Human Resources. I am not resentful in the least, certainly not. Or noting with interest that it is raining.
I, then, am holding the fort, without car (no problem!) but hopefully with good humour. We got off to a good start after school on Friday. I'd set out an activity for Bonnie and her friends (packet of ready-rolled). There was ground to make up; she'd just had her class assembly (Greeks) and anyone could see that the 'costume' I'd provided her with was a double sheet bound round and round and round her until she resembled an enormous cotton reel. It was so heavy that she had to pin her arms to her sides throughout the performance to keep it from thudding to the floor. She gave the dances her best shot, lifting each arm dead fast - updown! updown!- one at a time, but she couldn't really let rip. When I cast an eye over the bronze chokers, the off-the-shoulder robes and the Cleopatra eye make-up of her mates, I had to admit I could have made more of an effort.
Anyway, I got brownie-points for the ready-rolled; 'Let's make tarts!' I beamed, perfect Mom. It was all going nicely, tart sale set up in the front garden, passers-by running for cover, children shouting 'Tarts for sale! Tarts for sale!', when oops-a-daisy, the whole cake-stand went down with a crash! Bonnie was in floods. I swept up the crushed tarts, blowing off the mud - 'Look!' taking a (gritty) bite, 'they're fine!' but it didn't wash. She was inconsolable.
I'd planned some quality time with Josie too, allowing her an indian takeaway while we watched a film together. But we'd just switched on when she dropped her vegetable curry onto the front room floor-boards (unfilled,until now). I swooped with a baby wipe, 'watch what you're doing, Josie!', pushing more into the cracks, and making her nervy, so then she stood on all the poppodums, which was obviously more than I could bare. 'Sit down and lift up your feet' I snapped. With my nose in the sag-aloo and my head under her legs, I didn't feel like bonding any more. Quality time can be over-rated.
I, then, am holding the fort, without car (no problem!) but hopefully with good humour. We got off to a good start after school on Friday. I'd set out an activity for Bonnie and her friends (packet of ready-rolled). There was ground to make up; she'd just had her class assembly (Greeks) and anyone could see that the 'costume' I'd provided her with was a double sheet bound round and round and round her until she resembled an enormous cotton reel. It was so heavy that she had to pin her arms to her sides throughout the performance to keep it from thudding to the floor. She gave the dances her best shot, lifting each arm dead fast - updown! updown!- one at a time, but she couldn't really let rip. When I cast an eye over the bronze chokers, the off-the-shoulder robes and the Cleopatra eye make-up of her mates, I had to admit I could have made more of an effort.
Anyway, I got brownie-points for the ready-rolled; 'Let's make tarts!' I beamed, perfect Mom. It was all going nicely, tart sale set up in the front garden, passers-by running for cover, children shouting 'Tarts for sale! Tarts for sale!', when oops-a-daisy, the whole cake-stand went down with a crash! Bonnie was in floods. I swept up the crushed tarts, blowing off the mud - 'Look!' taking a (gritty) bite, 'they're fine!' but it didn't wash. She was inconsolable.
I'd planned some quality time with Josie too, allowing her an indian takeaway while we watched a film together. But we'd just switched on when she dropped her vegetable curry onto the front room floor-boards (unfilled,until now). I swooped with a baby wipe, 'watch what you're doing, Josie!', pushing more into the cracks, and making her nervy, so then she stood on all the poppodums, which was obviously more than I could bare. 'Sit down and lift up your feet' I snapped. With my nose in the sag-aloo and my head under her legs, I didn't feel like bonding any more. Quality time can be over-rated.
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