I am not good at comforting an injured child, not good at all. The thud of the banged knee followed by over-long, exaggerated boo-hooing leaves me cold; I’ve done my time staring at little scratches (‘You brave brave girl!’), moaning in sympathy while snatching a look at my ‘to do’ list. It’s OK if there’s some actual blood so I can get a plaster, but otherwise nowadays it’s ‘oh dear’, and I’m changing the subject. The children complain bitterly of course: ‘Mummy comfort me! Don’t just say ‘oh’ and carry on with what you’re doing – don’t you care?’ So I make a joke of the performance expected of me (callously in their view) and thunder across the room, arms outstretched to cuddle and cosset, ‘What happened, darling?’ I groan, seeking out the invisible knock, to shower kisses upon it. Kills me!
Well, we had a real accident at the weekend; my fault, because leaving a thirteen year old and a ten year old home alone with a new Ipad for entertainment was clearly going to end up in Accident and Emergency...If I’d had half an ounce of common sense I would have foreseen that Maddy would promise Alfie a go on the Ipad, but then – haha! - close it down! (‘Daddy said I must’). And it was perfectly obvious that Alfie would wallop Maddy’s head with a pillow,into the edge of the Ipad. But there you are – I just didn’t think it through - too busy swanning around in Crouch End buying a new mop head to think of fitting the children with protective clothing before venturing out for such high jinks.
I also forgot my mobile phone as usual. And since Alan was speeding happily towards the golf course (‘I never get to play’) when the Ipad lid sliced Maddy’s head, it was neighbour Jess who had to deal with the screams, the buckets of blood, and all the panicky life threatening stuff; calling ambulances, doctors and all our friends and relatives (that’s two calls) trying to locate Alan and me, to please get the hell home and act like proper parents.
In the aftermath, my instinct was to be Ogre-Mum: ‘Rrrrrrrrrrr! THIS IS MONSTROUS. IT MUST NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN! GO TO YOUR ROOMS AND STAY THERE TILL NEXT YEAR!’ but Liberal-Mum had the right to be heard too, and she understood that it was natural for children to vent their anger, and be foul to each other, even if they ended up dead: ‘Hey guys, you and your arguments, you kill me - and you nearly killed each other! boom! boom! Next time sit down and talk it through, OK? Cool’.
‘We should learn from this’ I began ponderously. ‘What should we learn? That you are animals. That sixteen years of ‘Careful – that is dangerous/ Say sorry/ Be kind/ Think about other people’s feelings/ Use words not fists, has come to a great big NICHTS. I’m taking the dog for a walk’.
Friday, 27 May 2011
Friday, 20 May 2011
Poof!
I have not had a good weekend with technology. First, the blogspot, so gaily named, had it in for me. It has been unhelpful for some time, refusing to accept corrections to my blog, so every time I make a tiny mistake I have to start all over again from the beginning. This is quite annoying not least because your average dimwit would sit down and work out what was wrong but no, I have to put up with it for weeks and weeks because I AM TOO ANGRY TO TRY AND FIX IT BECAUSE I KNOW I WON’T BE ABLE TO AND THAT WILL MAKE ME MORE ANGRY. I hate computers.
This weekend Mr Blogspot Esq would not save my blog at all, so being a patient philosophical kind of guy I carried out the remedial action required which was to press all the same buttons millions of times accompanied each time with fouler and fouler expletives, ultimately concluding ‘right that’s it I won’t do the sodding blog any more’. Of course, there was a simple explanation: I’d forgotten to post the blog on a day with ‘u’ in it, so the next day it worked - I’ll know for next time.
None of this was helped by Josie slopping lemonade over the keyboard so the keys stuck down and had to be yanked up as soon as they were pressed, otherwise your script would look like tttttttthhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssss. ‘I cleaned it all up’ she said ‘but I need to focus on my revision now’. The only method that really shifted the lemonade was licking the keyboard then sucking hard – remember the tip!
And the mouse was on a go slow. So I’m sat there going click, click, CLICK DAMN YOU but nothing happens because the mouse is still hovering over the icon you aimed it at half an hour ago. I’m swishing to the right, swishing to the left, shaking it all about, tap tap, and then smashing it on the table with a force not suitable for delicate electronic instruments. How was I to know Alan would tiptoe into the room? ‘Banging it on the table isn’t going to help’ he said, flinching, but he agreed to take a look (not straight away – after he’d got dressed, and read a bit on the toilet). ‘There’s often a simple solution to these problems’ he said, after examination, holding the mouse up (‘Exhibit A’) and looking at me as he said ‘simple.’ ‘There is a speck of dust in the hole on the underside of the mouse (pointing to the hole ‘Dust in the hole’ I repeated after him). ‘It just needs a quick blow – poof!’ he said, blowing it so I knew what he meant, ‘and it’s right as rain!’ He straightened his tie and smiled at himself in the mirror (one helluvaguy) and marched off to work, leaving me and the kids blowing – Poof! Poof! Poof! – at the hole on the underside of the mouse, which had stopped working again.
At least we’ve said goodbye and good riddance to our craptop whose mischievous side drove us all nuts closing down randomly mid-Tesco shop, but refusing to close down when actually instructed, unless we pulled the plug out the socket and waited for two days. Monitoring the use of just the remaining computer has been a piece of cake, but it was too good to last; there was a knock at the door this week and a snazzy new laptop joined the family! According to Alan Grant we need it to reduce pressure on computer 1, so he can do his work emails (check the football scores on the hour) and I can get busy after school swatting children off two computers, wading through thickets of lies, deciphering who really does need the computer for homework, who is entitled to use it for relaxation because they worked so hard all day they’ve completely forgotten what lessons they had, and who is entitled because I promised them they could for eating a small lettuce leaf. Great!
This weekend Mr Blogspot Esq would not save my blog at all, so being a patient philosophical kind of guy I carried out the remedial action required which was to press all the same buttons millions of times accompanied each time with fouler and fouler expletives, ultimately concluding ‘right that’s it I won’t do the sodding blog any more’. Of course, there was a simple explanation: I’d forgotten to post the blog on a day with ‘u’ in it, so the next day it worked - I’ll know for next time.
None of this was helped by Josie slopping lemonade over the keyboard so the keys stuck down and had to be yanked up as soon as they were pressed, otherwise your script would look like tttttttthhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiissssssssssss. ‘I cleaned it all up’ she said ‘but I need to focus on my revision now’. The only method that really shifted the lemonade was licking the keyboard then sucking hard – remember the tip!
And the mouse was on a go slow. So I’m sat there going click, click, CLICK DAMN YOU but nothing happens because the mouse is still hovering over the icon you aimed it at half an hour ago. I’m swishing to the right, swishing to the left, shaking it all about, tap tap, and then smashing it on the table with a force not suitable for delicate electronic instruments. How was I to know Alan would tiptoe into the room? ‘Banging it on the table isn’t going to help’ he said, flinching, but he agreed to take a look (not straight away – after he’d got dressed, and read a bit on the toilet). ‘There’s often a simple solution to these problems’ he said, after examination, holding the mouse up (‘Exhibit A’) and looking at me as he said ‘simple.’ ‘There is a speck of dust in the hole on the underside of the mouse (pointing to the hole ‘Dust in the hole’ I repeated after him). ‘It just needs a quick blow – poof!’ he said, blowing it so I knew what he meant, ‘and it’s right as rain!’ He straightened his tie and smiled at himself in the mirror (one helluvaguy) and marched off to work, leaving me and the kids blowing – Poof! Poof! Poof! – at the hole on the underside of the mouse, which had stopped working again.
At least we’ve said goodbye and good riddance to our craptop whose mischievous side drove us all nuts closing down randomly mid-Tesco shop, but refusing to close down when actually instructed, unless we pulled the plug out the socket and waited for two days. Monitoring the use of just the remaining computer has been a piece of cake, but it was too good to last; there was a knock at the door this week and a snazzy new laptop joined the family! According to Alan Grant we need it to reduce pressure on computer 1, so he can do his work emails (check the football scores on the hour) and I can get busy after school swatting children off two computers, wading through thickets of lies, deciphering who really does need the computer for homework, who is entitled to use it for relaxation because they worked so hard all day they’ve completely forgotten what lessons they had, and who is entitled because I promised them they could for eating a small lettuce leaf. Great!
Friday, 13 May 2011
Yellow Bananas
A blood-curdling scream. ‘AAAAAH!! ‘SHE BIT ME! MUMMY WHERE ARE YOU?!’ I thanked the Lord I was at the top of the house so I could say I hadn’t heard, and shut the door quietly. I was supposed to be shuffling debris around in Josie’s room, but was mid-reverie, re-playing a scene from that morning when I’d tripped backwards over a paint-water pot on her carpet and landed on her waste paper basket, squashing it flat. (The table that I bragged about fitting into her bedroom last week is now buried so she’s painting on the carpet again). Anyway, while I was blustering about the paint-pot, she had wagged a finger and smiled knowingly: ‘You’re a real visual learner Mummy,’ she said. ‘That’s why you want everything in exactly the right place!’ Like I was a real weirdo or something.
The door swung open. ‘MUMMY, MADDY BIT ME! DON’T YOU CARE?’ Damn, the game was up. ‘What did you say, Bonnie? She bit you? That’s terrible! Why?’ (There could be a good reason). ‘Because I said I would tell you she was drinking coke unless she gave me some’. Now I was interested - drinking flat coke with breakfast whilst lying on the sofa watching crap TV breached my relax-it's-the-Easter-holidays boundaries and warranted a rant, whereas biting Bonnie I could understand...
I stormed down to deliver the rant: ‘Coke at this time of day, Maddy? That is revolting!’ ‘It’s only a bit of Coke, no big deal’ she replied, bolting the rest. ‘Have a fruit if you want something sweet!’ I whined, bored to death. ‘You just think I’m fat’ said she, to throw me off balance. ‘No I do not!’ I screeched, overreacting ‘I’m thinking of your health...why don’t you have a lovely banana?!!’ ‘I only like yellow bananas’ she said, ‘yours are always rotten’. I decided not to say again that markings on bananas mean they are RIPE, and later in the day I purchased yellow bananas for her to not eat, carefully placing them in a controlled and cushioned environment offering uniform humidity, temperature and light.
I devised breakfast the next day in the Scandinavian tradition, casually laying the still yellow bananas on the breakfast table. ‘Would you like yoghurt today?’ I yodelled. ‘Or some yellow banana sliced over your Special Flakes – like the picture on the cereal packet!?’ I grasped a banana and a knife, and noticed I was kind of shrieking. ‘Ugh, no way’ she said. ‘But there are raspberries in the picture too - have you got any raspberries?’ (like I kept raspberries in my pocket) ‘No, I have not. I have got bananas’. Don’t get cross.
Maddy’s lunch box was enormous, because although I made the sandwich miniscule in order to starve her into eating her banana, I had to wrap the banana in layers and layers of paper towel and float it in its own special box in case of bruising. We’ve done banana cases - too embarrassing.
‘Did you eat your banana?’ I said, when she returned from school. ‘I’m not sure’ she said, and I knew what that meant. ‘I wasn’t hungry..’ she said, a crisp packet falling out of her pocket.
Time was running out; there were very faint black dots appearing on the bananas. We had tea. ‘Nice banana for pud?’ I was jolly. ‘I’m quite full actually’ she said. ‘Just have a half - ’ I said, ‘ - go on - I’ll slice it up!’ as if this would transform it into a Magnum. ‘Maybe later’, said Maddy, half out the door.
Then I lost it. ‘COME BACK HERE AND EAT A FRIGGIN’ BANANA FOR CHRIST’S SAKE’. ‘It’s got black spots’ she muttered. ‘It’s rotten.’ ‘IT IS NOT’. I grabbed a banana and peeled it under her nose to illustrate. I took an angry bite. ‘There! Delicious! Perfect ripe banana! Someone has grown this lovely banana’ (talking with my mouth full) ‘picked it, put it in a lorry, driven it to a ship, across the world, to London, then I (poor me, poor me) have slogged over to Woodgreen at your request...’ She paused and watched me in my madness. ‘So bananas have a high carbon footprint and are bad for the environment. Raspberries are grown in this country. Why don’t you get them instead next time?’
The door swung open. ‘MUMMY, MADDY BIT ME! DON’T YOU CARE?’ Damn, the game was up. ‘What did you say, Bonnie? She bit you? That’s terrible! Why?’ (There could be a good reason). ‘Because I said I would tell you she was drinking coke unless she gave me some’. Now I was interested - drinking flat coke with breakfast whilst lying on the sofa watching crap TV breached my relax-it's-the-Easter-holidays boundaries and warranted a rant, whereas biting Bonnie I could understand...
I stormed down to deliver the rant: ‘Coke at this time of day, Maddy? That is revolting!’ ‘It’s only a bit of Coke, no big deal’ she replied, bolting the rest. ‘Have a fruit if you want something sweet!’ I whined, bored to death. ‘You just think I’m fat’ said she, to throw me off balance. ‘No I do not!’ I screeched, overreacting ‘I’m thinking of your health...why don’t you have a lovely banana?!!’ ‘I only like yellow bananas’ she said, ‘yours are always rotten’. I decided not to say again that markings on bananas mean they are RIPE, and later in the day I purchased yellow bananas for her to not eat, carefully placing them in a controlled and cushioned environment offering uniform humidity, temperature and light.
I devised breakfast the next day in the Scandinavian tradition, casually laying the still yellow bananas on the breakfast table. ‘Would you like yoghurt today?’ I yodelled. ‘Or some yellow banana sliced over your Special Flakes – like the picture on the cereal packet!?’ I grasped a banana and a knife, and noticed I was kind of shrieking. ‘Ugh, no way’ she said. ‘But there are raspberries in the picture too - have you got any raspberries?’ (like I kept raspberries in my pocket) ‘No, I have not. I have got bananas’. Don’t get cross.
Maddy’s lunch box was enormous, because although I made the sandwich miniscule in order to starve her into eating her banana, I had to wrap the banana in layers and layers of paper towel and float it in its own special box in case of bruising. We’ve done banana cases - too embarrassing.
‘Did you eat your banana?’ I said, when she returned from school. ‘I’m not sure’ she said, and I knew what that meant. ‘I wasn’t hungry..’ she said, a crisp packet falling out of her pocket.
Time was running out; there were very faint black dots appearing on the bananas. We had tea. ‘Nice banana for pud?’ I was jolly. ‘I’m quite full actually’ she said. ‘Just have a half - ’ I said, ‘ - go on - I’ll slice it up!’ as if this would transform it into a Magnum. ‘Maybe later’, said Maddy, half out the door.
Then I lost it. ‘COME BACK HERE AND EAT A FRIGGIN’ BANANA FOR CHRIST’S SAKE’. ‘It’s got black spots’ she muttered. ‘It’s rotten.’ ‘IT IS NOT’. I grabbed a banana and peeled it under her nose to illustrate. I took an angry bite. ‘There! Delicious! Perfect ripe banana! Someone has grown this lovely banana’ (talking with my mouth full) ‘picked it, put it in a lorry, driven it to a ship, across the world, to London, then I (poor me, poor me) have slogged over to Woodgreen at your request...’ She paused and watched me in my madness. ‘So bananas have a high carbon footprint and are bad for the environment. Raspberries are grown in this country. Why don’t you get them instead next time?’
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Art
‘Mummy! I’ve done loads of development work but no refining!!’ It was Josie. It was the Art. I clapped my hand to my mouth and did my I’M SHOCKED! look, though I had no idea whether this was brilliant or terrible news. ‘Cup of tea?’ usually covers it. ‘I can’t eat, I can’t drink’ she panted, ‘I have too much work to do. I am in crisis.’
She is doing a PhD in Art – cunningly described as a GCSE - entailing about six hours of work daily, responding to this, developing that, describing the journey ya? from eye-balls to ice-cubes, dunes to decomposing apples, culminating in – tada! – the Final Piece, all for one measly GCSE. I am not thinking about what is expected in the A Level - the Podium in Trafalgar Square?
First it was the working space; her tiny bedroom was rearranged and a space for a large table magically tessellated (by me), only downside being you now have to take a running leap over the table to reach the wardrobe. This was cutting off my nose to spite my face since I’m the one who picks the clothes off the floor and puts them back in the wardrobe, which I think I’ve probably winged about before. The arrangement is doing wonders for my high-jump.
Next, my purse and I were invited to Cass Art in Islington for materials – parking impossible of course, so it was queuing in Sainsbury’s on a Saturday afternoon (clever) in order to spend ten quid for ‘free’ parking, thus missing home delivery of the Tesco shopping I did want...but at least the materials for the Final Piece only came to £60, including a canvas for Bonnie (‘I’ve always wanted a canvas - how come Josie gets all the cool stuff?’) on which she has painted one eye, then left as a catch-all on the kitchen table with the general debris.
Josie’s Final Piece was an extravaganza of silhouettes, windows, styles from different decades…the theme was similarities and differences (you knew that) and the whole thing – why not? – was to be lit up from behind. I knew she’d request my technical assistance with the illuminations, it being a bit hot and tiresome lugging florescent tubes home from Homebase, but I was pleased to help, though I would have been more so if it had not been 8pm the night before show time. But when I staggered in with the pile of wood, florescent lights and screws (£50) I did have a sense of satisfaction; ‘Good old Mum saves the day again!’
...which lasted for two minutes, for when we opened the lights we realised that florescent lights need to be screwed to a ceiling and connected to an electric circuit in order to produce light – sticking them onto the frame and crossing your fingers like a dummy wasn’t going to do it. ‘You want to use push-on LED lights’ said Alan, from behind the paper. ‘They’ll be much better for the job and you can get them anywhere!’ ‘Thank you so much for your timely contribution’ I said, thwacking him over the head with a four foot florescent. I did some shouting at Josie too about everything always being at the last b----y minute which may have ruined all my good work with the cups of tea, but made me feel a lot better about rearranging the next day, to fly around north London sourcing push-on lights (‘get them anywhere’ my foot) as she sat her exam, and delivering them to her at school asap, Sa!
She is doing a PhD in Art – cunningly described as a GCSE - entailing about six hours of work daily, responding to this, developing that, describing the journey ya? from eye-balls to ice-cubes, dunes to decomposing apples, culminating in – tada! – the Final Piece, all for one measly GCSE. I am not thinking about what is expected in the A Level - the Podium in Trafalgar Square?
First it was the working space; her tiny bedroom was rearranged and a space for a large table magically tessellated (by me), only downside being you now have to take a running leap over the table to reach the wardrobe. This was cutting off my nose to spite my face since I’m the one who picks the clothes off the floor and puts them back in the wardrobe, which I think I’ve probably winged about before. The arrangement is doing wonders for my high-jump.
Next, my purse and I were invited to Cass Art in Islington for materials – parking impossible of course, so it was queuing in Sainsbury’s on a Saturday afternoon (clever) in order to spend ten quid for ‘free’ parking, thus missing home delivery of the Tesco shopping I did want...but at least the materials for the Final Piece only came to £60, including a canvas for Bonnie (‘I’ve always wanted a canvas - how come Josie gets all the cool stuff?’) on which she has painted one eye, then left as a catch-all on the kitchen table with the general debris.
Josie’s Final Piece was an extravaganza of silhouettes, windows, styles from different decades…the theme was similarities and differences (you knew that) and the whole thing – why not? – was to be lit up from behind. I knew she’d request my technical assistance with the illuminations, it being a bit hot and tiresome lugging florescent tubes home from Homebase, but I was pleased to help, though I would have been more so if it had not been 8pm the night before show time. But when I staggered in with the pile of wood, florescent lights and screws (£50) I did have a sense of satisfaction; ‘Good old Mum saves the day again!’
...which lasted for two minutes, for when we opened the lights we realised that florescent lights need to be screwed to a ceiling and connected to an electric circuit in order to produce light – sticking them onto the frame and crossing your fingers like a dummy wasn’t going to do it. ‘You want to use push-on LED lights’ said Alan, from behind the paper. ‘They’ll be much better for the job and you can get them anywhere!’ ‘Thank you so much for your timely contribution’ I said, thwacking him over the head with a four foot florescent. I did some shouting at Josie too about everything always being at the last b----y minute which may have ruined all my good work with the cups of tea, but made me feel a lot better about rearranging the next day, to fly around north London sourcing push-on lights (‘get them anywhere’ my foot) as she sat her exam, and delivering them to her at school asap, Sa!
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Captain Eggpants
The school’s Easter Egg Competition is a creative, fun and frantic affair where children decorate a single egg or a whole scene of eggs (that’s the keen guys, who also sit on the top table for Maths and English, and who bring things in to show every day). The children may be helped, controversially, by their parents, causing much bitching amongst the parents who insist their kids muck it up all on their own: ‘I can’t believe an eight-year-old made that solar-powered spaceship from three thousand blown eggs’. Amusing titles are de rigeur – for instance ‘Eggs Factor’ (I’m already laughing) or ‘The Olympegs’ (catch yourself!)
I hoped to be retelling the ups and downs of supporting a wilful nine year old’s emerging creativity in the eggy line, perhaps a collaboration with friends encompassing both teamwork and imagination! However Bonnie took her usual ‘I decide what I do and when’ stance to murderous degrees, and wasn’t going to be bamboozled into some silly egg painting a couple of days early, when there would doubtless be a perfectly serviceable slave on hand with nothing better to do than run around boiling eggs, super-cooling them and leaping about fetching materials at 8pm the night before show-time. This timeline allowed her to focus on the more important matter of her school disco outfit for later in the week, in case she were scouted for a touch of modelling somewhere between our house and the disco.
I screeched on regardless. ‘How about ‘Dog Eggspert!!’ HA HA!’ - as she rumbled through the clothes she already knew she had. ‘Mummy my new pants will match the dress but I have no jacket to go on top at all’. ‘Bonnie you are nine years old. You should be playing in the park, having fun – making your egg entry - not trying to look like a supermodel!’ (old bag) ‘Oh stop going on about the egg competition, Mummy!’ said she. ‘I’m doing Captain Eggpants OK?!’ I squirmed at the lack of pun. Captain Eggpants?? My idea was so funny and brilliant...
I went off disconsolately to boil a single egg which she grabbed (without admiring my boiling skill - no cracks) and started sploshing paint onto while it was still steaming hot. ‘WAIT!’ I shrieked. ‘Use a pencil to draw your design first.’ ‘Mum, mum, MUM!’ she whined ‘I can’t draw the waistline on it. You do it.’ But I was feeling bloody-minded (no praise for the tenderly boiled egg). ‘Yes, you can’ I said, ‘Just put a little dot half way up the egg, like this, then turn it-’ ‘I CAN’T DO IT – YOU DO IT’ she shouted, ‘OR DO YOU WANT IT TO BE RUBBISH?’ She slapped the paint on and tossed the egg at me to hold for an hour while it dried so she could look through her nail varnishes. I put the egg down (reasonably) carefully but somehow it ended up in the dog’s mouth and the paint was licked off. Suddenly the egg was the most precious thing Bonnie’d ever made and there was howling. I fixed it up ‘Good as new!’ but then it was knocked off the table and smashed up for good. ‘I’ll just boil another - you can make it even neater this time!’ I sing-songed, as if it were a marvellous stroke of luck that Captain Eggpants had been sucked by the dog then dashed on the floor.
It being past nine by now, I felt Captain Eggpants’ could go without his signature red cloak but obviously it was a waste of time voicing this opinion. ‘This is exactly why I asked you to start two days ago’ I muttered. ‘You’re the one who’s entering this egg competition and here’s me at midnight charging around...’ ‘You’re the one who wants me to enter!’ she said, which shut me up. I stuck the red cloak and my finger onto the egg with superglue, but Bonnie disagreed with the positioning and in trying to slide the stuck-on cloak down the egg, my thumb ended up up Captain Eggpant’s bum with a nail full of boiled egg and no ideas how to make this seem fine. I quickly hid his bottom in an egg-cup. ‘How about I do your nails now, sweetie?’
I hoped to be retelling the ups and downs of supporting a wilful nine year old’s emerging creativity in the eggy line, perhaps a collaboration with friends encompassing both teamwork and imagination! However Bonnie took her usual ‘I decide what I do and when’ stance to murderous degrees, and wasn’t going to be bamboozled into some silly egg painting a couple of days early, when there would doubtless be a perfectly serviceable slave on hand with nothing better to do than run around boiling eggs, super-cooling them and leaping about fetching materials at 8pm the night before show-time. This timeline allowed her to focus on the more important matter of her school disco outfit for later in the week, in case she were scouted for a touch of modelling somewhere between our house and the disco.
I screeched on regardless. ‘How about ‘Dog Eggspert!!’ HA HA!’ - as she rumbled through the clothes she already knew she had. ‘Mummy my new pants will match the dress but I have no jacket to go on top at all’. ‘Bonnie you are nine years old. You should be playing in the park, having fun – making your egg entry - not trying to look like a supermodel!’ (old bag) ‘Oh stop going on about the egg competition, Mummy!’ said she. ‘I’m doing Captain Eggpants OK?!’ I squirmed at the lack of pun. Captain Eggpants?? My idea was so funny and brilliant...
I went off disconsolately to boil a single egg which she grabbed (without admiring my boiling skill - no cracks) and started sploshing paint onto while it was still steaming hot. ‘WAIT!’ I shrieked. ‘Use a pencil to draw your design first.’ ‘Mum, mum, MUM!’ she whined ‘I can’t draw the waistline on it. You do it.’ But I was feeling bloody-minded (no praise for the tenderly boiled egg). ‘Yes, you can’ I said, ‘Just put a little dot half way up the egg, like this, then turn it-’ ‘I CAN’T DO IT – YOU DO IT’ she shouted, ‘OR DO YOU WANT IT TO BE RUBBISH?’ She slapped the paint on and tossed the egg at me to hold for an hour while it dried so she could look through her nail varnishes. I put the egg down (reasonably) carefully but somehow it ended up in the dog’s mouth and the paint was licked off. Suddenly the egg was the most precious thing Bonnie’d ever made and there was howling. I fixed it up ‘Good as new!’ but then it was knocked off the table and smashed up for good. ‘I’ll just boil another - you can make it even neater this time!’ I sing-songed, as if it were a marvellous stroke of luck that Captain Eggpants had been sucked by the dog then dashed on the floor.
It being past nine by now, I felt Captain Eggpants’ could go without his signature red cloak but obviously it was a waste of time voicing this opinion. ‘This is exactly why I asked you to start two days ago’ I muttered. ‘You’re the one who’s entering this egg competition and here’s me at midnight charging around...’ ‘You’re the one who wants me to enter!’ she said, which shut me up. I stuck the red cloak and my finger onto the egg with superglue, but Bonnie disagreed with the positioning and in trying to slide the stuck-on cloak down the egg, my thumb ended up up Captain Eggpant’s bum with a nail full of boiled egg and no ideas how to make this seem fine. I quickly hid his bottom in an egg-cup. ‘How about I do your nails now, sweetie?’
Friday, 15 April 2011
They might think we're POOR!
The Easter holidays have arrived, and it’s time to decide whether I can hack having the children at home squabbling over Archie for free, or whether I should book them onto some self-improving activities that they don’t want to do (it’ll be fun!) when they could be lying in bed, playing computer games and lying about how they were doing their homework, actually.
A friend asked if Bonnie was interested in a four day high quality orchestral course – ‘Uh no!’ she said after a second’s reflection. But I felt she’d enjoy it once she got there, until I checked the website and at £135 decided that actually, free time was what she really craved. ‘I’ve just texted back that’s it’s too expensive’ I said to Bonnie. ‘Mummy!’ she said, alarmed, ‘they might think we’re POOR!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, ‘What if they did think we were poor? You don’t judge people by how rich they are! Wouldn’t you be relieved if one of your friends said that they couldn’t afford something? There are children in the world who don’t even have enough to eat!!’ I was off.
They’d switched off, but I hadn’t. ‘You have no idea what poor means; we are very lucky we can go on holiday each year – to Wales or somewhere else nice!’
‘Big deal – everyone else goes to America or somewhere’
‘Well we choose to spend our money on different things.’
‘What do ‘we’ choose to spend our money on? I never get anything.’
‘Children’ I intoned, ‘this life of ours doesn’t pay for itself – there are bills to pay, food to buy...the car needs fixing...and we spend money on making your lives rich in experiences and the learning of skills.’ Unless it’s too expensive.
‘Why don’t we ever go out for meals, mummy?’
‘...You will look back and remember learning ballet with your friends, excitedly preparing for the Christmas show.....You will always remember the concerts you took part in...’
‘I want to go to Disneyland – everyone’s been there’
‘You will remember the holidays you had walking in the countryside with your family – that’s much better than buying a new top from Primark every week – isn’t it?!’
They looked at me as if I was completely mental.
‘How come you can afford to spend thousands of pounds on Daddy’s new teeth??’ ‘Well...everyone has their vanities’
‘How come you spend loads of money on Daddy’s golf membership’
‘Er...Daddy works very hard to pay for this nice house and for all the nice things we do, so he is allowed to play golf and enjoy himself too!’ It made me sick to say it.
‘I’m going to buy a laptop with my own money,’ said Maddy. ‘I need it for my homework’ ‘Very funny’ I said, ‘You’d be watching junk all day. I do not give you permission’. ‘It’s up to Daddy – he earns nearly all the money and he said maybe.’ Splutter.
Alfie gave up and went back to surfing the internet for £200 mobile phones to play games on, which he is under the delusion he will get when he goes to secondary school, despite being too scared to phone anyone (‘someone might answer’) and too confused to text, although the keyboard going this way instead of that way is crucial. ‘Alfie, I’ll get you a basic phone and if you use it properly, we’ll see about getting you a posher one.’ But the way he looked at me, I could see his social cudos would be in tatters. It’s complicated.
A friend asked if Bonnie was interested in a four day high quality orchestral course – ‘Uh no!’ she said after a second’s reflection. But I felt she’d enjoy it once she got there, until I checked the website and at £135 decided that actually, free time was what she really craved. ‘I’ve just texted back that’s it’s too expensive’ I said to Bonnie. ‘Mummy!’ she said, alarmed, ‘they might think we’re POOR!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, ‘What if they did think we were poor? You don’t judge people by how rich they are! Wouldn’t you be relieved if one of your friends said that they couldn’t afford something? There are children in the world who don’t even have enough to eat!!’ I was off.
They’d switched off, but I hadn’t. ‘You have no idea what poor means; we are very lucky we can go on holiday each year – to Wales or somewhere else nice!’
‘Big deal – everyone else goes to America or somewhere’
‘Well we choose to spend our money on different things.’
‘What do ‘we’ choose to spend our money on? I never get anything.’
‘Children’ I intoned, ‘this life of ours doesn’t pay for itself – there are bills to pay, food to buy...the car needs fixing...and we spend money on making your lives rich in experiences and the learning of skills.’ Unless it’s too expensive.
‘Why don’t we ever go out for meals, mummy?’
‘...You will look back and remember learning ballet with your friends, excitedly preparing for the Christmas show.....You will always remember the concerts you took part in...’
‘I want to go to Disneyland – everyone’s been there’
‘You will remember the holidays you had walking in the countryside with your family – that’s much better than buying a new top from Primark every week – isn’t it?!’
They looked at me as if I was completely mental.
‘How come you can afford to spend thousands of pounds on Daddy’s new teeth??’ ‘Well...everyone has their vanities’
‘How come you spend loads of money on Daddy’s golf membership’
‘Er...Daddy works very hard to pay for this nice house and for all the nice things we do, so he is allowed to play golf and enjoy himself too!’ It made me sick to say it.
‘I’m going to buy a laptop with my own money,’ said Maddy. ‘I need it for my homework’ ‘Very funny’ I said, ‘You’d be watching junk all day. I do not give you permission’. ‘It’s up to Daddy – he earns nearly all the money and he said maybe.’ Splutter.
Alfie gave up and went back to surfing the internet for £200 mobile phones to play games on, which he is under the delusion he will get when he goes to secondary school, despite being too scared to phone anyone (‘someone might answer’) and too confused to text, although the keyboard going this way instead of that way is crucial. ‘Alfie, I’ll get you a basic phone and if you use it properly, we’ll see about getting you a posher one.’ But the way he looked at me, I could see his social cudos would be in tatters. It’s complicated.
Saturday, 9 April 2011
First Strike
Bonnie had her violin exam on Monday so the preceding weekend was always going to be especially joyful. ‘Bonnie’ I said, ‘as your actual exam is on Monday morning, you will have to practice on Saturday and Sunday.’ ‘OH MY GOD’ she said ‘YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS YOU PROMISED I NEVER HAVE TO PRACTICE AT THE WEEKEND YOU TRICKED ME!’ and she fell face down on her bed, marking the end of the conversation.
We had a nice chat about it, ‘it’s for your benefit’ and ‘hate’ figuring heavily in the conversation, and after I’d emptied my soul onto her lap, she mentioned casually that she’d lost her exam music anyway. ‘What do you mean?’ I spluttered. ‘Haven’t you been playing your pieces all week?’ ‘YES!’ she said, looking shifty. After all, if you dispensed with the music, you didn’t have to do all those annoying bowing and dynamic instructions, and you could make up your own notes.
Alan was pretty busy wistfully re-filing his photo collection from before he met me, but no exam music was a calamity, so I sent him off to my sister’s for a copy, as her daughter was taking the same exam (but had miraculously not lost her music). It seemed a waste of potential free time for me to send Alan alone, so I told him to take the dog and Bonnie - ‘they’ll enjoy it!’ (I will) - forgetting that the dog doesn’t walk, he only slides, so Alan had to carry him and that did his dratted back in. He had, regretfully, to spend the rest of the weekend in bed with the newspaper, apart from a drink with his mates in the late afternoon because pain is worse if you are lonely, much better if you can get out to the pub ‘just for a quick one’.
Upshot was my weekend was spent being passive-aggressively ‘good’ about the bad back (‘You need to rest, it’s completely fine, I’ll do EVERYTHING’) and helping everyone do their homework while they shouted at me (‘how should I know what a verb is?’ ‘I can do my homework wrong if I want to!’), kicking people out of bed, into bed, off screens, cajoling Bonnie into practicing by threatening her with no food or oxygen, and trying to spend quality time with each child while the rest tapped me on the shoulder and fought with each other.
By Sunday night I’d had enough. ‘Who’s going to pick that toilet paper off the floor? WHO?? ME! You treat me like a skivvy’ bla bla bla, usual lack of self-control leading to troubling thoughts about suitability for motherhood. When I rose on Monday morning, nicely knackered from my weekend, instead of providing a calm and positive atmosphere for Bonnie’s debut in the examination room, the time seemed ripe for Spring Heating Wars (Round One) to commence.
Don’t get me wrong, I had not planned the first strike; despite the mild weather I obediently whacked the heating on at 6am in order that Alan would not get narky and could roast in bed while I sweated through my chores downstairs. But when I went up with room service (cup of tea) and discovered that he was up but still hadn’t switched the heating off, (the switch is in our bedroom) I burst out ‘IT’S BOILING IN THIS HOUSE – WHY HAVEN’T YOU SWITCHED THE HEATING OFF YET?’ ‘I’m not up,’ said he (which was surprising as he was vertical, washed and primped) ‘and don’t shout at me first thing in the morning!’
Round one to him (moral victory) – but he did turn the heating off the next morning.
We had a nice chat about it, ‘it’s for your benefit’ and ‘hate’ figuring heavily in the conversation, and after I’d emptied my soul onto her lap, she mentioned casually that she’d lost her exam music anyway. ‘What do you mean?’ I spluttered. ‘Haven’t you been playing your pieces all week?’ ‘YES!’ she said, looking shifty. After all, if you dispensed with the music, you didn’t have to do all those annoying bowing and dynamic instructions, and you could make up your own notes.
Alan was pretty busy wistfully re-filing his photo collection from before he met me, but no exam music was a calamity, so I sent him off to my sister’s for a copy, as her daughter was taking the same exam (but had miraculously not lost her music). It seemed a waste of potential free time for me to send Alan alone, so I told him to take the dog and Bonnie - ‘they’ll enjoy it!’ (I will) - forgetting that the dog doesn’t walk, he only slides, so Alan had to carry him and that did his dratted back in. He had, regretfully, to spend the rest of the weekend in bed with the newspaper, apart from a drink with his mates in the late afternoon because pain is worse if you are lonely, much better if you can get out to the pub ‘just for a quick one’.
Upshot was my weekend was spent being passive-aggressively ‘good’ about the bad back (‘You need to rest, it’s completely fine, I’ll do EVERYTHING’) and helping everyone do their homework while they shouted at me (‘how should I know what a verb is?’ ‘I can do my homework wrong if I want to!’), kicking people out of bed, into bed, off screens, cajoling Bonnie into practicing by threatening her with no food or oxygen, and trying to spend quality time with each child while the rest tapped me on the shoulder and fought with each other.
By Sunday night I’d had enough. ‘Who’s going to pick that toilet paper off the floor? WHO?? ME! You treat me like a skivvy’ bla bla bla, usual lack of self-control leading to troubling thoughts about suitability for motherhood. When I rose on Monday morning, nicely knackered from my weekend, instead of providing a calm and positive atmosphere for Bonnie’s debut in the examination room, the time seemed ripe for Spring Heating Wars (Round One) to commence.
Don’t get me wrong, I had not planned the first strike; despite the mild weather I obediently whacked the heating on at 6am in order that Alan would not get narky and could roast in bed while I sweated through my chores downstairs. But when I went up with room service (cup of tea) and discovered that he was up but still hadn’t switched the heating off, (the switch is in our bedroom) I burst out ‘IT’S BOILING IN THIS HOUSE – WHY HAVEN’T YOU SWITCHED THE HEATING OFF YET?’ ‘I’m not up,’ said he (which was surprising as he was vertical, washed and primped) ‘and don’t shout at me first thing in the morning!’
Round one to him (moral victory) – but he did turn the heating off the next morning.
Friday, 1 April 2011
GRRRRRRRR!!
I am keen on Puppy Training, I mean very keen. I’m the swotty one who went to the first class without the dog so’s I could take notes. You see I’m scared of dogs - behind every cutie-pie there’s an American Pitbull straining to get out and eat my hand for breakfast! So I need to be in control, or I’ll be cowering in a corner and Archie will be the one wearing the trousers as well as eating the shoes.
I have already faced my doggy demons. Guided by various American videos, I have placed my hand between Archie’s teeth, waited for him to start munching then roared ‘OWWWWWWW!’ This will teach him not to bite, hopefully while there’s still some flesh on my fingers. If that doesn’t work, I have to reinforce the message by bearing my teeth, looking in his eyes and GRRRRRRRRROWLING fiercely. GRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!
At puppy training the first lesson is that all family members are above poochkins in the pecking order; so when the children rise of a morning, they should not dive upon Archie and shower him with love-talk (‘Archie darling! Hello Archie! You’re so cute Archie Parchy - I love you!’) for ten minutes, then throw me an aside ‘I’m bored of Branflakes’. No, they should greet Mother and each other ‘Good morning brother!’ ‘Did you sleep well, little sis?’ before Archie even gets a look in. All of which is well-nigh impossible because they hate each other, but we’re working on it.
Anyhow, I was on the phone to the puppy-trainer, Sue, about plops, before the first session. Praise the good and ignore the bad, she said. ‘Yes, I know, I know,’ I said and explained I’d been swooping on Archie mid-poo and charging into the garden with him, his four little legs wiggling in the air, and me yelling ‘GOOD BOY’ as the product landed outside the back door. Sue was silent for a minute then said that my zeal would terrify him into pooing in secret places and that I should ‘keep calm’. I should ‘name it’ wheresoever it may fall (‘Poo!’ point and smile, gritted teeth), and merely congratulate the successfully placed ones (which is where standing outside in the dark freezing your b------- off comes in).
So the garden door is now permanently open, to calmly encourage the chances of success, though Alan The Dog Expert keeps closing it because he gets chilly (‘Don’t sit about then!’ I say. ‘There’s the hoover’). ‘Take him out, take him out!’ he says in the next breath - ‘then he’ll learn to poo outside!’ DER. ‘Excuse me’ I say, ‘what do you think I’m doing every five minutes from 6am to midnight?? Stop shutting the door. GRRRRRRRRRRR!!’
I have already faced my doggy demons. Guided by various American videos, I have placed my hand between Archie’s teeth, waited for him to start munching then roared ‘OWWWWWWW!’ This will teach him not to bite, hopefully while there’s still some flesh on my fingers. If that doesn’t work, I have to reinforce the message by bearing my teeth, looking in his eyes and GRRRRRRRRROWLING fiercely. GRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!
At puppy training the first lesson is that all family members are above poochkins in the pecking order; so when the children rise of a morning, they should not dive upon Archie and shower him with love-talk (‘Archie darling! Hello Archie! You’re so cute Archie Parchy - I love you!’) for ten minutes, then throw me an aside ‘I’m bored of Branflakes’. No, they should greet Mother and each other ‘Good morning brother!’ ‘Did you sleep well, little sis?’ before Archie even gets a look in. All of which is well-nigh impossible because they hate each other, but we’re working on it.
Anyhow, I was on the phone to the puppy-trainer, Sue, about plops, before the first session. Praise the good and ignore the bad, she said. ‘Yes, I know, I know,’ I said and explained I’d been swooping on Archie mid-poo and charging into the garden with him, his four little legs wiggling in the air, and me yelling ‘GOOD BOY’ as the product landed outside the back door. Sue was silent for a minute then said that my zeal would terrify him into pooing in secret places and that I should ‘keep calm’. I should ‘name it’ wheresoever it may fall (‘Poo!’ point and smile, gritted teeth), and merely congratulate the successfully placed ones (which is where standing outside in the dark freezing your b------- off comes in).
So the garden door is now permanently open, to calmly encourage the chances of success, though Alan The Dog Expert keeps closing it because he gets chilly (‘Don’t sit about then!’ I say. ‘There’s the hoover’). ‘Take him out, take him out!’ he says in the next breath - ‘then he’ll learn to poo outside!’ DER. ‘Excuse me’ I say, ‘what do you think I’m doing every five minutes from 6am to midnight?? Stop shutting the door. GRRRRRRRRRRR!!’
Friday, 25 March 2011
Unimportant-non-urgent
Alan has a great little time management model which categorises activity into four types: there’s (1) important-urgent (your hair’s on fire!) (2) important-non urgent (tell me you love me) (3) unimportant-urgent (wipe the cabbage off your cheek before you go out) and (4) unimportant-non urgent (playing golf). We set about categorising our daily chores thus to better prioritise our respective workloads, but when it became apparent that 99% of my activity is unimportant-non-urgent, I decided the model was stupid, though Alan kindly agreed that if you leave unimportant-non-urgent for long enough, it becomes important-urgent; if it’s never quite time to try that recipe for peanut cookies, I may become depressed with the meaningless of life and kill myself!!
Given Alan’s testy temper of late, methinks there is too much important-urgent in his day – what with holding down the Big Job (‘I’m doing two peoples’ jobs!’) and then home to ‘Daddy where have you been? The rubbish internet’s not working again – I need it for my homework now’ (and face-book). So he has to call the amusingly titled ‘help’ line at the call centre in India, staring angrily at his new SUPER hob which he bought to speed up the internet, but which has actually killed it. I did suggest we’d be better off without the SUPER hob but I got ‘I AM NOT GIVING UP I AM GOING TO MAKE IT WORK’ (red-faced). When I said he seemed stressed and maybe he should put a little unimportant-non-urgent into the mix, for instance by picking up a few puppy plops of an evening, I just got a look which said important-urgent = me, puppy plops = you.
As he’s in the grip of important-urgent matters at all times, muggins here, as well as doing all the usual unimportant-non-urgent jobs (toothbrushing enforcement, cleaning and tidying, general moaning and yelling) has been assigned furniture construction. Previously Alan had been happy to spend a day constructing a Murmb or a Duk, smiling at TalkCrap behind closed doors, hammer in a limp hand, until I gave him a shove to get working again. But now poor old Daddy needs to relax ‘a bit’ at the weekend by playing golf then dozing in front of the football. All day.
So this week I constructed an Ikea chest of drawers and an acoustic drum kit all by my little self, including getting the packages up to the top-most bedroom; Alfie had squealed on Daddy, who’d said ‘Mummy might not be able to do it properly’ so I was damned if I was asking for help – I’d do it myself or my name was not Bob the Builder.
The flat-pack Ikea box, eight inches thick, the size of a door and the weight of a car, would only shift up the stairs if I slid it, but could I get a grip on the sod? No, so I sat on the stair below and pushed up with my back, and then with my head by lying face down on the stairs. My head was moving but the flat pack was not, which started alarm bells ringing. Finally I gave in to common sense, and took the pieces out of the box and up the four flights one by boring one, hearing my Dad’s voice in my head ‘Less haste, more speed’ Ner ner ner ner. Next was the bass drum box which was the shape of a washing machine. I couldn’t get my arms around it for love nor money so it was another sliding job. Disaster struck at the penultimate stair corner which needed an up and over, but luckily Alfie was off sick-ish, to offer encouragement and someone to fall over, and he really would have helped if he didn’t have to suck his thumb and hold his comfort blanket. There was effing and blinding, but eventually drawers and drum kit were constructed, properly.
Alan came home, ‘Come and look!’ we shouted down the stairs. But he was firing off e-mails. ‘Sorry, this is really important – and urgent – I’ll look later.’ He’d had time to pour a glass of wine though...
Given Alan’s testy temper of late, methinks there is too much important-urgent in his day – what with holding down the Big Job (‘I’m doing two peoples’ jobs!’) and then home to ‘Daddy where have you been? The rubbish internet’s not working again – I need it for my homework now’ (and face-book). So he has to call the amusingly titled ‘help’ line at the call centre in India, staring angrily at his new SUPER hob which he bought to speed up the internet, but which has actually killed it. I did suggest we’d be better off without the SUPER hob but I got ‘I AM NOT GIVING UP I AM GOING TO MAKE IT WORK’ (red-faced). When I said he seemed stressed and maybe he should put a little unimportant-non-urgent into the mix, for instance by picking up a few puppy plops of an evening, I just got a look which said important-urgent = me, puppy plops = you.
As he’s in the grip of important-urgent matters at all times, muggins here, as well as doing all the usual unimportant-non-urgent jobs (toothbrushing enforcement, cleaning and tidying, general moaning and yelling) has been assigned furniture construction. Previously Alan had been happy to spend a day constructing a Murmb or a Duk, smiling at TalkCrap behind closed doors, hammer in a limp hand, until I gave him a shove to get working again. But now poor old Daddy needs to relax ‘a bit’ at the weekend by playing golf then dozing in front of the football. All day.
So this week I constructed an Ikea chest of drawers and an acoustic drum kit all by my little self, including getting the packages up to the top-most bedroom; Alfie had squealed on Daddy, who’d said ‘Mummy might not be able to do it properly’ so I was damned if I was asking for help – I’d do it myself or my name was not Bob the Builder.
The flat-pack Ikea box, eight inches thick, the size of a door and the weight of a car, would only shift up the stairs if I slid it, but could I get a grip on the sod? No, so I sat on the stair below and pushed up with my back, and then with my head by lying face down on the stairs. My head was moving but the flat pack was not, which started alarm bells ringing. Finally I gave in to common sense, and took the pieces out of the box and up the four flights one by boring one, hearing my Dad’s voice in my head ‘Less haste, more speed’ Ner ner ner ner. Next was the bass drum box which was the shape of a washing machine. I couldn’t get my arms around it for love nor money so it was another sliding job. Disaster struck at the penultimate stair corner which needed an up and over, but luckily Alfie was off sick-ish, to offer encouragement and someone to fall over, and he really would have helped if he didn’t have to suck his thumb and hold his comfort blanket. There was effing and blinding, but eventually drawers and drum kit were constructed, properly.
Alan came home, ‘Come and look!’ we shouted down the stairs. But he was firing off e-mails. ‘Sorry, this is really important – and urgent – I’ll look later.’ He’d had time to pour a glass of wine though...
Friday, 18 March 2011
Doggie-doo
We’ve bought a puppy. Visitors are queuing up to hold the little bundle of fluff, followed closely by me, the dettol and the paper towels.
It’s all Bonnie’s fault; she’s the dog-lover, and we are not talking whim here; she’s learnt all the breeds, and it’s been ‘Look at the cute dog!’ every five minutes for as long as I can remember. ‘I only have to wait another six years till I can have one!’ she exclaimed the other day - that was what broke me.
‘Alan’ I said ‘I really think we should get a dog while Bonnie’s still actually living at home’. He hurrumphed about. ‘You know nothing about dogs – it’s like having another baby. And what about when we go on all those exciting foreign holidays?’ ‘We don’t.’ ‘What about the garden?’ ‘It has nothing in it’. ‘It would need walking every single day – 6.30am!’ ‘My job!’ ‘Poo?’ ‘Love it!’
Being enthusiastic and excited got me nowhere. Only when I tried to look really grim (this will not be good or fun in any way) did he come round. I’d reserved a hound within minutes, which is how I came to be driving out of Taunton on Sunday morning with a pooch in a cat-basket snuggled in his doggy-mummy’s blanket, bound for home.
‘Leave him in the basket for the journey’, said the owner. But I knew better, and out he came for a delightful cuddle with Mummy at the first service station. I popped him back in, and that’s when the yelping started. Be firm, I thought; he’s just like a baby who doesn’t want to go back in his car-seat. The barking rose to hysterical shrieking, and then... the stink. He’d pooed in the cat-basket and I couldn’t get off the motor way. He was spinning around inside the basket, biting his tail, having a doggy-breakdown. ‘Get me out, Wicked Step-mother!’ he cried. His golden fur was brown and wet with poo, as was the interior of his temporary accommodation. I couldn’t stop in the hard shoulder to stop a pooey puppy crying...could I? ‘It’s all right, Doggy!’ I yelled over the racket, but there was nothing all right about this situation at all.
Three days later I pulled into a Sainsbury car park, and took the pooey puppy (with my bare hands) out of his poo-smeared prison. Armed with a packet of baby wipes, I set to, wipe-wipe-wiping every inch of his tummy, toes, willy, bum, mouth and ears. It was possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever had to do. Doggy-mummy’s blanket went in the bin (bye bye Mummy), along with his new pooed-on doggy toys.
He had to go back in the (baby-wiped) cat basket for the remainder of the journey, which oddly enough he didn’t fancy, so he barked all the way home (two hours). All I had to offer him by way of comfort and distraction was some wiggling fingers (if I fed him he might poo again). I was stressed. I texted Alan to get Bonnie out of the house; this stinky hound was supposed to be the best surprise of her life. He’d needed a bath first – another lovely surprise along with being removed from his mummy, siblings and home, and being incarcerated with his own poo for hours on end – the psychological damage meant we may as well have got a dog from Battersea in the first place...
All dreadful experiences come to an end, and little Archie (named by unanimous vote while I was out) was duly bathed, blow-dried and presented to Bonnie later that day. When the penny dropped that this pup was actually ours for keeps, her look of disbelief and joy brought a tear to Alan’s eye. Alfie was pretty amazed too. ‘Is it second-hand?’ he said. That’s my boy!
It’s all Bonnie’s fault; she’s the dog-lover, and we are not talking whim here; she’s learnt all the breeds, and it’s been ‘Look at the cute dog!’ every five minutes for as long as I can remember. ‘I only have to wait another six years till I can have one!’ she exclaimed the other day - that was what broke me.
‘Alan’ I said ‘I really think we should get a dog while Bonnie’s still actually living at home’. He hurrumphed about. ‘You know nothing about dogs – it’s like having another baby. And what about when we go on all those exciting foreign holidays?’ ‘We don’t.’ ‘What about the garden?’ ‘It has nothing in it’. ‘It would need walking every single day – 6.30am!’ ‘My job!’ ‘Poo?’ ‘Love it!’
Being enthusiastic and excited got me nowhere. Only when I tried to look really grim (this will not be good or fun in any way) did he come round. I’d reserved a hound within minutes, which is how I came to be driving out of Taunton on Sunday morning with a pooch in a cat-basket snuggled in his doggy-mummy’s blanket, bound for home.
‘Leave him in the basket for the journey’, said the owner. But I knew better, and out he came for a delightful cuddle with Mummy at the first service station. I popped him back in, and that’s when the yelping started. Be firm, I thought; he’s just like a baby who doesn’t want to go back in his car-seat. The barking rose to hysterical shrieking, and then... the stink. He’d pooed in the cat-basket and I couldn’t get off the motor way. He was spinning around inside the basket, biting his tail, having a doggy-breakdown. ‘Get me out, Wicked Step-mother!’ he cried. His golden fur was brown and wet with poo, as was the interior of his temporary accommodation. I couldn’t stop in the hard shoulder to stop a pooey puppy crying...could I? ‘It’s all right, Doggy!’ I yelled over the racket, but there was nothing all right about this situation at all.
Three days later I pulled into a Sainsbury car park, and took the pooey puppy (with my bare hands) out of his poo-smeared prison. Armed with a packet of baby wipes, I set to, wipe-wipe-wiping every inch of his tummy, toes, willy, bum, mouth and ears. It was possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever had to do. Doggy-mummy’s blanket went in the bin (bye bye Mummy), along with his new pooed-on doggy toys.
He had to go back in the (baby-wiped) cat basket for the remainder of the journey, which oddly enough he didn’t fancy, so he barked all the way home (two hours). All I had to offer him by way of comfort and distraction was some wiggling fingers (if I fed him he might poo again). I was stressed. I texted Alan to get Bonnie out of the house; this stinky hound was supposed to be the best surprise of her life. He’d needed a bath first – another lovely surprise along with being removed from his mummy, siblings and home, and being incarcerated with his own poo for hours on end – the psychological damage meant we may as well have got a dog from Battersea in the first place...
All dreadful experiences come to an end, and little Archie (named by unanimous vote while I was out) was duly bathed, blow-dried and presented to Bonnie later that day. When the penny dropped that this pup was actually ours for keeps, her look of disbelief and joy brought a tear to Alan’s eye. Alfie was pretty amazed too. ‘Is it second-hand?’ he said. That’s my boy!
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Just A Tiny Bit For Me!
The conversation bit of a proper dinner party fills me with dread: ‘Compare and contrast the Egyptian and Libyan revolutions – start NOW!’ So I displace the anxiety about what to say onto what to cook, fussing and flapping for days on end before the big event.
My Jewish friends came recently, and they observe the meat and milk prohibition. I decided that if I chose the meat and lost the dairy, I was throwing away my key cooking skills - buttering bread, grating cheese on top of everything - in favour of the scary stuff (roasting meat (Raw! Tough!), cooking vegetables (‘Mmmm – they’re so...crisp!’).
But if I kept the dairy, I’d have to do fish. And what with Alan not being partial (er! Bones, picky-pick!) I only know how to cook fish pie and I did that last time...They might think it was the only thing I could cook (true) or that I thought it was so brilliant I just had to do it again (oh no), or worse still that I had forgotten I did it last time (embarrassing, Christ) . But there was no way I could make conversation and fry a fillet or steam a sprat at the same time (SERVE IMMEDIATELY!)...it had to be fish pie again; the only alternative was vegetarian and you know people are disappointed when you do that because they keep saying ‘I love vegetarian food!’
During the week, I tried a number of horrendous practice dishes. First, vegetarian Croque Monsieur, which sounded Parisien and chic for a starter, but was a Croque of Shit for my purposes as it was basically a vast cheese and tomato sandwich, and you don’t want to dump that in front of your guests when you’ve bothered with the candles and put a blouse on.
Next starter idea was a posh mushroom tart. I strode into Waitrose like a big shot and flashed around the porcini dried mushrooms which I soaked, squeezed and cooked very, very, slowly, popped into a homemade parmesan pastry and served to Alan who took one bite and covered it with ketchup, so that was a no vote.
I tried a new fish pie which looked glorious in a pastry crust, but by the time I’d served it, was fit for the slops pot; oh and the famous ‘foaming Hollandaise’ which turned to scrambles in the time it took to forget you were in the middle of cooking a foaming Hollandaise.
I was relying on my sticky toffee pudding – lovely old fashioned comfort food, I thought. But I should have accepted it had taken a turn for the worse when the smoke alarms were going at full throttle. Instead, I stubbornly set the electric carving knife to ‘bone’, and sawed Alan a portion of the black brick, ignoring his panicky ‘just a tiny bit for me!’ After a decent effort though, I agreed his new caps were at risk, and let him off.
My last try was home-made mayonnaise. Nigella said ‘Never rush an emulsion. Silly I know’ (giggle, giggle) ‘but I like to beat the glossy wodge by hand (!) just as my mother did’. ‘Piss off’ I thought, grabbing the electric mixer ‘I bet you’re not doubling as the buffer for your childrens’ indoor roller-blading track at the same time’. I curdled the mayonnaise (rushed it, tut, tut) and had to do it twice.
The day before the dinner party, I had a bowl of mayonnaise and a head buried in the sand. I was sort of bored with the whole thing, so I put my trust in fate; I fanned through a cookery book and jabbed my hand in at random. Whatever recipe I turned up, that was what I had to cook.
Absolved of all responsibility, I had a ball! It was like performing a delightful scientific experiment. While my guests chatted their way through Bahrain and Barclays, I seared tuna, kneaded gnocchi, and bubbled sauces galore. I’m going to do it that way next time.
My Jewish friends came recently, and they observe the meat and milk prohibition. I decided that if I chose the meat and lost the dairy, I was throwing away my key cooking skills - buttering bread, grating cheese on top of everything - in favour of the scary stuff (roasting meat (Raw! Tough!), cooking vegetables (‘Mmmm – they’re so...crisp!’).
But if I kept the dairy, I’d have to do fish. And what with Alan not being partial (er! Bones, picky-pick!) I only know how to cook fish pie and I did that last time...They might think it was the only thing I could cook (true) or that I thought it was so brilliant I just had to do it again (oh no), or worse still that I had forgotten I did it last time (embarrassing, Christ) . But there was no way I could make conversation and fry a fillet or steam a sprat at the same time (SERVE IMMEDIATELY!)...it had to be fish pie again; the only alternative was vegetarian and you know people are disappointed when you do that because they keep saying ‘I love vegetarian food!’
During the week, I tried a number of horrendous practice dishes. First, vegetarian Croque Monsieur, which sounded Parisien and chic for a starter, but was a Croque of Shit for my purposes as it was basically a vast cheese and tomato sandwich, and you don’t want to dump that in front of your guests when you’ve bothered with the candles and put a blouse on.
Next starter idea was a posh mushroom tart. I strode into Waitrose like a big shot and flashed around the porcini dried mushrooms which I soaked, squeezed and cooked very, very, slowly, popped into a homemade parmesan pastry and served to Alan who took one bite and covered it with ketchup, so that was a no vote.
I tried a new fish pie which looked glorious in a pastry crust, but by the time I’d served it, was fit for the slops pot; oh and the famous ‘foaming Hollandaise’ which turned to scrambles in the time it took to forget you were in the middle of cooking a foaming Hollandaise.
I was relying on my sticky toffee pudding – lovely old fashioned comfort food, I thought. But I should have accepted it had taken a turn for the worse when the smoke alarms were going at full throttle. Instead, I stubbornly set the electric carving knife to ‘bone’, and sawed Alan a portion of the black brick, ignoring his panicky ‘just a tiny bit for me!’ After a decent effort though, I agreed his new caps were at risk, and let him off.
My last try was home-made mayonnaise. Nigella said ‘Never rush an emulsion. Silly I know’ (giggle, giggle) ‘but I like to beat the glossy wodge by hand (!) just as my mother did’. ‘Piss off’ I thought, grabbing the electric mixer ‘I bet you’re not doubling as the buffer for your childrens’ indoor roller-blading track at the same time’. I curdled the mayonnaise (rushed it, tut, tut) and had to do it twice.
The day before the dinner party, I had a bowl of mayonnaise and a head buried in the sand. I was sort of bored with the whole thing, so I put my trust in fate; I fanned through a cookery book and jabbed my hand in at random. Whatever recipe I turned up, that was what I had to cook.
Absolved of all responsibility, I had a ball! It was like performing a delightful scientific experiment. While my guests chatted their way through Bahrain and Barclays, I seared tuna, kneaded gnocchi, and bubbled sauces galore. I’m going to do it that way next time.
Friday, 4 March 2011
Tripaholic
I am forty-five and I am a tripaholic. There’s this evil voice bent on destroying my karma that intones ‘take them to the National Gallery National Gallery National Gallery….’ and before I know it there I am again, sweating under a mountain of coats, hissing ‘You don’t know how lucky you are!’ at my beloveds, who never said they wanted to go there in the first place.
I blame a friend’s advice for the last relapse. ‘National Gallery – no problem!’ she said. ‘I take my three to the computers in the basement. They choose a few pictures and print out their own route. They love it!’ My heart began pumping though my head was screaming ’Don’t do it!’
Alfie rose first. ‘Alfie’ I said, ‘we’re going to do that computer thing at the National Gallery!’ (don’t ask, state). He agreed to come out of pity, providing I guaranteed no workshops, and home by lunch. Then Bonnie got up. ‘Bonnie, do you know what?’ I said, ecstatically. ‘You can go on the computer at the National Gallery-‘ ‘I KNOW ABOUT THAT YOU’VE TOLD ME A THOUSAND TIMES I AM NOT GOING!’ she shouted and put her hands over her ears. Crushed, I was. ‘FINE FORGET IT, YOU SPOILT GIRL!’ I shouted back. Alfie involuntarily took a hop and a skip; this was unbelievable good luck - the trip was cancelled and Bonnie was getting it in the neck.
Ten minutes later and I’m still sulking when Bonnie says ‘I want to go now.’ ‘Well I don’t want to go any more – you’ve ruined it all!’ I said, maturely. ‘I want to go! I want to go!’ she shouted, ‘Mummy, first you say we are going, then you say we can’t go!!’ I wavered, and Alfie realised another U turn was imminent. ‘Can I not go please?’ he said.
‘For God’s sake, I plan a LITTLE TINY trip and TRY TO MAKE IT FUN so you can BARE IT but NEITHER OF YOU really want to go because you’d rather be doing NOTHING. I felt REALLY HAPPY when I got up and now I am EXTREMELY FED UP.’
We did go. I resignedly refereed another journey: ‘Shh you two – people on the bus don’t want to hear your squabbling’ ‘Alfie, I saw that, you shoved her’ ‘I didn’t mean to!’ ‘If I’m good what will you pay me?’ ‘Have we got any sweets?’
The computers all hallowed be thine name, in the basement of the National Gallery were lovely (silence). We printed off our route and I started to breath. But we couldn’t find the most popular rooms in the Gallery with all the Monets, Manets and Van Goghs (although the longest staircase in the place was key to the search). The second information desk we tried revealed that these rooms were shut (SHUT??) for staff training (‘You promised we’d be home by lunch!’). Severe exhaustion had set in by now of course and the children had to hang off my arms just to stay alive as their legs were buckling under them. We spent a half-hour sitting on a bench in silence right outside the door of the closed galleries. ‘Everyone having a lovely time?’ I said, announcing a Burger King reward for future good behaviour. It was grim.
Eventually, the galleries opened and the children made a dash for the selected masterpieces – ‘there’s one – tick it off – let’s go!’ they shouted, not losing speed. ‘Can I just stand still and look at a painting for one second please?’ I grouched.
Fifteen minutes later, all done, we were in the lovely Burger King, where the children stood on their own two feet with apparent ease and stared at the menu for considerably longer than at all the masterpieces added together. ‘Which was your favourite picture today?’ I said (final effort). ‘Dunno. Mummy, she got more chips than me!’
I blame a friend’s advice for the last relapse. ‘National Gallery – no problem!’ she said. ‘I take my three to the computers in the basement. They choose a few pictures and print out their own route. They love it!’ My heart began pumping though my head was screaming ’Don’t do it!’
Alfie rose first. ‘Alfie’ I said, ‘we’re going to do that computer thing at the National Gallery!’ (don’t ask, state). He agreed to come out of pity, providing I guaranteed no workshops, and home by lunch. Then Bonnie got up. ‘Bonnie, do you know what?’ I said, ecstatically. ‘You can go on the computer at the National Gallery-‘ ‘I KNOW ABOUT THAT YOU’VE TOLD ME A THOUSAND TIMES I AM NOT GOING!’ she shouted and put her hands over her ears. Crushed, I was. ‘FINE FORGET IT, YOU SPOILT GIRL!’ I shouted back. Alfie involuntarily took a hop and a skip; this was unbelievable good luck - the trip was cancelled and Bonnie was getting it in the neck.
Ten minutes later and I’m still sulking when Bonnie says ‘I want to go now.’ ‘Well I don’t want to go any more – you’ve ruined it all!’ I said, maturely. ‘I want to go! I want to go!’ she shouted, ‘Mummy, first you say we are going, then you say we can’t go!!’ I wavered, and Alfie realised another U turn was imminent. ‘Can I not go please?’ he said.
‘For God’s sake, I plan a LITTLE TINY trip and TRY TO MAKE IT FUN so you can BARE IT but NEITHER OF YOU really want to go because you’d rather be doing NOTHING. I felt REALLY HAPPY when I got up and now I am EXTREMELY FED UP.’
We did go. I resignedly refereed another journey: ‘Shh you two – people on the bus don’t want to hear your squabbling’ ‘Alfie, I saw that, you shoved her’ ‘I didn’t mean to!’ ‘If I’m good what will you pay me?’ ‘Have we got any sweets?’
The computers all hallowed be thine name, in the basement of the National Gallery were lovely (silence). We printed off our route and I started to breath. But we couldn’t find the most popular rooms in the Gallery with all the Monets, Manets and Van Goghs (although the longest staircase in the place was key to the search). The second information desk we tried revealed that these rooms were shut (SHUT??) for staff training (‘You promised we’d be home by lunch!’). Severe exhaustion had set in by now of course and the children had to hang off my arms just to stay alive as their legs were buckling under them. We spent a half-hour sitting on a bench in silence right outside the door of the closed galleries. ‘Everyone having a lovely time?’ I said, announcing a Burger King reward for future good behaviour. It was grim.
Eventually, the galleries opened and the children made a dash for the selected masterpieces – ‘there’s one – tick it off – let’s go!’ they shouted, not losing speed. ‘Can I just stand still and look at a painting for one second please?’ I grouched.
Fifteen minutes later, all done, we were in the lovely Burger King, where the children stood on their own two feet with apparent ease and stared at the menu for considerably longer than at all the masterpieces added together. ‘Which was your favourite picture today?’ I said (final effort). ‘Dunno. Mummy, she got more chips than me!’
Friday, 25 February 2011
Housework Sucks
In theory, I should be doing ‘my’ Deep Cleaning until the ice-cream season starts again. This is terribly bad news, obviously; the spectre of maid’s caps, scouring pads and red raw hands, not to mention the possibility of a spot check from the health and safety inspectorate, makes me go cross-eyed.
But I have made a start with the War on Wires. Although everyone in the family (except me) is besotted by digital devices large and small (MY PHONE’S GOT AN INVISIBLE SCRATCH! WAAAAH!), when it comes to unravelling the knot of wires and cables backstage that connects these electronic beauties to the power supply, interest falls off pretty sharpish. Nobody knows what plug belongs to what so when you need to plug in the hoover, chances are you’ll unplug something really important, like a football match set to record or an ipod being charged, and be told off big time for fouling up someone’s leisure plans by your stupid plug selection, when you should have just unplugged something trivial like the fridge, to do your silly hoovering. Cut a long and boring story short (except I just told you it) the job of separating and twirling dusty cables into nice neat little spools falls to me, and is one of the enjoyable and satisfying jobs that I have accomplished this week, and would have missed out on entirely if my family members were not such lazy gits.
I have also performed the annual dusting ceremony of Maddy’s birthday presents from age seven onwards that she hasn’t opened but won’t give away – I’m sure she’ll notice and say ‘thank you for dusting my presents again’. And it doesn’t end there - I have faced the DVDs-into–their-correct-cases job. Looking at it from the children’s point of view, you get so tired sitting down watching a film that you can’t put a DVD back in its box then, and in the morning, even if your Mum reminds you, you’re so busy. It’s tough.
But this was not Deep Cleaning and I knew it…so I headed for the kitchen window frames with the cream cleaner when Lo! - brown globs were found evenly-spaced along the window recess. My heart missed a beat; an ice-cream maker cannot have globs! Jesus, is it a leak from the flat roof above, forming putrescent stalactites inside the kitchen? Or has an insect vomited upside down at regular intervals? Infestation?? I sprang up onto the sink’s edge to take a closer look; the globs were sticky…hmm…With enormous relief I identified syrup that had condensed from all the sugary steam that billows about when I’m making ice-cream. I could just wipe it off – hurrah! – which I did with gusto, causing myself to wobble scarily on the sink’s edge. I had to clutch the ceiling, else I’d have fallen, and in doing so left a very obvious hand-print on the ceiling. Hells bells – there was syrup all over the ceiling! Now I was in deep; the more I wiped, the more smeary and smudgy and dirty the ceiling looked; I’d have to wash or even paint the entire ceiling, just because I’d touched it.
I trailed off to the cellar to find a rock-hard brush and try to guess whether the syrup-coloured ceiling was once magnolia, twisted barley, hint of noodle or lank linen. Housework sucks.
But I have made a start with the War on Wires. Although everyone in the family (except me) is besotted by digital devices large and small (MY PHONE’S GOT AN INVISIBLE SCRATCH! WAAAAH!), when it comes to unravelling the knot of wires and cables backstage that connects these electronic beauties to the power supply, interest falls off pretty sharpish. Nobody knows what plug belongs to what so when you need to plug in the hoover, chances are you’ll unplug something really important, like a football match set to record or an ipod being charged, and be told off big time for fouling up someone’s leisure plans by your stupid plug selection, when you should have just unplugged something trivial like the fridge, to do your silly hoovering. Cut a long and boring story short (except I just told you it) the job of separating and twirling dusty cables into nice neat little spools falls to me, and is one of the enjoyable and satisfying jobs that I have accomplished this week, and would have missed out on entirely if my family members were not such lazy gits.
I have also performed the annual dusting ceremony of Maddy’s birthday presents from age seven onwards that she hasn’t opened but won’t give away – I’m sure she’ll notice and say ‘thank you for dusting my presents again’. And it doesn’t end there - I have faced the DVDs-into–their-correct-cases job. Looking at it from the children’s point of view, you get so tired sitting down watching a film that you can’t put a DVD back in its box then, and in the morning, even if your Mum reminds you, you’re so busy. It’s tough.
But this was not Deep Cleaning and I knew it…so I headed for the kitchen window frames with the cream cleaner when Lo! - brown globs were found evenly-spaced along the window recess. My heart missed a beat; an ice-cream maker cannot have globs! Jesus, is it a leak from the flat roof above, forming putrescent stalactites inside the kitchen? Or has an insect vomited upside down at regular intervals? Infestation?? I sprang up onto the sink’s edge to take a closer look; the globs were sticky…hmm…With enormous relief I identified syrup that had condensed from all the sugary steam that billows about when I’m making ice-cream. I could just wipe it off – hurrah! – which I did with gusto, causing myself to wobble scarily on the sink’s edge. I had to clutch the ceiling, else I’d have fallen, and in doing so left a very obvious hand-print on the ceiling. Hells bells – there was syrup all over the ceiling! Now I was in deep; the more I wiped, the more smeary and smudgy and dirty the ceiling looked; I’d have to wash or even paint the entire ceiling, just because I’d touched it.
I trailed off to the cellar to find a rock-hard brush and try to guess whether the syrup-coloured ceiling was once magnolia, twisted barley, hint of noodle or lank linen. Housework sucks.
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Oh Barry
Heating is something that Alan and I love to scrap about, along with whether background music is absolutely essential throughout your waking hours, and which way round you put the toilet paper on the holder. ‘I want the heating ON!’ (stamp) ‘Well I want it OFF so ner!’ (stamp).
So when the boiler packed up after Christmas, we were united in getting it working again so that we could carry on scrapping.
It’s been on the blink for years, but being sensible responsible kind of guys we had to spend most of our cash on ballet lessons and unenjoyable holidays so not much left for fancy stuff such as hot water and heating. We’d already put one new boiler in - shouldn’t some grown-up fix it for us this time?
We did purchase (1 Star) boiler break down cover (‘Patch It Up Plumbing’) a couple of years ago. The gloomy personnel of that particular outfit said dolefully ‘sludge in the system’. Bowing to the experts, we were chemically de-sludged, at a cost of £400 (not covered by the insurance obviously) in exchange for half a teaspoon of sediment. This treatment (surprise, surprise) made no difference to the heating, only to the children’s pocket money, nor did their other idea, on the second and last page of their training manual, which was to change the pump once, twice, three times.
Patch It Up got the thumbs down, so when the boiler died we gathered recommendations, first up being Pipework Paul. ‘He’s not flash, but he’ll have a really long and careful think about your pipework’ (ooh, pipework!) ‘and then he’ll diagnose’ (the master – he’s going to get it right!). I asked Alan to stay home so that he could have a man to man and explain that the heating doesn’t work better than me. Pipework Paul arrived and was treated with due reverence (‘Quiet children! Let the man think!’). He diagnosed a leak in the nether regions under the house, said he’d send a quote, then disappeared off the face of the earth.
Next was Andy Ape, assisted by his skinny scared son (‘Fucks sake you twat get yer arse up ‘ere’ – never done a days work in his life’ says Andy Ape). ‘The whole shyshtem’s clogged innit?’ said he. I explained haughtily that we had been de-sludged already (you’ve obviously got this wrong dear fellow). ‘Na na na’ says Andy Ape, ‘You need the power (‘pa’) flush – snot cheap mind you – ball park five hundred quid - I’ll send a quote from the Canaries.’ We shivered and shook for another week, by which time we had decided Andy Ape was not nearly grovelling enough and too rich.
It was Divine Providence as it turned out, for Boiler Barry then came into our lives. ‘Barry loves solving problems’ (an intellectual!) ‘and he won’t say you need a new boiler if you don’t.’ Boiler Barry marched quickly through the house – mind if I go straight up to the boiler Miss Pyett? (tick!), diagnosed the problem (tick! tick!) and fixed the boiler in a day (tick! tick! triple tick!). Boiler Barry, you’re my first, my last, my everythang…
So when the boiler packed up after Christmas, we were united in getting it working again so that we could carry on scrapping.
It’s been on the blink for years, but being sensible responsible kind of guys we had to spend most of our cash on ballet lessons and unenjoyable holidays so not much left for fancy stuff such as hot water and heating. We’d already put one new boiler in - shouldn’t some grown-up fix it for us this time?
We did purchase (1 Star) boiler break down cover (‘Patch It Up Plumbing’) a couple of years ago. The gloomy personnel of that particular outfit said dolefully ‘sludge in the system’. Bowing to the experts, we were chemically de-sludged, at a cost of £400 (not covered by the insurance obviously) in exchange for half a teaspoon of sediment. This treatment (surprise, surprise) made no difference to the heating, only to the children’s pocket money, nor did their other idea, on the second and last page of their training manual, which was to change the pump once, twice, three times.
Patch It Up got the thumbs down, so when the boiler died we gathered recommendations, first up being Pipework Paul. ‘He’s not flash, but he’ll have a really long and careful think about your pipework’ (ooh, pipework!) ‘and then he’ll diagnose’ (the master – he’s going to get it right!). I asked Alan to stay home so that he could have a man to man and explain that the heating doesn’t work better than me. Pipework Paul arrived and was treated with due reverence (‘Quiet children! Let the man think!’). He diagnosed a leak in the nether regions under the house, said he’d send a quote, then disappeared off the face of the earth.
Next was Andy Ape, assisted by his skinny scared son (‘Fucks sake you twat get yer arse up ‘ere’ – never done a days work in his life’ says Andy Ape). ‘The whole shyshtem’s clogged innit?’ said he. I explained haughtily that we had been de-sludged already (you’ve obviously got this wrong dear fellow). ‘Na na na’ says Andy Ape, ‘You need the power (‘pa’) flush – snot cheap mind you – ball park five hundred quid - I’ll send a quote from the Canaries.’ We shivered and shook for another week, by which time we had decided Andy Ape was not nearly grovelling enough and too rich.
It was Divine Providence as it turned out, for Boiler Barry then came into our lives. ‘Barry loves solving problems’ (an intellectual!) ‘and he won’t say you need a new boiler if you don’t.’ Boiler Barry marched quickly through the house – mind if I go straight up to the boiler Miss Pyett? (tick!), diagnosed the problem (tick! tick!) and fixed the boiler in a day (tick! tick! triple tick!). Boiler Barry, you’re my first, my last, my everythang…
Friday, 11 February 2011
Beauty is only Skin Deep
This media-dominated world is driving our girls to be body-conscious – sexualised – before they’ve even hit their teens. It said so on the telly!
So I was on the rampage today when I found Bonnie navigating her way around ‘GoGirlsGames', dressing up doe-eyed chicks in cool gear (click!), styling the hair (click! click!), applying the make-up (click! click!)… ‘You can go on The National Geographic Society website’ I’d said ‘it has some interesting games for your age-group.’ But she’d tricked me, and I’d let an hour slide past – that's an hour of brainwashing already.
‘Bonnie – this is superficial sexist narcissistic drivel – turn it off now. You are internalising inappropriate sexual stereotypes.’ I thought I had the tone about right. ‘That Geographic thing was so boring’ she said ‘and anyway, you had Sindy dolls, same thing, so don’t be a hypocrite’ ‘Yes but I wasn’t begging my Mum to take me clothes shopping every three seconds,’ I said ‘and I wasn’t trying to sneak mascara on for parties!’ (‘What is a tart Mummy?’ ‘Shh. I didn’t mean to say that…’)
‘Anyway Mummy,’ said Bonnie, ‘you promised to stop calling everything I like ‘drivel’’. Oh yes! I must keep the channels of communication open, man. I changed my tune: ‘Bonnie’ I simpered, ‘you know that beauty is only skin deep, don’t you sweetie? It’s what’s inside that counts.’ She looked me up and down witheringly. ‘Actually, Mum, you need some new clothes…Anyway, see Lola on the screen, do you think I should crimp her hair or straighten it?’ My words of wisdom were clearly hitting home.
Josie and Maddy have taken to watching ‘their TV’ (that means it has lots of supermodels disguised as school kids, swearing, taking drugs and having sex ) behind closed doors, because they know I’ll moan. Usually I’d respect their privacy, but not today. I opened the door quick as a flash (‘Oh sorry girls – didn’t know you were in here!’ cough cough) and caught a flicker of a babe drinking a shot of whisky out of a boys belly button before they could wipe the picture. ‘Girls’ (I was stern) ‘You must watch age-appropriate TV from now on.’ 'Everyone watches this – we’ll be left out’ they said. ‘I don’t care!’ I replied, ‘this is for your own good. You know all your isms these days ‘sexism’, ‘racism,’ ‘homophobic…..ism’…but watching drivel like this means you are more shackled with inappropriate sexual expectations and more beset with your body-image than ever. There’s a fantastic programme called ‘The Human Planet’ I’ve recorded – let’s watch that instead!’ Silence.
I’ve been telling them they are beautiful since they were born, but they see only perfect physical specimens around them. ‘I’m fat,’ said Bonnie, ‘look at my tummy! I need to go on a diet.’ ‘What??? WHAT DID YOU SAY??’ I am aghast, horrified. Eight years old. That’s it – anorexia, bulimia. And they’re all at it: ‘I hate my podgy knees, my hair is disgusting…’
‘Just eat healthy food, girls, do not go on diets’ I say. Turns out it’s my fault they binge on sweets and chocolate because I only buy ‘horrible’ fruit, and of course vegetables are not on the radar at all, don’t be daft. Year round blueberries and mangos would be helpful…so I dug deep and bought a heap of exotics with red ruby pomegranates as the centrepiece, the seeds of which I scattered hither and thither amongst fresh pineapple. ‘Look at those colours!’ I cooed ‘-what a stunning dessert!’ But it was ‘Ow! Pips! Bitter!’, Alan helpfully concurring in the background: ‘Mmm. I always found pommegranate disappointing..’ (SMACK). ‘Actually Mummy is their any ice-cream?’ they said. ‘Or is it bad for your skin?’
So I was on the rampage today when I found Bonnie navigating her way around ‘GoGirlsGames', dressing up doe-eyed chicks in cool gear (click!), styling the hair (click! click!), applying the make-up (click! click!)… ‘You can go on The National Geographic Society website’ I’d said ‘it has some interesting games for your age-group.’ But she’d tricked me, and I’d let an hour slide past – that's an hour of brainwashing already.
‘Bonnie – this is superficial sexist narcissistic drivel – turn it off now. You are internalising inappropriate sexual stereotypes.’ I thought I had the tone about right. ‘That Geographic thing was so boring’ she said ‘and anyway, you had Sindy dolls, same thing, so don’t be a hypocrite’ ‘Yes but I wasn’t begging my Mum to take me clothes shopping every three seconds,’ I said ‘and I wasn’t trying to sneak mascara on for parties!’ (‘What is a tart Mummy?’ ‘Shh. I didn’t mean to say that…’)
‘Anyway Mummy,’ said Bonnie, ‘you promised to stop calling everything I like ‘drivel’’. Oh yes! I must keep the channels of communication open, man. I changed my tune: ‘Bonnie’ I simpered, ‘you know that beauty is only skin deep, don’t you sweetie? It’s what’s inside that counts.’ She looked me up and down witheringly. ‘Actually, Mum, you need some new clothes…Anyway, see Lola on the screen, do you think I should crimp her hair or straighten it?’ My words of wisdom were clearly hitting home.
Josie and Maddy have taken to watching ‘their TV’ (that means it has lots of supermodels disguised as school kids, swearing, taking drugs and having sex ) behind closed doors, because they know I’ll moan. Usually I’d respect their privacy, but not today. I opened the door quick as a flash (‘Oh sorry girls – didn’t know you were in here!’ cough cough) and caught a flicker of a babe drinking a shot of whisky out of a boys belly button before they could wipe the picture. ‘Girls’ (I was stern) ‘You must watch age-appropriate TV from now on.’ 'Everyone watches this – we’ll be left out’ they said. ‘I don’t care!’ I replied, ‘this is for your own good. You know all your isms these days ‘sexism’, ‘racism,’ ‘homophobic…..ism’…but watching drivel like this means you are more shackled with inappropriate sexual expectations and more beset with your body-image than ever. There’s a fantastic programme called ‘The Human Planet’ I’ve recorded – let’s watch that instead!’ Silence.
I’ve been telling them they are beautiful since they were born, but they see only perfect physical specimens around them. ‘I’m fat,’ said Bonnie, ‘look at my tummy! I need to go on a diet.’ ‘What??? WHAT DID YOU SAY??’ I am aghast, horrified. Eight years old. That’s it – anorexia, bulimia. And they’re all at it: ‘I hate my podgy knees, my hair is disgusting…’
‘Just eat healthy food, girls, do not go on diets’ I say. Turns out it’s my fault they binge on sweets and chocolate because I only buy ‘horrible’ fruit, and of course vegetables are not on the radar at all, don’t be daft. Year round blueberries and mangos would be helpful…so I dug deep and bought a heap of exotics with red ruby pomegranates as the centrepiece, the seeds of which I scattered hither and thither amongst fresh pineapple. ‘Look at those colours!’ I cooed ‘-what a stunning dessert!’ But it was ‘Ow! Pips! Bitter!’, Alan helpfully concurring in the background: ‘Mmm. I always found pommegranate disappointing..’ (SMACK). ‘Actually Mummy is their any ice-cream?’ they said. ‘Or is it bad for your skin?’
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Hallelujah!
HALLELUJAH!! With Secondary School just a few months off, Alfie has come in with the Big One; he is reading Harry Potter!!! His impressive reading bank now comprises Beano, Captain Underpants, Wimpy Kid, Match Magazine and Harry Potter! (I could include Top Trumps, but that would be gilding the lily)
To celebrate, I have thrown caution to the wind and bought new copies of the Harry Potter volumes at full price, an extravagance hitherto reserved for the School Book Fair when the Head is watching. ‘They’re classics, Alfie,’ I drawl ‘so we should buy nice new copies - maybe your own children will read them one day!’ (He reads a chapter book, next thing is I’m asking for grandchildren!’)
This zeal for self-improvement is down to his new teacher, the inspirational Ms P: ‘She writes words after my work instead of just ticks!’ ‘Never!’ ‘And she’s made this huge chart of conjgetives!’ ‘Con-nec-tives?’ ‘Yes!! D’you know about them too??!!’
Before Ms P (BP) literacy was as interesting to Alfie as a wet carrot. I’d find some ripped up piece of paper with illegible markings in his pocket, which I would waggle in front of him, wondering if he was planning to blow his nose on it. ‘What is this?’ I would say. ‘This is my story’, he’d reply, biting his lip to repress a snort of laughter. ‘I’ll read it to you: Billy Whizz got his lovely dinna and he got his shinny spoon and he put all the dinna in his mouth yum yum the end’
We have a little prayer of thanks for Ms P:
Our Ms P, who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy pen
I thought I couldn’t write
Till you shone the light
But now I can spell ‘eleven’
Amen
Same story wih Maths – he’s on fire! ‘Mummy! Can I do another mental maths test? Please?’ ‘That’ll be ten tests, Alfie’ pinning my eyelids open ‘Ready? Two.. Thousand.. Divided.. By-‘ ‘SLOW DOWN MUMMY!!..’ The minute the test is finished ‘Mark it! Mark it!’ hopping from foot to foot – ‘What d’I get??’’
By contrast, the lovely Maddy, with GCSE courses a few months off, is in danger of sleeping through her entire secondary school career, though in her opinion it is the school that keeps tests and homeworks a secret from her. (‘Why didn’t you know about this homework???!!! Were you in the class??!!!!’ ‘Yeah, obviously’) She has to choose her GCSE Options: ‘So what do you want to do at GCSE, Maddy?’ ‘Nothing’ she says. ‘OK..er…well that’s as good a starting point as any...’
But she doesn’t have a Ms P, only me, so I decided this weekend it was time to pull out the big guns: ‘Maddy, I’ll do anything you want if you will just get your act together. I will buy you Supernoodles for a month!’ ‘Now you’re talking, Mummy!’ she said, putty in my hands. ‘Give me a pen – I’ve got work to do!’
To celebrate, I have thrown caution to the wind and bought new copies of the Harry Potter volumes at full price, an extravagance hitherto reserved for the School Book Fair when the Head is watching. ‘They’re classics, Alfie,’ I drawl ‘so we should buy nice new copies - maybe your own children will read them one day!’ (He reads a chapter book, next thing is I’m asking for grandchildren!’)
This zeal for self-improvement is down to his new teacher, the inspirational Ms P: ‘She writes words after my work instead of just ticks!’ ‘Never!’ ‘And she’s made this huge chart of conjgetives!’ ‘Con-nec-tives?’ ‘Yes!! D’you know about them too??!!’
Before Ms P (BP) literacy was as interesting to Alfie as a wet carrot. I’d find some ripped up piece of paper with illegible markings in his pocket, which I would waggle in front of him, wondering if he was planning to blow his nose on it. ‘What is this?’ I would say. ‘This is my story’, he’d reply, biting his lip to repress a snort of laughter. ‘I’ll read it to you: Billy Whizz got his lovely dinna and he got his shinny spoon and he put all the dinna in his mouth yum yum the end’
We have a little prayer of thanks for Ms P:
Our Ms P, who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy pen
I thought I couldn’t write
Till you shone the light
But now I can spell ‘eleven’
Amen
Same story wih Maths – he’s on fire! ‘Mummy! Can I do another mental maths test? Please?’ ‘That’ll be ten tests, Alfie’ pinning my eyelids open ‘Ready? Two.. Thousand.. Divided.. By-‘ ‘SLOW DOWN MUMMY!!..’ The minute the test is finished ‘Mark it! Mark it!’ hopping from foot to foot – ‘What d’I get??’’
By contrast, the lovely Maddy, with GCSE courses a few months off, is in danger of sleeping through her entire secondary school career, though in her opinion it is the school that keeps tests and homeworks a secret from her. (‘Why didn’t you know about this homework???!!! Were you in the class??!!!!’ ‘Yeah, obviously’) She has to choose her GCSE Options: ‘So what do you want to do at GCSE, Maddy?’ ‘Nothing’ she says. ‘OK..er…well that’s as good a starting point as any...’
But she doesn’t have a Ms P, only me, so I decided this weekend it was time to pull out the big guns: ‘Maddy, I’ll do anything you want if you will just get your act together. I will buy you Supernoodles for a month!’ ‘Now you’re talking, Mummy!’ she said, putty in my hands. ‘Give me a pen – I’ve got work to do!’
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Get Ready, Get Set, Go!
The Historic Palaces Family Membership that I took out with such pride last Spring has been seriously under-used!!! Only one visit to each Palace; repeat visits declined! We should be intimately acquainted with every nook and cranny, every arbour, every stairwell of these national treasures by now!
Our trip to The Tower of London was a flop admittedly. I took Alfie and his friend Tommy (more fun with a friend!) but Alfie came over all poorly when we got there, collapsing on the stone slabs every three seconds. Tommy politely did the treasure trail provided alone, while I growled in Alfie’s ear ‘Come on, stand up, Tommy doesn’t want to talk to me all day!’ Very awkward; we couldn’t get home fast enough.
But Hampton Court went pretty well, what with ‘Henry VIII’ (‘is he the real one?!’) wandering around, and the Maze to look forward to at the end! It was a shame about the torrential rain, forcing us to do the Maze at a sprint, but we strung out the sandwiches in the car with a few word games that got everyone laughing, slightly, and everyone seemed fine about missing the Orangery and going home earlier than planned…
Kensington Palace was great – because of the fabulous designers’ exhibition livening up the rooms - so yesterday, I decided on a return visit, no excuses accepted.
Well first Maddy texts me from her bed ‘Just realised I have three home-works to do today! Really sorry –can’t come!’ I smiled – that girl always puts her work first! - then stomped up to her room: ‘Get up, then!’ Next Josie decides she can no way keep to her GCSE revision timetable, go to Kensington Palace and squeeze in nail varnish shopping. And then Alan pushes Alfie forward: ‘I will come,’ he says, ‘but Daddy and I have to be back for Spurs v Man U by one o’clock.’ ‘OK,’ I said, with gritted teeth, ‘we can just pop in to Kensington Palace for half an hour – that’s the beauty of Family Membership!’
By the time we’d spent three hours getting ready to ‘pop in’ to Central London, the timescale was looking a bit tight. ‘You always drive really really fast, Daddy!’ shouted Alfie as we raced along. ‘I don’t go that fast, son!’ said The Man, chuckle chuckle (‘it’s the testosterone’). ‘You do!’ said Bonnie, ‘and Mummy goes really slowly but she still bashes the car all the time! Hey look!’ she pointed. It was my sister and family, a good twenty-five minutes into their Sunday Walk. ‘See – they go for walks!’ I sniped.
The car spoke: ‘You are now entering the Congestion Zone!’ ‘Oh no!’ said Alfie, ‘How much is the Consheston Zone??’ (he’s a big saver). ‘It’s the ‘Con – gesssss - tion Zone’ Alfie, I corrected: ‘say it after me: Con - gesssss-‘ ‘HOW MUCH IS THE CONGESSSSSSTION ZZZZZZONE???’ he shouted. ‘There’s no charge on Sunday,’ said Bonnie, clever-clogs. ‘Actually my nose is congested,’ she went on ‘and I will uncongest it into my hand.’
All good things come to an end. We parked, and after we’d killed ourselves laughing at the children pretending to be fast asleep inside the car while we froze outside, Alfie got out, did a time-check ‘TWELVE O’CLOCK!’ and put us on our marks: ‘GET READY, GET SET, GO!!’ We ran the mile across the park and were in the Palace by ‘FIVE PAST TWELVE!’, bit puffed. Alfie’s hand was on my back, pushing. ‘Look at that beautiful dress, Alfie – Bruce Oldfield!’ I said, luching forwards. ‘QUARTER PAST!’ he shrieked, ‘Come on!’ Bonnie knew a better way around the Palace than the one in the leaflet, which meant doubling back when we got lost. ‘TWENTY-FIVE PAST!!!!’ Alfie bawled in a frenzy, yanking me by the sleeve from one room to another. ‘Do we have to tear around like lunatics to get back for your cursed football?’ I grumbled. ‘TIME’S UP! WE’RE GOING HOME!’ he replied. ‘RUN!!! OR WE’LL MISS KICK-OFF!!’
We were back home so fast I surprised Maddy with her hands in the kitchen cupboard – not eating the drinking chocolate, but scanning it with her I Touch. ‘Look, Mummy, my I Touch can tell you what this is, and where you can buy it – isn’t that cool?!’ ‘Have you done the homework that prevented you from coming to Kensington Palace?’ I said, deadpan. ‘Because otherwise, you will be scanning drinking chocolate in a supermarket for the rest of your life!’ She looked quite keen on the idea, but got out her books.
Our trip to The Tower of London was a flop admittedly. I took Alfie and his friend Tommy (more fun with a friend!) but Alfie came over all poorly when we got there, collapsing on the stone slabs every three seconds. Tommy politely did the treasure trail provided alone, while I growled in Alfie’s ear ‘Come on, stand up, Tommy doesn’t want to talk to me all day!’ Very awkward; we couldn’t get home fast enough.
But Hampton Court went pretty well, what with ‘Henry VIII’ (‘is he the real one?!’) wandering around, and the Maze to look forward to at the end! It was a shame about the torrential rain, forcing us to do the Maze at a sprint, but we strung out the sandwiches in the car with a few word games that got everyone laughing, slightly, and everyone seemed fine about missing the Orangery and going home earlier than planned…
Kensington Palace was great – because of the fabulous designers’ exhibition livening up the rooms - so yesterday, I decided on a return visit, no excuses accepted.
Well first Maddy texts me from her bed ‘Just realised I have three home-works to do today! Really sorry –can’t come!’ I smiled – that girl always puts her work first! - then stomped up to her room: ‘Get up, then!’ Next Josie decides she can no way keep to her GCSE revision timetable, go to Kensington Palace and squeeze in nail varnish shopping. And then Alan pushes Alfie forward: ‘I will come,’ he says, ‘but Daddy and I have to be back for Spurs v Man U by one o’clock.’ ‘OK,’ I said, with gritted teeth, ‘we can just pop in to Kensington Palace for half an hour – that’s the beauty of Family Membership!’
By the time we’d spent three hours getting ready to ‘pop in’ to Central London, the timescale was looking a bit tight. ‘You always drive really really fast, Daddy!’ shouted Alfie as we raced along. ‘I don’t go that fast, son!’ said The Man, chuckle chuckle (‘it’s the testosterone’). ‘You do!’ said Bonnie, ‘and Mummy goes really slowly but she still bashes the car all the time! Hey look!’ she pointed. It was my sister and family, a good twenty-five minutes into their Sunday Walk. ‘See – they go for walks!’ I sniped.
The car spoke: ‘You are now entering the Congestion Zone!’ ‘Oh no!’ said Alfie, ‘How much is the Consheston Zone??’ (he’s a big saver). ‘It’s the ‘Con – gesssss - tion Zone’ Alfie, I corrected: ‘say it after me: Con - gesssss-‘ ‘HOW MUCH IS THE CONGESSSSSSTION ZZZZZZONE???’ he shouted. ‘There’s no charge on Sunday,’ said Bonnie, clever-clogs. ‘Actually my nose is congested,’ she went on ‘and I will uncongest it into my hand.’
All good things come to an end. We parked, and after we’d killed ourselves laughing at the children pretending to be fast asleep inside the car while we froze outside, Alfie got out, did a time-check ‘TWELVE O’CLOCK!’ and put us on our marks: ‘GET READY, GET SET, GO!!’ We ran the mile across the park and were in the Palace by ‘FIVE PAST TWELVE!’, bit puffed. Alfie’s hand was on my back, pushing. ‘Look at that beautiful dress, Alfie – Bruce Oldfield!’ I said, luching forwards. ‘QUARTER PAST!’ he shrieked, ‘Come on!’ Bonnie knew a better way around the Palace than the one in the leaflet, which meant doubling back when we got lost. ‘TWENTY-FIVE PAST!!!!’ Alfie bawled in a frenzy, yanking me by the sleeve from one room to another. ‘Do we have to tear around like lunatics to get back for your cursed football?’ I grumbled. ‘TIME’S UP! WE’RE GOING HOME!’ he replied. ‘RUN!!! OR WE’LL MISS KICK-OFF!!’
We were back home so fast I surprised Maddy with her hands in the kitchen cupboard – not eating the drinking chocolate, but scanning it with her I Touch. ‘Look, Mummy, my I Touch can tell you what this is, and where you can buy it – isn’t that cool?!’ ‘Have you done the homework that prevented you from coming to Kensington Palace?’ I said, deadpan. ‘Because otherwise, you will be scanning drinking chocolate in a supermarket for the rest of your life!’ She looked quite keen on the idea, but got out her books.
Saturday, 22 January 2011
The Three Cs - or was it C Sharp?
If we're talking mother-daughter relationships, there is definitely room for improvement when it comes to Bonnie and me. A few minutes of her ‘willful’ approach to life, and I am a screaming purple-faced wretch, clawing at the sky, howling into the moon:
'BONNIE YOU CANNOT SAY THAT! YOU WILL NEVER HAVE ANY FRIENDS!’ Pile it on! ‘YOU WILL DIE ALONE! AAAAAAAAAHHH!!!’
So I've come up with my very own mantra - the kind that has Alan dancing on the ceiling in his management training courses - and here it is: ‘Three Cs in a Crisis: Calm, Control, Consequence.'
Armed with the Three Cs I ‘helped’ Bonnie with her violin practice this morning. She just doesn't understand how fortunate she is that I am a piano teacher, on hand 24/7 to correct her mistakes! If we got through this without a show-down we were really on to something...
‘You expect me to play the violin on a Saturday morning when I’m supposed to be free?’ was her starter for ten. ‘Yes – remember you promised, because you wouldn’t practise in the week? Tell you what - we can do some art together afterwards as a reward!’ ‘OK then’ she groaned, eyes to the ceiling, ‘but I’ll do the art first’ (She likes to make the decisions). ‘In fact, I’ll paint my walls!’ Another unilateral decision.
Now I was hippy dippy when we had scuzzy crumbling walls, but now that we are skimmed polished and painted (due to a series of lucky floods) I couldn’t bare the daubing of hearts, dogs and Mario all over the smooth pink, so there was a sigh. ‘Well, I’ll do your art thing if you want me to,’ she said. ‘It’s not me who wants to do it!’ I snapped (whoops) ‘I thought you would be delighted to have me all to yourself!’ Petulant, and I haven’t finished yet: ‘We can forget it if it’s such a big effort!’ ‘Mmm, actually I’d rather ‘go somewhere’ for my reward’, she said (shopping).
Back to the practice (Keep your focus! You are in Control!). Eventually she started on her piece. ‘Bonnie’ I said, ‘can you just stop a minute, that C-’. She carries on playing. I let her play the whole piece. ‘Now, Bonnie, that C-’. She carries on playing. ‘Bonnie, would you mind just stopping, that C should be C sharp...’ She starts plucking her violin loudly while I talk. Plink! Plonk! ‘Bonnie, can you hear me talking? ‘ she’s pulling a face, mimicking me, which I ignore at the expense of my blood pressure. Plink! Plonk! ‘Bonnie can you stop plucking while I’m talking -’ ‘Are we finished yet, Mummy??’ She’s flopped her head back, groaning, and falls onto the sofa. ‘Bonnie! Stand up please! ’ ‘Hey, Mummy! Have we got any noodles?’ ‘Bonnie!’ I said, in my chokey voice, the one that is suppressing raging fury (that’s the CALM voice). I wrestle the violin off her. ‘Listen. This is C, and this is C sharp.’
‘FOR GOD’S SAKE’ she shouts, ‘I DID DO C SHARP!! And you are not my actual violin teacher. You are just a little piano teacher. YOU JUST WANT TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD AS USUAL!!’
There is a short silence while I consider whether to ram the violin over her head. But I would have a real sense of failure if I did, what with The Three Cs, so I leave the room – CALM!!! CONTROL THE SHOUT!!!! CONTROL IT!!!! - without shouting. ‘Fine! Be like that!’ she calls after me. SOD HER.
I congratulated myself on finally getting things right: no practice, no art, no loving relationship – fantastic! Mind you, no shouting. Now for the Consequence…
She sidled up later: ‘Are we going shopping yet?’ ‘I am waiting for you to apologise for being so rude, Bonnie.’ ‘What for? Oh yeah sorry when are we going shopping? You promised to buy me some pumps! Remember, when you and Daddy were building the table tennis table you said ‘if you bloody well stop batting ping-pong balls at my head I will buy you some pumps’’ This is true, but I was ready with the Consequence! ‘We are not going shopping unless you do your practice. Actions have Consequences, young lady!’ Calm, Control, Consequence! Oh, man!
And then she did practice. (WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!)
So we skipped off to the shops. I got cocky when we passed Clarke’s Shoes and thought maybe I could exert some Calm, Control and Consequences over the shoe situation, so that the warm, waterproof shoes sitting in our hall, could replace the crocks that have kept her feet wet and cold all through the winter...but too much brilliant parenting might have Consequences. ‘Give me a hug, Bonnie’ I said. ‘Straight to Primark..?’
'BONNIE YOU CANNOT SAY THAT! YOU WILL NEVER HAVE ANY FRIENDS!’ Pile it on! ‘YOU WILL DIE ALONE! AAAAAAAAAHHH!!!’
So I've come up with my very own mantra - the kind that has Alan dancing on the ceiling in his management training courses - and here it is: ‘Three Cs in a Crisis: Calm, Control, Consequence.'
Armed with the Three Cs I ‘helped’ Bonnie with her violin practice this morning. She just doesn't understand how fortunate she is that I am a piano teacher, on hand 24/7 to correct her mistakes! If we got through this without a show-down we were really on to something...
‘You expect me to play the violin on a Saturday morning when I’m supposed to be free?’ was her starter for ten. ‘Yes – remember you promised, because you wouldn’t practise in the week? Tell you what - we can do some art together afterwards as a reward!’ ‘OK then’ she groaned, eyes to the ceiling, ‘but I’ll do the art first’ (She likes to make the decisions). ‘In fact, I’ll paint my walls!’ Another unilateral decision.
Now I was hippy dippy when we had scuzzy crumbling walls, but now that we are skimmed polished and painted (due to a series of lucky floods) I couldn’t bare the daubing of hearts, dogs and Mario all over the smooth pink, so there was a sigh. ‘Well, I’ll do your art thing if you want me to,’ she said. ‘It’s not me who wants to do it!’ I snapped (whoops) ‘I thought you would be delighted to have me all to yourself!’ Petulant, and I haven’t finished yet: ‘We can forget it if it’s such a big effort!’ ‘Mmm, actually I’d rather ‘go somewhere’ for my reward’, she said (shopping).
Back to the practice (Keep your focus! You are in Control!). Eventually she started on her piece. ‘Bonnie’ I said, ‘can you just stop a minute, that C-’. She carries on playing. I let her play the whole piece. ‘Now, Bonnie, that C-’. She carries on playing. ‘Bonnie, would you mind just stopping, that C should be C sharp...’ She starts plucking her violin loudly while I talk. Plink! Plonk! ‘Bonnie, can you hear me talking? ‘ she’s pulling a face, mimicking me, which I ignore at the expense of my blood pressure. Plink! Plonk! ‘Bonnie can you stop plucking while I’m talking -’ ‘Are we finished yet, Mummy??’ She’s flopped her head back, groaning, and falls onto the sofa. ‘Bonnie! Stand up please! ’ ‘Hey, Mummy! Have we got any noodles?’ ‘Bonnie!’ I said, in my chokey voice, the one that is suppressing raging fury (that’s the CALM voice). I wrestle the violin off her. ‘Listen. This is C, and this is C sharp.’
‘FOR GOD’S SAKE’ she shouts, ‘I DID DO C SHARP!! And you are not my actual violin teacher. You are just a little piano teacher. YOU JUST WANT TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD AS USUAL!!’
There is a short silence while I consider whether to ram the violin over her head. But I would have a real sense of failure if I did, what with The Three Cs, so I leave the room – CALM!!! CONTROL THE SHOUT!!!! CONTROL IT!!!! - without shouting. ‘Fine! Be like that!’ she calls after me. SOD HER.
I congratulated myself on finally getting things right: no practice, no art, no loving relationship – fantastic! Mind you, no shouting. Now for the Consequence…
She sidled up later: ‘Are we going shopping yet?’ ‘I am waiting for you to apologise for being so rude, Bonnie.’ ‘What for? Oh yeah sorry when are we going shopping? You promised to buy me some pumps! Remember, when you and Daddy were building the table tennis table you said ‘if you bloody well stop batting ping-pong balls at my head I will buy you some pumps’’ This is true, but I was ready with the Consequence! ‘We are not going shopping unless you do your practice. Actions have Consequences, young lady!’ Calm, Control, Consequence! Oh, man!
And then she did practice. (WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!)
So we skipped off to the shops. I got cocky when we passed Clarke’s Shoes and thought maybe I could exert some Calm, Control and Consequences over the shoe situation, so that the warm, waterproof shoes sitting in our hall, could replace the crocks that have kept her feet wet and cold all through the winter...but too much brilliant parenting might have Consequences. ‘Give me a hug, Bonnie’ I said. ‘Straight to Primark..?’
Saturday, 8 January 2011
SMILE!
After throwing a truly sensational New Year’s Eve dinner party of left-overs for my oldest friends, Alan went off to visit his parents on New Year's Day, and I sat down with the children to receive their compliments about what a wonderful Christmas they’d had and how the old family wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Well. Two of them said they felt that their siblings all absolutely hated them. Josie said she felt invisible. Alfie made no contribution to this inspirational exchange since he’d been ill in bed since Christmas, incidentally stemming the usual two-way flow of emotional and flesh wounds between himself and Bonnie. Anyway, I was going off this conversation fast and decided to delay my book on parenting.
Maybe we’d all had enough of each other’s company? Could it be true?
Alan returned from the parental visit also rather strained; the remit for the trip was, as ever, to inject enough odd jobbery, bright-eyed listening, and good news stories about all of us into their lives to last until the next visit; it was merely an unfortunate side-effect on this occasion that he was able to notch up another Bank Holiday out of the house when everything is shut shut shut, not that I’d complain, it being his Dad’s birthday and all.
Yes, Alan was definitely on the ratty side today; as we climbed into the car (for we were out for lunch), Bonnie said ‘There’s a huge scratch on the car, Daddy’, and the reply came straight back: ‘There are a lot of scratches on the car that don’t appear to be anyone’s fault’ (barely perceptible glance at me). Ouch!
It was high time to launch New Year’s Resolution Number One themed around stop-being-a-grumpy-old-cow and SMILE in the face of adversity thus spreading joy and harmony about your person. When Alan comes home from work instead of continuing to wipe counters with my back to him and mumbling ‘…didn’t know you were going to be late again..’ or continuing with my foul stream of consciousness but out loud for his benefit ‘...who left that there!!?? Already tidied up once!...’ I shall turn around, look him warmly in the eyes – perhaps even take him in my arms! - and say ‘Hello, how was your day?’, then I will SMILE widely. Likewise, when the children get up in the morning, instead of carping on ‘…What’s the point in me waking you up an hour ago it you just lie in bed?!!You’re late!!! ..’, I will SMILE and exclaim ‘Well, looky here! It’s my special girl/boy! You really needed that sleep didn’t you??! Now you gotta run run run!!’
So there we were in the car, me SMILING all over my face, no point denying that scratches do appear on the paintwork quite frequently. But let's move on! I requested freezing air conditioning during the journey, since we were taking ice-cream with us to our friends (surely thumping our hands together for warmth was better than melting the ice-cream?). Alan’s response was a sharp ‘This is a family car, not an ice-cream van!’ (Ooooh!)
Time to pull out New Year’s Resolution Number Two, ‘Let’s Agree to Disagree’ (or ‘Two Rights don’t make a Wrong’ as one of the children so refreshingly put it) for I had inadvertantly wandered onto mutually forbidden territory – heating of airspaces!! – the subject of open warfare between two otherwise reasonable human beings for twenty two years. SMILING would get me nowhere here. The germ of this second resolution had been born on a mild night in December. Alan had come home earlier than expected and caught me red-handed with the heating off. ’Fires are not for just switching on and off!!’ he fairly shouted, as if I was crazy. ‘Why did you turn the fire off?’ ‘It was stuffy’ I muttered into my lap, shakily ‘the heating’s been on since 6am’. ‘Well, now I’m cold’ he pouted, and we were off, or would have been if I hadn’t stopped and thought ‘Let’s Agree to Disagree!’ (I’ll just turn the heating off without telling him).
Back in the car, I glanced at my ice-cream anxiously, and forced it out: ‘Let’s Agree to Disagree’ and - score! - a compromise agreement was struck and the air-conditioning was set to ‘cool’. Bring it on, 2011!!
Maybe we’d all had enough of each other’s company? Could it be true?
Alan returned from the parental visit also rather strained; the remit for the trip was, as ever, to inject enough odd jobbery, bright-eyed listening, and good news stories about all of us into their lives to last until the next visit; it was merely an unfortunate side-effect on this occasion that he was able to notch up another Bank Holiday out of the house when everything is shut shut shut, not that I’d complain, it being his Dad’s birthday and all.
Yes, Alan was definitely on the ratty side today; as we climbed into the car (for we were out for lunch), Bonnie said ‘There’s a huge scratch on the car, Daddy’, and the reply came straight back: ‘There are a lot of scratches on the car that don’t appear to be anyone’s fault’ (barely perceptible glance at me). Ouch!
It was high time to launch New Year’s Resolution Number One themed around stop-being-a-grumpy-old-cow and SMILE in the face of adversity thus spreading joy and harmony about your person. When Alan comes home from work instead of continuing to wipe counters with my back to him and mumbling ‘…didn’t know you were going to be late again..’ or continuing with my foul stream of consciousness but out loud for his benefit ‘...who left that there!!?? Already tidied up once!...’ I shall turn around, look him warmly in the eyes – perhaps even take him in my arms! - and say ‘Hello, how was your day?’, then I will SMILE widely. Likewise, when the children get up in the morning, instead of carping on ‘…What’s the point in me waking you up an hour ago it you just lie in bed?!!You’re late!!! ..’, I will SMILE and exclaim ‘Well, looky here! It’s my special girl/boy! You really needed that sleep didn’t you??! Now you gotta run run run!!’
So there we were in the car, me SMILING all over my face, no point denying that scratches do appear on the paintwork quite frequently. But let's move on! I requested freezing air conditioning during the journey, since we were taking ice-cream with us to our friends (surely thumping our hands together for warmth was better than melting the ice-cream?). Alan’s response was a sharp ‘This is a family car, not an ice-cream van!’ (Ooooh!)
Time to pull out New Year’s Resolution Number Two, ‘Let’s Agree to Disagree’ (or ‘Two Rights don’t make a Wrong’ as one of the children so refreshingly put it) for I had inadvertantly wandered onto mutually forbidden territory – heating of airspaces!! – the subject of open warfare between two otherwise reasonable human beings for twenty two years. SMILING would get me nowhere here. The germ of this second resolution had been born on a mild night in December. Alan had come home earlier than expected and caught me red-handed with the heating off. ’Fires are not for just switching on and off!!’ he fairly shouted, as if I was crazy. ‘Why did you turn the fire off?’ ‘It was stuffy’ I muttered into my lap, shakily ‘the heating’s been on since 6am’. ‘Well, now I’m cold’ he pouted, and we were off, or would have been if I hadn’t stopped and thought ‘Let’s Agree to Disagree!’ (I’ll just turn the heating off without telling him).
Back in the car, I glanced at my ice-cream anxiously, and forced it out: ‘Let’s Agree to Disagree’ and - score! - a compromise agreement was struck and the air-conditioning was set to ‘cool’. Bring it on, 2011!!
Lemon Glue
There goes Christmas for another year - done! (but not dusted). A combination of ice and illness has now transformed us into a clutch of activity-averse, pallid-skinned yawners, lumbering in slow motion from one warmish-spot to another, our pathetic radiators (‘OK, we give up’) providing less heat than the steam off a cuppa. The children are flicking switches, topping up their pouches with chocolate, and lying amongst banks of handcream, Florentines, cranberry chutney, sweet wrappers, teddies, books flicked and left, Wii discs out of boxes, CDs, DVDs, malting tinsel, pine needles, all the rubbish chocolates, and things half-put-away by me before exhaustion set in at the thought of the BIG SORT OUT required to find crevices for all the new junk.
But that's what holidays are for, isn't it? Unwinding, emptying your head - I get that, dood (at least I try to). Why not watch morning TV!!? For a long time? Why not? Why not sleep till 1pm? Only nutcases and competitive freaks would consider squeezing five minutes flute practice out of their over-pushed children, or dragging them out in the cold to experience the snow upon their mitts, or getting homework done before the first day of term - honestly, those poor kids! Not me, no. This emancipated mum rejects middle-class pressures (for two weeks) and will provide instead a loving and cosy nest for her little chicks to snuggle in…
But occasionally my stomach goes flip. Oh no! We are dumbing down! Why won’t the girls select the Plight of Wild Black Bears in Minnesota instead of Friends, just occasionally? What is wrong with us that we don’t want to do anything?? Oh no, oh no! Something has gone terribly wrong. Get your violin out! Read the damn book! ‘Have you got any homework?’ I ask Maddy. ‘Mummy! Not now!’ as if I’d suggested skinning a rabbit. ‘But you are doing nothing, I believe’ I dare to utter. ‘Actually I’m exploring my ipod touch’ (eight days and counting) ‘and later I’m meeting a friend to eat crisps and sit down’.
Apart from the occasional neurotic flare-up on my part (six gigantic pink and lime storage boxes from Wilkinsons – put things in boxes, it doesn’t matter what!) I'd just about got the hang of the slothing, when blow me, Bonnie started getting all active! ‘I’m opening my Slime Set’ she said. ‘Wonderful darling!’ I shouted, hoisting myself out of my coma of low level housework. Father Christmas had given her various arty sets to keep her busy for a few months, but no, she was going to do them all today, starting with mixing up the olive oil, sugar and lemon facial scrub (‘You can use some when I’ve made it Mummy!’) requiring vigorous whipping according to Bonnie’s take on the directions. So I’m wiping it off the walls while she tips the remainder on the floor and starts on the second row of her knitting, which I’ve been passing from one surface to another since Christmas Day. ‘Mummy! Are you listening to me? I’ve dropped a stitch!’ and it’s off with the marigolds (support the creativity – do not complain!) to check the knitting and stand in the lemon glue.
At this point, I introduce a reminder in my getting cross now voice that she needs to clear up one activity before starting the next. ‘Yes, Mummy’ and she floats a paper towel down to my feet for me to use, simultaneously beckoning, ‘Come on Mummy, I want to make the pyjama case in my Girls Annual!’ I leave my shoes in the oil slick and get her some old pyjamas to cut up. ‘Mummy, I thought you wanted me to learn how to sew! Why aren’t you helping me?’ Up I come off the floor again where I’ve discovered oil and sugar to be a challenging combination for one who does quantity but not quality cleaning. We discuss cutting and stitching and I thread a needle, all on tippy toes because of sticky feet. She does a couple of enormous stitches then Maddy appears, having risen alarmingly before mid-day to train Bonnie in using her new Wii game. ‘May I go Mummy? Please?’ I pretend disappointment for a millisecond, then smile ‘Oh, go on then’, because I only want her to be happy..
But that's what holidays are for, isn't it? Unwinding, emptying your head - I get that, dood (at least I try to). Why not watch morning TV!!? For a long time? Why not? Why not sleep till 1pm? Only nutcases and competitive freaks would consider squeezing five minutes flute practice out of their over-pushed children, or dragging them out in the cold to experience the snow upon their mitts, or getting homework done before the first day of term - honestly, those poor kids! Not me, no. This emancipated mum rejects middle-class pressures (for two weeks) and will provide instead a loving and cosy nest for her little chicks to snuggle in…
But occasionally my stomach goes flip. Oh no! We are dumbing down! Why won’t the girls select the Plight of Wild Black Bears in Minnesota instead of Friends, just occasionally? What is wrong with us that we don’t want to do anything?? Oh no, oh no! Something has gone terribly wrong. Get your violin out! Read the damn book! ‘Have you got any homework?’ I ask Maddy. ‘Mummy! Not now!’ as if I’d suggested skinning a rabbit. ‘But you are doing nothing, I believe’ I dare to utter. ‘Actually I’m exploring my ipod touch’ (eight days and counting) ‘and later I’m meeting a friend to eat crisps and sit down’.
Apart from the occasional neurotic flare-up on my part (six gigantic pink and lime storage boxes from Wilkinsons – put things in boxes, it doesn’t matter what!) I'd just about got the hang of the slothing, when blow me, Bonnie started getting all active! ‘I’m opening my Slime Set’ she said. ‘Wonderful darling!’ I shouted, hoisting myself out of my coma of low level housework. Father Christmas had given her various arty sets to keep her busy for a few months, but no, she was going to do them all today, starting with mixing up the olive oil, sugar and lemon facial scrub (‘You can use some when I’ve made it Mummy!’) requiring vigorous whipping according to Bonnie’s take on the directions. So I’m wiping it off the walls while she tips the remainder on the floor and starts on the second row of her knitting, which I’ve been passing from one surface to another since Christmas Day. ‘Mummy! Are you listening to me? I’ve dropped a stitch!’ and it’s off with the marigolds (support the creativity – do not complain!) to check the knitting and stand in the lemon glue.
At this point, I introduce a reminder in my getting cross now voice that she needs to clear up one activity before starting the next. ‘Yes, Mummy’ and she floats a paper towel down to my feet for me to use, simultaneously beckoning, ‘Come on Mummy, I want to make the pyjama case in my Girls Annual!’ I leave my shoes in the oil slick and get her some old pyjamas to cut up. ‘Mummy, I thought you wanted me to learn how to sew! Why aren’t you helping me?’ Up I come off the floor again where I’ve discovered oil and sugar to be a challenging combination for one who does quantity but not quality cleaning. We discuss cutting and stitching and I thread a needle, all on tippy toes because of sticky feet. She does a couple of enormous stitches then Maddy appears, having risen alarmingly before mid-day to train Bonnie in using her new Wii game. ‘May I go Mummy? Please?’ I pretend disappointment for a millisecond, then smile ‘Oh, go on then’, because I only want her to be happy..
Monday, 27 December 2010
Pack a Punch
I think we are coming to the end of an era. Bonnie marched up to me on Christmas Eve and fixed me with a glare somewhere between scorn, victory and disappointment. ‘I’ve got something very serious to tell you, Mummy: I’ve found the presents: You are Father Christmas!’ and she led me to a stack of presents in Alan’s wardrobe. ‘I think those are Daddy’s surprise presents for me!’ I whispered ‘Can you keep it a secret?’
It was a long night: ‘You can’t send me to bed; Christmas is a time to be with your family!’ (10pm); ‘I’m indigesting my food’ (11pm); ‘I don’t know whether I believe in father Christmas or not!’ (midnight, weeping); ‘I’m still awake!’ (1.30am).
At some point in the dead of night there was a commotion in the cellar, the crash of falling bottles, a muffled ‘OW! SH*T!!’…but there on Christmas Morning, set before the fireplace, were four piles of presents – magical!
The front room was transformed quickly into a trash can of wrappings, bells and bows, presents small and large tossed aside for the next one, and children lying down on top of the clutter, tapping and stroking their various squillion shmegabite this, that and the others. Alan made grateful noises about his (yes, his) stocking fillers, ‘ah, this edition of Brewers Dictionary of Phrase and Fable…I don’t suppose the new one is much different…’ and tried to understand why the fridge magnet I chose for him ‘Fridge Pickers wear Large Knickers’ made me howl quite so uncontrollably. But soon I was getting twitchy about the mess so disappeared into the kitchen to get down and dirty with Jamie Oliver and ‘pack a punch’ into the maris pipers (‘smash those little babies (garlic) and chuck’em in with the big boys’), speed-peel the apples for a crumble, and of course teach Bonnie to knit right now (‘Father Christmas gets me the best presents’).
Alan was upstairs reading the ingredients on the toothpaste, in fact everyone was relaxing while I was doing my usual clockwork mouse impression, so I roared ‘What exactly are you all doing? Cathy and Johnny (neighbours) are coming in a minute, get dressed all of you, tidy up, teeth, hair, MOVE!!’ (Happy Christmas!), and funnily enough, Alan shot down the stairs a second later looking like that was exactly what he was about to say, and started yelling at the children who bawled: ‘I DIDN’T MAKE THE MESS - YOU’RE SO MEAN’ . Soon it sounded like he might ‘pack a punch’ into something else…
But just then our lovely neighbours arrived for a Christmas Drink, controversially arranged by Alan to start half an hour before we were due at my sisters for Christmas Dinner. ‘We can be flexible’ he’d remonstrated, meaning I should give in and ask her to stall the roast: ‘it’s Christmas – there’s no timetable’ he said (Oh?). I put it to him that he might not feel quite so flexible if he was the one with a duck in the oven already at the crispy stage and no guests in sight. But according to him, my inclination to show up before Ducky was cinders was anal rather than courteous so I delivered my own off-the-air Christmas Lecture, (and this one did ‘pack a punch’) on the subject of ‘I AM EXTREMELY ANGRY*!!*’ in the car on the way to my sisters, switching seamlessly to ‘Hello! Merry Christmas!’ upon arrival. We passed a very pleasant family day, all our lovely children getting a bit of the limelight - mine for stretching the hamster, hers for making the desserts, one a piece. A Merry Christmas To One and All!
It was a long night: ‘You can’t send me to bed; Christmas is a time to be with your family!’ (10pm); ‘I’m indigesting my food’ (11pm); ‘I don’t know whether I believe in father Christmas or not!’ (midnight, weeping); ‘I’m still awake!’ (1.30am).
At some point in the dead of night there was a commotion in the cellar, the crash of falling bottles, a muffled ‘OW! SH*T!!’…but there on Christmas Morning, set before the fireplace, were four piles of presents – magical!
The front room was transformed quickly into a trash can of wrappings, bells and bows, presents small and large tossed aside for the next one, and children lying down on top of the clutter, tapping and stroking their various squillion shmegabite this, that and the others. Alan made grateful noises about his (yes, his) stocking fillers, ‘ah, this edition of Brewers Dictionary of Phrase and Fable…I don’t suppose the new one is much different…’ and tried to understand why the fridge magnet I chose for him ‘Fridge Pickers wear Large Knickers’ made me howl quite so uncontrollably. But soon I was getting twitchy about the mess so disappeared into the kitchen to get down and dirty with Jamie Oliver and ‘pack a punch’ into the maris pipers (‘smash those little babies (garlic) and chuck’em in with the big boys’), speed-peel the apples for a crumble, and of course teach Bonnie to knit right now (‘Father Christmas gets me the best presents’).
Alan was upstairs reading the ingredients on the toothpaste, in fact everyone was relaxing while I was doing my usual clockwork mouse impression, so I roared ‘What exactly are you all doing? Cathy and Johnny (neighbours) are coming in a minute, get dressed all of you, tidy up, teeth, hair, MOVE!!’ (Happy Christmas!), and funnily enough, Alan shot down the stairs a second later looking like that was exactly what he was about to say, and started yelling at the children who bawled: ‘I DIDN’T MAKE THE MESS - YOU’RE SO MEAN’ . Soon it sounded like he might ‘pack a punch’ into something else…
But just then our lovely neighbours arrived for a Christmas Drink, controversially arranged by Alan to start half an hour before we were due at my sisters for Christmas Dinner. ‘We can be flexible’ he’d remonstrated, meaning I should give in and ask her to stall the roast: ‘it’s Christmas – there’s no timetable’ he said (Oh?). I put it to him that he might not feel quite so flexible if he was the one with a duck in the oven already at the crispy stage and no guests in sight. But according to him, my inclination to show up before Ducky was cinders was anal rather than courteous so I delivered my own off-the-air Christmas Lecture, (and this one did ‘pack a punch’) on the subject of ‘I AM EXTREMELY ANGRY*!!*’ in the car on the way to my sisters, switching seamlessly to ‘Hello! Merry Christmas!’ upon arrival. We passed a very pleasant family day, all our lovely children getting a bit of the limelight - mine for stretching the hamster, hers for making the desserts, one a piece. A Merry Christmas To One and All!
Friday, 24 December 2010
We are Family
The serial Christmas Show-watching has drawn to a close. My highlights of the week:
1. Street-dancers, Secondary School Show - bums 'n' boobs, thrust 'n' jerk! - in the faces of the audience of middle-aged parents. Crikey.
2. Eleven year old boy band, same show, crooning ‘I lost my way, oh yeah, the lonely path, oh oh oh’ (‘Marmite soldiers for breakfast please, Mummy!’)
3. Inaudible Brownie Show ‘The Pnshs Oun’, that's all I know.
4. The shocking BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST of Bonnie’s brass and wind concert: thirty beginner trumpets and clarinets in concert…but not in control. Very frightening.
Now it's just us, time to be together, reconnect. Snow underfoot (what a treat!), arms linked as we stomp across the Heath, then home to a roaring coal fire, tree twinkling, cocoa and muffins, ‘Mummy, do read us a story!’ ‘Yes, darlings, gather round!…Once upon a time...’ We are family.
Seriously, I entered the holiday so SICK of telling them all what to do since September (get up! go to bed! pick it up! eat it! stop eating! do your homework!) I decided to chill, man, after all this is the twenty-first century, things have changed - why would anyone want to make a horrible Christmas decoration when they could be shooting squeaky blobby things? ‘You can do whatever you like’ I said with the magnanimity of one who is about to get two weeks of quality time alone, and they vanished to log on. I closed the kitchen door: haha! I get it now!
But guess what – we can bicker with all the computers and tellies on, as well as off!
‘Mummy! It’s my turn on the computer. Alfie won’t come off!’
‘She can use the laptop!’
‘The laptop’s rubbish -tell him to get off!’
‘Wait! I’m in the middle of a level!’
‘Five minutes Alfie – be patient Bonnie!’
‘You always take Alfie’s side!’
‘No I don’t - I’m just trying to teach you to be a nice person, Bonnie’
‘You are teaching me to be a nice person badly!’
‘What about the wii, Bonnie – why don’t you go on that?’
‘Maddy won’t let me’
‘Hey - that’s because you always promise to put it away then don’t!’
‘That’s not true Maddy – you got it out first!’
‘You used it last, and it’s mine anyway!’
‘It’s not fair, I can’t buy anything because I haven’t got any money’
‘Bonnie, that’s because you spend it all!’
‘No it’s because horrible Mummy fines me all the time for nothing!’
‘Hey Mummy! She took my chair, I only went to the loo!’
‘It’s my turn anyway! Haha! OW! OW! Mummy! MUMMY!!! He hit me!!’
‘She stole my chair!’ and on..and on.. and on.
The screens rule came crashing down. ‘SWITCH IT OFF! AND THAT! AND THAT! OFF! OFF! OFF! NO SCREENS TILL 3PM!’
So Alfie set about entertaining himself:
‘I’m bored. What can I do?’
‘Read your book!’
‘I don’t know where it is’
‘Look for it, and look properly, don’t just stand still and swivel your eyes about!’
‘Mm.. I’m bored. What can I do?’
‘Empty the dishwasher’ (he is a Junior Citizen now after all).We negotiated a price of 75p
‘You should do chores anyway!!’
So he began, lifting one small plate: ‘Where does this go?’
‘In the left hand cupboard’
‘Where’s the cupboard?’
‘In front of you. Those are the cupboards’
‘What’s the left?’
‘The left cupboard. The cupboard that is on the left.’
‘Where?’
(OK, calm down, you can do this).‘What hand do you write with, Alfie?’
‘Um…um…this one!’
‘That’s your left hand... So put the plate in the left-hand cupboard!’…
’Mummy, where does this go…?’ Jesus.
Bonnie can pass twenty minutes or so providing I’m prepared to hoover glitter off the ceiling, and I tricked Alfie into decorating a yule log by inviting a friend of his who likes that sort of thing, but he got his own back: ‘Look Mummy, Father Christmas’s head is in the chocolate butter-cream, and the reindeer’s on his bum ha ha ha!’ ‘Now now boys, don’t be silly!! Let’s just take Santa out and wash his head’.
We did have the snow: ‘Alfie you must stand at least one metre away from Bonnie when you throw compacted snowballs at her face’. But in the main, it’s been hard-going – and still three days to go..
Poor Alan’s working right up to Christmas Eve ‘Sorry Soph, someone has to do it’ (punching the air), and partying after work most nights with some TLA (Three Letter Acronym) or other: ‘RSM tonight – just got to show my face’ (home at midnight) – or worse still, ‘I’ll be home for something to eat’, slipping in as I’m letting rip the final tender goodnights ‘THAT’S IT – YOU’RE NOT GETTING A TUCK IN!’, to boozily fill me in on his plans to offer a human resources service to the entire galaxy by 2012, while I nod and think ‘I forgot the pink shrimps for your stocking’.
1. Street-dancers, Secondary School Show - bums 'n' boobs, thrust 'n' jerk! - in the faces of the audience of middle-aged parents. Crikey.
2. Eleven year old boy band, same show, crooning ‘I lost my way, oh yeah, the lonely path, oh oh oh’ (‘Marmite soldiers for breakfast please, Mummy!’)
3. Inaudible Brownie Show ‘The Pnshs Oun’, that's all I know.
4. The shocking BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST of Bonnie’s brass and wind concert: thirty beginner trumpets and clarinets in concert…but not in control. Very frightening.
Now it's just us, time to be together, reconnect. Snow underfoot (what a treat!), arms linked as we stomp across the Heath, then home to a roaring coal fire, tree twinkling, cocoa and muffins, ‘Mummy, do read us a story!’ ‘Yes, darlings, gather round!…Once upon a time...’ We are family.
Seriously, I entered the holiday so SICK of telling them all what to do since September (get up! go to bed! pick it up! eat it! stop eating! do your homework!) I decided to chill, man, after all this is the twenty-first century, things have changed - why would anyone want to make a horrible Christmas decoration when they could be shooting squeaky blobby things? ‘You can do whatever you like’ I said with the magnanimity of one who is about to get two weeks of quality time alone, and they vanished to log on. I closed the kitchen door: haha! I get it now!
But guess what – we can bicker with all the computers and tellies on, as well as off!
‘Mummy! It’s my turn on the computer. Alfie won’t come off!’
‘She can use the laptop!’
‘The laptop’s rubbish -tell him to get off!’
‘Wait! I’m in the middle of a level!’
‘Five minutes Alfie – be patient Bonnie!’
‘You always take Alfie’s side!’
‘No I don’t - I’m just trying to teach you to be a nice person, Bonnie’
‘You are teaching me to be a nice person badly!’
‘What about the wii, Bonnie – why don’t you go on that?’
‘Maddy won’t let me’
‘Hey - that’s because you always promise to put it away then don’t!’
‘That’s not true Maddy – you got it out first!’
‘You used it last, and it’s mine anyway!’
‘It’s not fair, I can’t buy anything because I haven’t got any money’
‘Bonnie, that’s because you spend it all!’
‘No it’s because horrible Mummy fines me all the time for nothing!’
‘Hey Mummy! She took my chair, I only went to the loo!’
‘It’s my turn anyway! Haha! OW! OW! Mummy! MUMMY!!! He hit me!!’
‘She stole my chair!’ and on..and on.. and on.
The screens rule came crashing down. ‘SWITCH IT OFF! AND THAT! AND THAT! OFF! OFF! OFF! NO SCREENS TILL 3PM!’
So Alfie set about entertaining himself:
‘I’m bored. What can I do?’
‘Read your book!’
‘I don’t know where it is’
‘Look for it, and look properly, don’t just stand still and swivel your eyes about!’
‘Mm.. I’m bored. What can I do?’
‘Empty the dishwasher’ (he is a Junior Citizen now after all).We negotiated a price of 75p
‘You should do chores anyway!!’
So he began, lifting one small plate: ‘Where does this go?’
‘In the left hand cupboard’
‘Where’s the cupboard?’
‘In front of you. Those are the cupboards’
‘What’s the left?’
‘The left cupboard. The cupboard that is on the left.’
‘Where?’
(OK, calm down, you can do this).‘What hand do you write with, Alfie?’
‘Um…um…this one!’
‘That’s your left hand... So put the plate in the left-hand cupboard!’…
’Mummy, where does this go…?’ Jesus.
Bonnie can pass twenty minutes or so providing I’m prepared to hoover glitter off the ceiling, and I tricked Alfie into decorating a yule log by inviting a friend of his who likes that sort of thing, but he got his own back: ‘Look Mummy, Father Christmas’s head is in the chocolate butter-cream, and the reindeer’s on his bum ha ha ha!’ ‘Now now boys, don’t be silly!! Let’s just take Santa out and wash his head’.
We did have the snow: ‘Alfie you must stand at least one metre away from Bonnie when you throw compacted snowballs at her face’. But in the main, it’s been hard-going – and still three days to go..
Poor Alan’s working right up to Christmas Eve ‘Sorry Soph, someone has to do it’ (punching the air), and partying after work most nights with some TLA (Three Letter Acronym) or other: ‘RSM tonight – just got to show my face’ (home at midnight) – or worse still, ‘I’ll be home for something to eat’, slipping in as I’m letting rip the final tender goodnights ‘THAT’S IT – YOU’RE NOT GETTING A TUCK IN!’, to boozily fill me in on his plans to offer a human resources service to the entire galaxy by 2012, while I nod and think ‘I forgot the pink shrimps for your stocking’.
Friday, 17 December 2010
Build a Bear
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!
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!
Saturday, 11 December 2010
Advent Calendars
Call me a silly old maid, but I do like a traditional Advent Calendar, definitely no chocolates, just little Mary or the donkey (clip-clop!) peeping out of a window to warm the cockles and give a flicker of meaning to this daft and directionless existence…The children, however, are willing to forego time-honoured tradition in favour of a cheap choc with their cornflakes.
Obviously, I don’t get my way, so we end up with both kinds, and sneer vigorously at each others’ calendars:
‘Chocolates first thing! YUK! Look at my lovely Nativity Scene!’
‘Bully for you, Mummy! You are living in the dark ages – everybody has a chocolate advent calendar these days! We don’t just want boring old pictures. Yum yum - this chocolate is delicious!’
Sometimes I break down and ask them for a bit.
This year, though, I had a plan: I’d ask Bonnie to make the Advent Calendar. That’d get her on side, and the others wouldn’t dream of hurting her feelings by buying chocolate calendars (this bit had me edgy, I’ll admit). We’d gather around her lovely home-made calendar each morning; what heart-warming yuletide image would surprise us today?! The Three Kings? The Star of Gabriel? I couldn’t wait!
‘Bonnie’ I said, pulling up a chair conspiratorially, ‘Would you do me a big favour? Would you make our advent calendar this year? Completely secret from the others mind you….’ She bought it hook, line and sinker, and set to with pens and paper behind a cereal packet at the end of the table…
Josie was tense and shouty, in the middle of GCSE mocks: ‘I know nothing at all. I don’t care how many times you say I’m good at maths, I am not. You are just making me more upset. And I need total quiet; how long are you going to be banging about?’
So I went away to offer Maddy some guidance with her crucial science test (GET UP!!). She’d flunked the previous one by being in her flute lesson instead (‘Wh-wh-what? WHAT?? Didn’t you say anything to your teacher?’ ‘You want me to learn the flute don’t you?’). I spoke crossly to the motionless lump in her bed: ‘You are not to leave the house until you have revised all thirteen chapters of the Science Revision Guide!’ Excellent – everybody sorted! Now I was free to go Christmas shopping.
Two hours later, frozen with indecision and full of loathing for Christmas, I returned home, to find a house buzzing with activity: Alan was under the covers with the radio memorising weather forecasts in case I tried to switch our so-called heating off; Alfie was sitting on a blank sheet of homework, googling ’Thirty ways to annoy your little sister’; Josie was weeping in the bath (‘All this work is killing me!’); and all that remained of Maddy was a note explaining that, unfortunately, she’d had to go straight to her sleepover party, otherwise she would have missed kick-off and therefore a tiny fraction of the TV and junk consumption planned for the next twelve hours. She was now uncontactable because her phone was in a bowl of rice(obviously) to draw out the moisture that had got inside it when she dropped it down the loo. But don’t worry - she’ll do all the revision whenever she shows up tomorrow, full of get-go after four hours’ sleep. Only dear Bonnie – never any trouble from her – was engaged in anything remotely constructive, still diligently drawing Advent Calendar pictures behind the cereal packet. I mounted her lovely little pictures, placing the stable scene in the 24th December window with a frisson of excitement.
Best laid plans and all that – sadly, my Advent Calendar scheme was scuppered at the eleventh hour; Bonnie was given a chocolate Advent Calendar at Brownies! (thank you so much, Brown Owl). It was only a matter of time until the rest of the children had chocolate calendars too…
Still, we all gathered round on December 1st for the Grand Opening of the first window of Bonnie’s calendar... and...there it was! MARY HOLDING BABY JESUS!!!
Bonnie screamed: ‘MUMMMMMY!!! THAT’S THE LAST PICTURE!!! NOW EVERYONE’S SEEN BABY JESUS!!! YOU’VE DONE IT ALL WRONG – YOU’VE RUINED THE WHOLE THING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’
I sat down. Oh dear. ‘Can someone give me a chocolate, please?’
Obviously, I don’t get my way, so we end up with both kinds, and sneer vigorously at each others’ calendars:
‘Chocolates first thing! YUK! Look at my lovely Nativity Scene!’
‘Bully for you, Mummy! You are living in the dark ages – everybody has a chocolate advent calendar these days! We don’t just want boring old pictures. Yum yum - this chocolate is delicious!’
Sometimes I break down and ask them for a bit.
This year, though, I had a plan: I’d ask Bonnie to make the Advent Calendar. That’d get her on side, and the others wouldn’t dream of hurting her feelings by buying chocolate calendars (this bit had me edgy, I’ll admit). We’d gather around her lovely home-made calendar each morning; what heart-warming yuletide image would surprise us today?! The Three Kings? The Star of Gabriel? I couldn’t wait!
‘Bonnie’ I said, pulling up a chair conspiratorially, ‘Would you do me a big favour? Would you make our advent calendar this year? Completely secret from the others mind you….’ She bought it hook, line and sinker, and set to with pens and paper behind a cereal packet at the end of the table…
Josie was tense and shouty, in the middle of GCSE mocks: ‘I know nothing at all. I don’t care how many times you say I’m good at maths, I am not. You are just making me more upset. And I need total quiet; how long are you going to be banging about?’
So I went away to offer Maddy some guidance with her crucial science test (GET UP!!). She’d flunked the previous one by being in her flute lesson instead (‘Wh-wh-what? WHAT?? Didn’t you say anything to your teacher?’ ‘You want me to learn the flute don’t you?’). I spoke crossly to the motionless lump in her bed: ‘You are not to leave the house until you have revised all thirteen chapters of the Science Revision Guide!’ Excellent – everybody sorted! Now I was free to go Christmas shopping.
Two hours later, frozen with indecision and full of loathing for Christmas, I returned home, to find a house buzzing with activity: Alan was under the covers with the radio memorising weather forecasts in case I tried to switch our so-called heating off; Alfie was sitting on a blank sheet of homework, googling ’Thirty ways to annoy your little sister’; Josie was weeping in the bath (‘All this work is killing me!’); and all that remained of Maddy was a note explaining that, unfortunately, she’d had to go straight to her sleepover party, otherwise she would have missed kick-off and therefore a tiny fraction of the TV and junk consumption planned for the next twelve hours. She was now uncontactable because her phone was in a bowl of rice(obviously) to draw out the moisture that had got inside it when she dropped it down the loo. But don’t worry - she’ll do all the revision whenever she shows up tomorrow, full of get-go after four hours’ sleep. Only dear Bonnie – never any trouble from her – was engaged in anything remotely constructive, still diligently drawing Advent Calendar pictures behind the cereal packet. I mounted her lovely little pictures, placing the stable scene in the 24th December window with a frisson of excitement.
Best laid plans and all that – sadly, my Advent Calendar scheme was scuppered at the eleventh hour; Bonnie was given a chocolate Advent Calendar at Brownies! (thank you so much, Brown Owl). It was only a matter of time until the rest of the children had chocolate calendars too…
Still, we all gathered round on December 1st for the Grand Opening of the first window of Bonnie’s calendar... and...there it was! MARY HOLDING BABY JESUS!!!
Bonnie screamed: ‘MUMMMMMY!!! THAT’S THE LAST PICTURE!!! NOW EVERYONE’S SEEN BABY JESUS!!! YOU’VE DONE IT ALL WRONG – YOU’VE RUINED THE WHOLE THING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’
I sat down. Oh dear. ‘Can someone give me a chocolate, please?’
Friday, 3 December 2010
Forty Winks
The trouble with loving child-free hours with the kind of passion usually associated with..um..child-filled hours, especially now that bedtime for Josie and Maddy seems to be when-they-decide-o’clock, is that I have to stay up really late for a fix of unencumbered pottering. The resulting daytime sleep deficit means that I tend to nod off at important moments in my childrens’ lives. This does not look good on me.
For one, I accompanied Josie to her first 6th form Open Day recently, which entailed hopping and shuffling along (bags and coats were my job) in the wake of my lovely girl as she strode forth into her new life, delicately, shyly smiling around her and lobbing back showers of leaflets for the old crow to snatch at with a wizened claw. Eventually we sat down for the head teacher’s sales pitch - with a friend of Josie’s, also with mum in tow, whom I politely greeted (wishing I was more shabby chic than shabby shit) and blow me it wasn’t five minutes before I’d nodded off, head in lap!
I can only explain the next inappropriate sleeping incident as an unconscious refuge from a ghastly situation; I’d booked Bonnie onto a fashion drawing workshop with her friend only to discover that I was to be the fashion model (‘Do a pose! Hands on hips and throw your head back!’). Silk purse and sow’s ear came to mind (oh, Mummy, you don’t really look beautiful’); my best bet was a seated pose hiding awkwardly beneath my designer bonnet (accessories were provided). Next thing was a tap on the leg ‘You’re not supposed to be asleep!’ (the instructor).
Now then, playing Maid of Honour to Bonnie as she prepared for her Tudors assembly - the elaborately twisted hair, the phone calls to a friend (got to look the same), the white lies ‘that scarf turns your best party dress into an exact Jane Seymour lookalike, it really does!’ – were all par for the course. But when the call came from school because Bonnie had lost the whole costume on the way to school and was 'upset' (what d'you want me to do about it?) I was obliged to ricochet around (pant, pant) piecing together a duplicate costume, run to school (puff, puff) with it - I guess I was all done in by the time I sat down to watch the actual performance, and it was all snug and warm...before I knew it the Head was thanking us for coming!
So after all that, I was in deep doggy-do for having no recollection of the assembly at all. But never mind, at the next week's music concert, I made a point of waving like a nut to my little treasures on the stage - to prove I was alert and raring to watch, listen and learn. I needn’t have worried; the music centre’s policy of introducing children to improvisation before they’ve learnt to write their name, and the resulting tuneless peeps and toots (audience nodding and ‘digging’ it, of course), always causes a forbidden hysteria to bubble up in my chest which I have to close my eyes to control, certainly no chance of a nap. Nor at Josie’s concert the next evening, for I was just settling down for a little shut eye in the Senior Guitars when Bonnie began asking loudly and repeatedly for snacks, and jumping violently off the rickety scaffolding supporting the audience seating (thud) just as the extremely talented jazz trumpeter who was supposed to be inspiring Bonnie to practice her trumpet was doing his thing. She climbed up behind me and whacked me on the shoulders ‘BOO!’ and it was home time for us: ‘Go to bed, Bonnie’. ‘No, you go to bed Mummy - you’re the one who’s always ‘so tired’…'Yes, I should' I said, 'but I just have a little pottering to do first...’
For one, I accompanied Josie to her first 6th form Open Day recently, which entailed hopping and shuffling along (bags and coats were my job) in the wake of my lovely girl as she strode forth into her new life, delicately, shyly smiling around her and lobbing back showers of leaflets for the old crow to snatch at with a wizened claw. Eventually we sat down for the head teacher’s sales pitch - with a friend of Josie’s, also with mum in tow, whom I politely greeted (wishing I was more shabby chic than shabby shit) and blow me it wasn’t five minutes before I’d nodded off, head in lap!
I can only explain the next inappropriate sleeping incident as an unconscious refuge from a ghastly situation; I’d booked Bonnie onto a fashion drawing workshop with her friend only to discover that I was to be the fashion model (‘Do a pose! Hands on hips and throw your head back!’). Silk purse and sow’s ear came to mind (oh, Mummy, you don’t really look beautiful’); my best bet was a seated pose hiding awkwardly beneath my designer bonnet (accessories were provided). Next thing was a tap on the leg ‘You’re not supposed to be asleep!’ (the instructor).
Now then, playing Maid of Honour to Bonnie as she prepared for her Tudors assembly - the elaborately twisted hair, the phone calls to a friend (got to look the same), the white lies ‘that scarf turns your best party dress into an exact Jane Seymour lookalike, it really does!’ – were all par for the course. But when the call came from school because Bonnie had lost the whole costume on the way to school and was 'upset' (what d'you want me to do about it?) I was obliged to ricochet around (pant, pant) piecing together a duplicate costume, run to school (puff, puff) with it - I guess I was all done in by the time I sat down to watch the actual performance, and it was all snug and warm...before I knew it the Head was thanking us for coming!
So after all that, I was in deep doggy-do for having no recollection of the assembly at all. But never mind, at the next week's music concert, I made a point of waving like a nut to my little treasures on the stage - to prove I was alert and raring to watch, listen and learn. I needn’t have worried; the music centre’s policy of introducing children to improvisation before they’ve learnt to write their name, and the resulting tuneless peeps and toots (audience nodding and ‘digging’ it, of course), always causes a forbidden hysteria to bubble up in my chest which I have to close my eyes to control, certainly no chance of a nap. Nor at Josie’s concert the next evening, for I was just settling down for a little shut eye in the Senior Guitars when Bonnie began asking loudly and repeatedly for snacks, and jumping violently off the rickety scaffolding supporting the audience seating (thud) just as the extremely talented jazz trumpeter who was supposed to be inspiring Bonnie to practice her trumpet was doing his thing. She climbed up behind me and whacked me on the shoulders ‘BOO!’ and it was home time for us: ‘Go to bed, Bonnie’. ‘No, you go to bed Mummy - you’re the one who’s always ‘so tired’…'Yes, I should' I said, 'but I just have a little pottering to do first...’
Friday, 26 November 2010
Especially for You, Grandma!
Alfie returned from his week at the Outdoor Education Centre, Pendarren, in Wales last week in fine fettle. ‘It was great!’ he said ‘I achieved my challenge!’ (Aah! He went away a boy, came back a man!) ‘What was the challenge, son?’ ‘I didn’t poo all week!’
‘Was it beautiful? Were there mountains?’ ‘Dunno. Listen, we had sausages twice for breakfast, and bacon once!!’ ‘Woah! And what did you do all week?’ ‘Oh, stuff…I was posted down this like letter-box thing in this like cave thing…’ I waited for a little detail on the geological niceties of the River Adventure Walk, the Coastal Visit (ox-bow lakes, cliff slump…this could trigger a life long passion for geography!) but that was the end of the report: sausages, bacon, being posted through a hole.
At bedtime he suddenly disappeared under his blanket and started heaving with grief over the paltry amount of post I’d sent! (one letter, chocolate enclosed).’Everyone else got a letter every day. I only got one all week!’
'But the purpose of going away is to experience separation, independence..’ I protested. But as he nodded, understanding, but crying still, I pictured the little waif, forgotten, watching clouds of love floating from London to Wales into laps other than his (oh oh oh) and I was all of a choke (Poor him! No – poor me! I didn’t know! I do my best!..sort of). I could barely get the words out for Alan downstairs: ‘Everyone else got a letter every day!’ sniff sniff ‘I only sent one!’ sniff.
Things perked up the next morning when Alfie presented me with a gift of Vanilla Fudge from Pendarren (labelled ‘Especially for You, Grandma!’). After a polite but humorous reference to the labelling, I thanked him profusely, fancying myself his favourite. He then presented it to Alan, which wiped the smile off my face, Alan glancing at me nervously, fancying himself the favourite, until I put him straight (‘he gave it to me too!’). Next he gave the coveted fudge to Maddy (he was really enjoying himself now) but she saw straight through him, as wild horses wouldn’t get him spending his own cash on a sibling, especially since he’s still10g of crisps down from when she got a maxi pack and he a multi-pack in the Summer..
As well as Vanilla Fudge and memories of better breakfasts, Alfie brought home with him a spectacularly bad temper (he was wrecked), one run-of-the-mill altercation over the tomato ketchup resulting in blood curdling psycho-screams, a pillow through the air, a shattered light fitting, and shards of lighted glass raining down on our heads (Lord!). I gathered my thoughts (‘sooner or later, someone is going to die’) but that didn’t help, and there wasn’t time to consult my parenting manual about what to do when your child smashes white hot tungsten because his sister won’t pass the ketchup, so, sobered in the presence of lunacy, I chose understatement: ‘Alfie, that behaviour was unacceptable’. This set the psycho-screams off again, so I changed tack and shut up, and Alan and I dropped to all fours, tipping our heads this way and that, trying in the dark to distinguish glass from general flotsam (Everybody don’t move! Put your shoes on! I can’t reach my shoes if I don’t move!). Alfie’s opponent hid in the loo, denying foul play of course, refusing to come out ‘it’s not safe’, all of which distracted us from bickering over the heating (silver lining!) for ‘tis the season to be boiled alive in our house, it being past 1st November.
By the end of Sunday, a hollow-eyed human shock absorber (formerly a mum) suggested a trip to that Mecca for parents who’ve thrown in the towel - The 99p Shop. They were out of safety helmets, which was evidently what we needed, but they did have just the gold spangled Reindeer ornament we were looking for to guarantee a truly great Christmas, and also Poptastic Corn for munching before the TV, which I couldn’t get on quick enough when we got home, faith in family life restored.
‘What about the disco at Pendarren?’ I asked Alfie (nosey parker), as we snuggled. ‘Well some of the teachers were really dancing a lot!’ he said, demonstrating by throwing his arms about violently (I am hoping there are no regrets in that department). ‘And you, did you ask anyone to dance?’ I coaxed. ‘I danced with the Vanilla Fudge’ he said.
‘Was it beautiful? Were there mountains?’ ‘Dunno. Listen, we had sausages twice for breakfast, and bacon once!!’ ‘Woah! And what did you do all week?’ ‘Oh, stuff…I was posted down this like letter-box thing in this like cave thing…’ I waited for a little detail on the geological niceties of the River Adventure Walk, the Coastal Visit (ox-bow lakes, cliff slump…this could trigger a life long passion for geography!) but that was the end of the report: sausages, bacon, being posted through a hole.
At bedtime he suddenly disappeared under his blanket and started heaving with grief over the paltry amount of post I’d sent! (one letter, chocolate enclosed).’Everyone else got a letter every day. I only got one all week!’
'But the purpose of going away is to experience separation, independence..’ I protested. But as he nodded, understanding, but crying still, I pictured the little waif, forgotten, watching clouds of love floating from London to Wales into laps other than his (oh oh oh) and I was all of a choke (Poor him! No – poor me! I didn’t know! I do my best!..sort of). I could barely get the words out for Alan downstairs: ‘Everyone else got a letter every day!’ sniff sniff ‘I only sent one!’ sniff.
Things perked up the next morning when Alfie presented me with a gift of Vanilla Fudge from Pendarren (labelled ‘Especially for You, Grandma!’). After a polite but humorous reference to the labelling, I thanked him profusely, fancying myself his favourite. He then presented it to Alan, which wiped the smile off my face, Alan glancing at me nervously, fancying himself the favourite, until I put him straight (‘he gave it to me too!’). Next he gave the coveted fudge to Maddy (he was really enjoying himself now) but she saw straight through him, as wild horses wouldn’t get him spending his own cash on a sibling, especially since he’s still10g of crisps down from when she got a maxi pack and he a multi-pack in the Summer..
As well as Vanilla Fudge and memories of better breakfasts, Alfie brought home with him a spectacularly bad temper (he was wrecked), one run-of-the-mill altercation over the tomato ketchup resulting in blood curdling psycho-screams, a pillow through the air, a shattered light fitting, and shards of lighted glass raining down on our heads (Lord!). I gathered my thoughts (‘sooner or later, someone is going to die’) but that didn’t help, and there wasn’t time to consult my parenting manual about what to do when your child smashes white hot tungsten because his sister won’t pass the ketchup, so, sobered in the presence of lunacy, I chose understatement: ‘Alfie, that behaviour was unacceptable’. This set the psycho-screams off again, so I changed tack and shut up, and Alan and I dropped to all fours, tipping our heads this way and that, trying in the dark to distinguish glass from general flotsam (Everybody don’t move! Put your shoes on! I can’t reach my shoes if I don’t move!). Alfie’s opponent hid in the loo, denying foul play of course, refusing to come out ‘it’s not safe’, all of which distracted us from bickering over the heating (silver lining!) for ‘tis the season to be boiled alive in our house, it being past 1st November.
By the end of Sunday, a hollow-eyed human shock absorber (formerly a mum) suggested a trip to that Mecca for parents who’ve thrown in the towel - The 99p Shop. They were out of safety helmets, which was evidently what we needed, but they did have just the gold spangled Reindeer ornament we were looking for to guarantee a truly great Christmas, and also Poptastic Corn for munching before the TV, which I couldn’t get on quick enough when we got home, faith in family life restored.
‘What about the disco at Pendarren?’ I asked Alfie (nosey parker), as we snuggled. ‘Well some of the teachers were really dancing a lot!’ he said, demonstrating by throwing his arms about violently (I am hoping there are no regrets in that department). ‘And you, did you ask anyone to dance?’ I coaxed. ‘I danced with the Vanilla Fudge’ he said.
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