When I lived at home many moons ago, I always wondered what was wrong with my mother. She never sat still and just did nothing. She was always doing something - fixing things, making things, cleaning things or doing things. I thought it was just her. A dire case of ants-in-the-pantsitis.
Fast forward. Today that person with an inability to sit and do nothing is me. There is ALWAYS something else that needs doing. Usually its work. Or household chores. Or children. Or organising things. Or those billions of small jobs that never quite get done. As a result I am perpetually in motion. I think I have forgotton how to relax. To just sit and be and not do.
However, on Friday I stopped working for the year. I was even organised enough to have done the bulk of my paperwork so that I don't have to face it come 1 January. I have done all my Christmas shopping and have wrapped most of it. I am not having the world and their respective dogs coming to Christmas dinner so there is no need to make a big fuss. I'm going to wing it and pop into Sainsbury's on Wednesday morning and play pot luck to see what I can find for Christmas dinner (like Ready, Steady, Cook only with a few more ingredients to choose from).
So that means there is no making cranberry sauce or gravy in advance, or working out spreadsheets of what to cook when.
We do have a drinks party here on Tuesday evening and I will have to do a bit of work for that tomorrow, but not much. So after having bought the necessary bits needed for that on Saturday morning, I was officially done. I had nothing else that really needed doing. Sure I still haven't put the photos of the children into albums (since they were babies) and admittedly I haven't tidied my clothes cupboard. But neither of those things are mission critical.
So I thought I'd just lie in front of the fire and read a book. This felt thoroughly decadent and obviously going from do-er to be-er cannot be achieved in a single step. First I had to make the fire. Before I could do that I had to clean out the fireplace. And then once I had a bag full of ash, I realised that the bins still hadn't been put back since the bin men came and we had several new bags of rubbish that had to go out. Having done that, I realised we were out of firewood, so headed back into the garden to the log pile to collect a basketful of logs and kindling.
Having seen the state of the garden while out there, I couldn't justify lying in front of the fire reading a book when the piles of leaves I'd raked weeks ago were still sitting in forlorn frozen piles waiting to go into the green recycling bin. So I spent the next 40 minutes picking up leaf ice blocks and putting them in the bin. And raking up the left over bits.
A good hour and a half after I'd decided to do nothing, I returned to the sitting room, made a fire, lay down and read my book. I managed to do that for about 20 minutes before the children found me and said they were hungry and I got up to make dinner.
Sunday morning rolled around. A whole glorious day lay ahead with nothing to do (thank God given I'd been up all night with a poorly child). I had a lie in. Sort of. I had a leisurly breakfast. I went for a long snowy walk with the un-poorly child. I read my book in front of the fire. I played chess with the boys and my husband while listening to Christmassy music. I made some scones and we all had high tea. We ventured out to Christmas carols at the church. Enjoyed some mulled wine. Had a hearty dinner of stew with crusty bread. Put the boys to bed. And I reverted to the sofa with a book and a glass of red wine, with the fire still crackling away.
No TV, no blogging, no twitter, no talking, no doing, no thinking. Just quite simply being. It was bliss. It feels like I've been on a holiday. I think the book, wine, fire combo is going to be repeated a lot in the next two weeks.
So on the off chance I can't be bothered to remove myself from the sofa between now and Christmas, here's wishing you a very merry - and more importantly - a very relaxed Christmas and stress-free 2010!
Showing posts with label wine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wine. Show all posts
Monday, 21 December 2009
Friday, 5 December 2008
Happy thoughts
I've been memed by Katyboo and I must now come up with six frivolous things that make me happy. Given my mood today, this is going to be hard work. I could come up with a very long list of things that make me unhappy, grumpy, mardy, generally not very pleasant to be around, but that is not my challenge. I really should be doing this with a glass of wine. But that's a good starting point:
1) A glass of wine. Large, white, very chilled, Sancerre or similar if possible. This should ideally be drunk on a lovely terrace overlooking a gently lapping ocean with a beautiful sunset and a temperature still warm enough for a summer frock to feel just weighty enough. But I'll settle for having it on my sofa watching some trash on tv.
2) Knowing that I am two thirds of my way through my Christmas card list. There's light at the end of the tunnel man... (that last bit was actually said in a stoned hippy type impersonation. Not sure why really, it just was)
3) Having a son who actually joined in the Christmas carols service at his school last night. He sat still. He sang the words he knew. And when everyone applauded at the end of each song, his face lit up with pride as though it was entirely for him. Made me weep with joy.
4) Braised rice with peas and corn and gravy (ideally roast chicken gravy). This isn't ordinary food. This is comfort food.
5) Cupcakes. Making them. Icing them. Eating them. And very importantly, arranging them on a three tier cake stand. They need to be pink and girly.
6) An impromptu meet up with friends. So much better than something pre-arranged. It feels like a present you weren't expecting.
So those are my happy things. They've cheered me up a bit. Although I now want cupcakes and rice with peas, corn and gravy - none of which are readily available. But the wine is. So I'm off. Feel free to share your happy things with me. I need to hear them.
1) A glass of wine. Large, white, very chilled, Sancerre or similar if possible. This should ideally be drunk on a lovely terrace overlooking a gently lapping ocean with a beautiful sunset and a temperature still warm enough for a summer frock to feel just weighty enough. But I'll settle for having it on my sofa watching some trash on tv.
2) Knowing that I am two thirds of my way through my Christmas card list. There's light at the end of the tunnel man... (that last bit was actually said in a stoned hippy type impersonation. Not sure why really, it just was)
3) Having a son who actually joined in the Christmas carols service at his school last night. He sat still. He sang the words he knew. And when everyone applauded at the end of each song, his face lit up with pride as though it was entirely for him. Made me weep with joy.
4) Braised rice with peas and corn and gravy (ideally roast chicken gravy). This isn't ordinary food. This is comfort food.
5) Cupcakes. Making them. Icing them. Eating them. And very importantly, arranging them on a three tier cake stand. They need to be pink and girly.
6) An impromptu meet up with friends. So much better than something pre-arranged. It feels like a present you weren't expecting.
So those are my happy things. They've cheered me up a bit. Although I now want cupcakes and rice with peas, corn and gravy - none of which are readily available. But the wine is. So I'm off. Feel free to share your happy things with me. I need to hear them.
Friday, 24 October 2008
Put the spoon down and step away from the houmous
Today was the last day of term. Which meant that this afternoon I had two very tired little boys on my hands who weren't overly bothered about bouncing on the trampoline or going for a walk in the sunshine. We'd already done snakes and ladders until even they were bored with it (which takes some doing). We'd coloured in the paving stones outside the backdoor with fat coloured chalks. And we'd listlessly pushed a few cars around the carpet.
I decided that cooking dinner would be a good thing to do. It would be educational for them. It would keep them occupied. And it would mean that dinner would be ready early which in turn meant bedtime could be early. And luckily, I'd planned to make a dinner that took quite a bit of time with lots of little tasks that they could help with. Lamb in pita bread with tsatziki and grilled aubergine.
I'm a big fan of teaching my children how to cook - the sooner they can do it, the sooner I can put my feet up in the evenings with a big fat glass of wine while they slave over a stove. So we started out by roasting some cumin, coriader and mustard seeds - all of which we'd had a good sniff of before tossing them in the pan, with son 2 nodding sagely at each, offering his opinion like 'yummy', 'spicy' and 'smelly'. They found the roasting process fascinating, particularly when the seeds started popping. We then took turns using a pestle and mortar to grind them up. It started well but we ended up with a light dusting of aromatic spices across most of the kitchen.
We then cut the lamb into slivers and they took turns sprinkling what remained of the spices over the lamb and squeezing honey and lemon over it. Again, what started out well soon ended up with two small boys covered in honey from fingertips to the backs of their ears.
Moving swiftly on, we sliced peppers, onions and aubergines which absolutely had to be put in a bowl the minute I'd cut a single piece, which meant tiny fingers flying in underneath the sharp knife to make sure that they got to grab the next bit to go in the bowl.
Having survived that, we moved onto making tsatziki. Son 1 just wanted to eat the cucumber. Son 2 was frustrated that the odd piece of grated cucumber fell outside the bowl and insisted on pushing each piece through the top of the grater. We then had another tussle over who was going to scoop the yogurt in, who was going to squeeze in lemon, who was going to crush the garlic and who was going to grind in the salt and pepper. By the end of it we all looked like walking piles of Greek dip.
I decided that it would be safer for them to set the table while I cooked the food so that we didn't end up with pan fried small boy instead of lamb. They seemed to be managing well and the cooking went ahead at full steam, only interrupted by son 2 who kept wanting to know when it was time to do the pita bread, fondling and mangling it while waiting for the go ahead to pop it in the toaster.
I decided he needed another job and asked if he could take some teaspoons to the table for us to use in the houmous. He readily trotted off and did this. I was then trying to grill aubergines, stir-fry lamb, fry up onions and peppers and toast pitas all at once so enjoyed the peace I was afforded for a few minutes after the frenetic cooking afternoon. Until I realised that it really was too quiet.
I went into the dining room. There was son 2. With the utmost concentration on his little face, scooping houmous out of the pot and putting large dollops of it on everyone's plates. Except that he hadn't quite managed to get the plates. And he had used two teaspoons per person, discarding the dirty, houmous-dripping teaspoons as he moved his scorched earth policy across the table. There was houmous everywhere. On the backs of chairs. On the fronts of chairs. On the carpet. In his hair. Even a glob on the ceiling, obviously from a back flick. He was so incredibly proud of himself. It was heartbreaking.
'Put the spoon down and step away from the houmous,' I said. 'But I'm helping mummy,' he said holding a dripping spoon aloft. Like a scene from Hill Street Blues or CSI Miami, I held myself absolutely still and repeated the request loudly and clearly, ready to pop a pistol out of my pocket at the slightest wrong move. Slowly he lowered the spoon and my imaginery SWAT team swooped in, handcuffed him and hosed him down. Actually, he just toddled back to the kitchen and mangled the pita breads some more.
I was right, it did make the afternoon fly by. I however feel like I've once again done fully body contact cooking and the kitchen looks as though a small police force has shot up a tube station. Suffice to say, that I washed dinner down with some wine. It is weekend after all.
I decided that cooking dinner would be a good thing to do. It would be educational for them. It would keep them occupied. And it would mean that dinner would be ready early which in turn meant bedtime could be early. And luckily, I'd planned to make a dinner that took quite a bit of time with lots of little tasks that they could help with. Lamb in pita bread with tsatziki and grilled aubergine.
I'm a big fan of teaching my children how to cook - the sooner they can do it, the sooner I can put my feet up in the evenings with a big fat glass of wine while they slave over a stove. So we started out by roasting some cumin, coriader and mustard seeds - all of which we'd had a good sniff of before tossing them in the pan, with son 2 nodding sagely at each, offering his opinion like 'yummy', 'spicy' and 'smelly'. They found the roasting process fascinating, particularly when the seeds started popping. We then took turns using a pestle and mortar to grind them up. It started well but we ended up with a light dusting of aromatic spices across most of the kitchen.
We then cut the lamb into slivers and they took turns sprinkling what remained of the spices over the lamb and squeezing honey and lemon over it. Again, what started out well soon ended up with two small boys covered in honey from fingertips to the backs of their ears.
Moving swiftly on, we sliced peppers, onions and aubergines which absolutely had to be put in a bowl the minute I'd cut a single piece, which meant tiny fingers flying in underneath the sharp knife to make sure that they got to grab the next bit to go in the bowl.
Having survived that, we moved onto making tsatziki. Son 1 just wanted to eat the cucumber. Son 2 was frustrated that the odd piece of grated cucumber fell outside the bowl and insisted on pushing each piece through the top of the grater. We then had another tussle over who was going to scoop the yogurt in, who was going to squeeze in lemon, who was going to crush the garlic and who was going to grind in the salt and pepper. By the end of it we all looked like walking piles of Greek dip.
I decided that it would be safer for them to set the table while I cooked the food so that we didn't end up with pan fried small boy instead of lamb. They seemed to be managing well and the cooking went ahead at full steam, only interrupted by son 2 who kept wanting to know when it was time to do the pita bread, fondling and mangling it while waiting for the go ahead to pop it in the toaster.
I decided he needed another job and asked if he could take some teaspoons to the table for us to use in the houmous. He readily trotted off and did this. I was then trying to grill aubergines, stir-fry lamb, fry up onions and peppers and toast pitas all at once so enjoyed the peace I was afforded for a few minutes after the frenetic cooking afternoon. Until I realised that it really was too quiet.
I went into the dining room. There was son 2. With the utmost concentration on his little face, scooping houmous out of the pot and putting large dollops of it on everyone's plates. Except that he hadn't quite managed to get the plates. And he had used two teaspoons per person, discarding the dirty, houmous-dripping teaspoons as he moved his scorched earth policy across the table. There was houmous everywhere. On the backs of chairs. On the fronts of chairs. On the carpet. In his hair. Even a glob on the ceiling, obviously from a back flick. He was so incredibly proud of himself. It was heartbreaking.
'Put the spoon down and step away from the houmous,' I said. 'But I'm helping mummy,' he said holding a dripping spoon aloft. Like a scene from Hill Street Blues or CSI Miami, I held myself absolutely still and repeated the request loudly and clearly, ready to pop a pistol out of my pocket at the slightest wrong move. Slowly he lowered the spoon and my imaginery SWAT team swooped in, handcuffed him and hosed him down. Actually, he just toddled back to the kitchen and mangled the pita breads some more.
I was right, it did make the afternoon fly by. I however feel like I've once again done fully body contact cooking and the kitchen looks as though a small police force has shot up a tube station. Suffice to say, that I washed dinner down with some wine. It is weekend after all.
Thursday, 16 October 2008
Dead man walking
That's how I feel. It's Thursday. Just one hour to go until swimming lessons. This is my last attempt. It's not looking good. Son 2 is in one of his stubborn phases this afternoon. Despite bitterly cold winds, he refuses point blank to wear a jumper. This doesn't bode well. Son 1 came out of school and immediately demanded that he wanted to play with his friend. I said we couldn't because said friend was going home with his childminder. This resulted in a spectacular tantrum outside the school, all the while son 2 sat shivering in a t-shirt on his trike.
I've now got them glued to the TV drinking cups of tea and eating biscuits. This is my attempt to let them relax and restore their strength. Meanwhile, my stomach is churning at the thought of returning to the pool.
They have been looking forward to this day all week because I've resorted to bribery. I have my bag of gogos stashed up high. They have been promised a gogo each if they don't cry at swimming. They have been dead keen on this plan. They've even been practising their swimming pool smiles. But I know that the power of gogos might prove futile in the face of having to actually get wet.
I can't believe how much I'm dreading this. At best, my bribe works, they swim and then come home and have a major fight about who gets which gogo, or not being able to decide which gogo to choose or having a fit because they haven't been allowed to choose a gogo. Whichever option I go with, I will need earplugs. At mid-to-bad they will scream and cry and perform and I will write off £80 and not return to swimming lessons and find some other way to teach them how not to drown and feel as though I'm giving up. At worst, it will be inconclusive. One will be fine, the other will scream, putting me in a quandary for future lessons. Not to mention the fight that will happen at home when one gets rewarded with a gogo while the other isn't.
There is so much potential for complete and utter disaster this afternoon that I feel I need some valium - or at least Rescue Remedy - to cope.
I will report back. Probably deaf. Probably wet. Probably gulping wine.
I've now got them glued to the TV drinking cups of tea and eating biscuits. This is my attempt to let them relax and restore their strength. Meanwhile, my stomach is churning at the thought of returning to the pool.
They have been looking forward to this day all week because I've resorted to bribery. I have my bag of gogos stashed up high. They have been promised a gogo each if they don't cry at swimming. They have been dead keen on this plan. They've even been practising their swimming pool smiles. But I know that the power of gogos might prove futile in the face of having to actually get wet.
I can't believe how much I'm dreading this. At best, my bribe works, they swim and then come home and have a major fight about who gets which gogo, or not being able to decide which gogo to choose or having a fit because they haven't been allowed to choose a gogo. Whichever option I go with, I will need earplugs. At mid-to-bad they will scream and cry and perform and I will write off £80 and not return to swimming lessons and find some other way to teach them how not to drown and feel as though I'm giving up. At worst, it will be inconclusive. One will be fine, the other will scream, putting me in a quandary for future lessons. Not to mention the fight that will happen at home when one gets rewarded with a gogo while the other isn't.
There is so much potential for complete and utter disaster this afternoon that I feel I need some valium - or at least Rescue Remedy - to cope.
I will report back. Probably deaf. Probably wet. Probably gulping wine.
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
Hormones are crap
Do you know what I really hate about being a woman? It's the random surges of hormones that seem to fly in from nowhere that transform you from normal, rational person to angry, tearful person for no apparent reason. This doesn't seem to happen to men. And they blame us for being moody. But honest guv, it's not our fault.
My hormones play a game of stealth. I wake up feeling slightly irritable (normally because I've been woken by a small person trying to pry my eye open and saying repeatedly: I want milk. I want milk. I want milk). As the day progresses, I become increasingly down in the dumps. I feel that whatever I try I'm useless at. So I don't bother trying. I do nothing. So I feel more useless. This then kicks in the 'I'm rubbish at everything. I should just give up and never work again. I'm a failed mother, failed wife, failed business person, failed everything' train of thought. Before you know it, my mildly bad day has a very large ominous black cloud hovering over it threatening a deluge at any moment.
The deluge usually takes place when something trivial happens. Like the tumble dryer not drying the clothes properly. It's the straw that breaks the camels back. Tears follow. As does a sharp kick to the tumble dryer. Normally followed by more tears because of a bruised foot. I can then either have a glass of wine and hope it all seems better the next day or I can do some exercise so that I get some natural endorphins charging about to fight off the gloomy hormones or I can attempt to do something super constructive like sort through all the things I've been meaning to eBay so that I feel as though I've at least ticked something off my to do list for the day.
Quite frankly, it's not going to be eBay today. It really, really should be exercise. Really. Wine will not help the size of my already voluminous backside and stomach. Exercise will. Exercise will make me feel better. Exercise will help me mentally, physically, emotionally and hormonally. I have to do it.
This is me summoning up the will to do it.................
I'm going to do it....
Am going....
Gone.
P.S. I might round my exercise off with a glass of wine.
My hormones play a game of stealth. I wake up feeling slightly irritable (normally because I've been woken by a small person trying to pry my eye open and saying repeatedly: I want milk. I want milk. I want milk). As the day progresses, I become increasingly down in the dumps. I feel that whatever I try I'm useless at. So I don't bother trying. I do nothing. So I feel more useless. This then kicks in the 'I'm rubbish at everything. I should just give up and never work again. I'm a failed mother, failed wife, failed business person, failed everything' train of thought. Before you know it, my mildly bad day has a very large ominous black cloud hovering over it threatening a deluge at any moment.
The deluge usually takes place when something trivial happens. Like the tumble dryer not drying the clothes properly. It's the straw that breaks the camels back. Tears follow. As does a sharp kick to the tumble dryer. Normally followed by more tears because of a bruised foot. I can then either have a glass of wine and hope it all seems better the next day or I can do some exercise so that I get some natural endorphins charging about to fight off the gloomy hormones or I can attempt to do something super constructive like sort through all the things I've been meaning to eBay so that I feel as though I've at least ticked something off my to do list for the day.
Quite frankly, it's not going to be eBay today. It really, really should be exercise. Really. Wine will not help the size of my already voluminous backside and stomach. Exercise will. Exercise will make me feel better. Exercise will help me mentally, physically, emotionally and hormonally. I have to do it.
This is me summoning up the will to do it.................
I'm going to do it....
Am going....
Gone.
P.S. I might round my exercise off with a glass of wine.
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Drinking before the watershed. Because sometimes it's called for.
Well it finally happened. I knew the day would come and it has. At exactly 17.27 today I became one of those mothers. The type that opens a bottle of wine and gulps back a glass before the children have gone to bed. It wasn't intentional and I don't think I need to sign up for the AA just yet. But I was standing next to the cooker making the millioneth meal of the week that would no doubt be rejected anyway, and I saw a bottle of red wine that had been opened at some point and was standing idly on the counter top with a stopper in it. I have no idea how long it has been there. But it spoke to me. And I listened, grabbed a glass, poured and gulped.
Before you think I'm a complete lush, I must explain. It's not been a good day. The morning was a disaster thanks to son 1 trying to finish a homework project that he decided involved using a camera who's batteries kept dying. It's a long, arduous story but in the end, we got to school late with me very flustered. That said, it was the first day this week that I managed to remember not to leave the house keys in the door. And at least today there wasn't the half chewed remnants of a mouse's head on the doormat which there had been earlier in the week.
I then had a lovely neighbour take son 2 to pre-school so that I could head off for my mammogram. I was late for that too and the NHS decided to pay me back by making me wait a good long time before they'd see me. The term 'hurry up and wait' springs to mind. I then had the pleasure of having my breasts yanked across hard pieces of machinery with the radiographer telling me to relax my shoulder, but stretch my arm and lean forward but twist my head to the side and bend in and relax the shoulder again and keep still. It was like being in a yoga class. Only in the yoga classes I've been to they don't clamp your breast in a piece of machinery with a deathlike grip.
So after that pleasant interlude I got my breasts ultrasounded. The last time I had an ultrasound I was looking at a teeny tiny baby bopping about in my belly, blissfully unaware that it would reject every meal I made for it in the future. Looking at breast tissue is far less interesting. It turns out that I have nothing wrong with me, except for a lump of tissue that even the doctor seemed quite surprised by the size of. But it's just a ball of fat, for lack of a better description. So that's better than the alternative although still not something you want to brag about at a dinner party.
I then raced home and tried to squeeze a full day's work into 3 hours. It didn't fit.
Then I galloped off to fetch boy children 2 and 1 and brought them home amid wails of how they wanted to go to a friends house. But we had things to do. A) Laundy B) General tidy of house C) Go to swimming.
I wouldn't ordinarily subject my children to household chores directly after school, but the house was in a complete state. The curtains hadn't even been opened since last night, beds were unmade, at least 5 loads of laundry were scattered around the house and the cupboards looked as though they were vomiting out their contents.
But the children were hungry and wanted snacks. I gave them snacks. Then I gave them extra snacks and after that we had one more snack. At which point I said I really needed to do the laundry. Son 1 (you might be starting to realise that he's the - shall we say - more temperamental of the two) starting screaming that he wanted something else to eat because he was hungry. I offered him a sandwich with his choice of a filling, an apple or a yogurt. None of these would fill him up apparently. He told me this a LOT and LOUDLY - for a full 45 minutes until he was beside himself yet again. None of this bode well for the forthcoming swimming which he's always so enthusiastic about.
And so it came time for us to go to swimming. This heralded a new, more joyous and even louder tantrum than the last. Now I've been here before when it comes to swimming. I have to just go, get him there under whatever means necessary, let him get to the side of the pool still screaming and wailing like he's being murdered and let the staff take over. He then sobs for the first pool width and by the end of it is beaming ear to ear.
Today wasn't going to work that way. Today I couldn't get him into clothes to leave the house. Having tried every tactic on the planet I resorted to his competitive edge and offered his swimming place to his younger brother who is dead keen but too young for the class. This was a gamble. Son 2 might have said no and the swimming school could easily say a bigger no. But to hell with it, desperate times call for desperate measures. Son 2 jumped at the chance and so with more screaming from son 1, we finally got to the swimming pool with minutes to spare. I then gave son 1 his last chance to go swimming. He refused but when he saw son 2 getting into his swimming things, the wheels came off and he literally clawed the swimming costume off his brother. Which funnily enough put son 2 right off swimming too.
I won't even go into all the twists and turns in this saga suffice to say that I ended up sitting watching other people's children swim for 30 minutes while my two sat at my feet. Money well spent I feel.
And so we got home and instantly the 'I'm hungry' chant started up, while the telephone rang incessantly with work calls which I tried to take but gave up as I couldn't hear a thing over the yelling. So I tried to create a nutritious meal out of nothing in under a minute and it was while doing this that I spotted the bottle of wine. And thought: Sod it.
Now I know how it happens. And I have empathy - vats of it - for all the mothers who are forced to guzzle wine before the 7pm watershed out of sheer desperation. May tomorrow be a better day.
Before you think I'm a complete lush, I must explain. It's not been a good day. The morning was a disaster thanks to son 1 trying to finish a homework project that he decided involved using a camera who's batteries kept dying. It's a long, arduous story but in the end, we got to school late with me very flustered. That said, it was the first day this week that I managed to remember not to leave the house keys in the door. And at least today there wasn't the half chewed remnants of a mouse's head on the doormat which there had been earlier in the week.
I then had a lovely neighbour take son 2 to pre-school so that I could head off for my mammogram. I was late for that too and the NHS decided to pay me back by making me wait a good long time before they'd see me. The term 'hurry up and wait' springs to mind. I then had the pleasure of having my breasts yanked across hard pieces of machinery with the radiographer telling me to relax my shoulder, but stretch my arm and lean forward but twist my head to the side and bend in and relax the shoulder again and keep still. It was like being in a yoga class. Only in the yoga classes I've been to they don't clamp your breast in a piece of machinery with a deathlike grip.
So after that pleasant interlude I got my breasts ultrasounded. The last time I had an ultrasound I was looking at a teeny tiny baby bopping about in my belly, blissfully unaware that it would reject every meal I made for it in the future. Looking at breast tissue is far less interesting. It turns out that I have nothing wrong with me, except for a lump of tissue that even the doctor seemed quite surprised by the size of. But it's just a ball of fat, for lack of a better description. So that's better than the alternative although still not something you want to brag about at a dinner party.
I then raced home and tried to squeeze a full day's work into 3 hours. It didn't fit.
Then I galloped off to fetch boy children 2 and 1 and brought them home amid wails of how they wanted to go to a friends house. But we had things to do. A) Laundy B) General tidy of house C) Go to swimming.
I wouldn't ordinarily subject my children to household chores directly after school, but the house was in a complete state. The curtains hadn't even been opened since last night, beds were unmade, at least 5 loads of laundry were scattered around the house and the cupboards looked as though they were vomiting out their contents.
But the children were hungry and wanted snacks. I gave them snacks. Then I gave them extra snacks and after that we had one more snack. At which point I said I really needed to do the laundry. Son 1 (you might be starting to realise that he's the - shall we say - more temperamental of the two) starting screaming that he wanted something else to eat because he was hungry. I offered him a sandwich with his choice of a filling, an apple or a yogurt. None of these would fill him up apparently. He told me this a LOT and LOUDLY - for a full 45 minutes until he was beside himself yet again. None of this bode well for the forthcoming swimming which he's always so enthusiastic about.
And so it came time for us to go to swimming. This heralded a new, more joyous and even louder tantrum than the last. Now I've been here before when it comes to swimming. I have to just go, get him there under whatever means necessary, let him get to the side of the pool still screaming and wailing like he's being murdered and let the staff take over. He then sobs for the first pool width and by the end of it is beaming ear to ear.
Today wasn't going to work that way. Today I couldn't get him into clothes to leave the house. Having tried every tactic on the planet I resorted to his competitive edge and offered his swimming place to his younger brother who is dead keen but too young for the class. This was a gamble. Son 2 might have said no and the swimming school could easily say a bigger no. But to hell with it, desperate times call for desperate measures. Son 2 jumped at the chance and so with more screaming from son 1, we finally got to the swimming pool with minutes to spare. I then gave son 1 his last chance to go swimming. He refused but when he saw son 2 getting into his swimming things, the wheels came off and he literally clawed the swimming costume off his brother. Which funnily enough put son 2 right off swimming too.
I won't even go into all the twists and turns in this saga suffice to say that I ended up sitting watching other people's children swim for 30 minutes while my two sat at my feet. Money well spent I feel.
And so we got home and instantly the 'I'm hungry' chant started up, while the telephone rang incessantly with work calls which I tried to take but gave up as I couldn't hear a thing over the yelling. So I tried to create a nutritious meal out of nothing in under a minute and it was while doing this that I spotted the bottle of wine. And thought: Sod it.
Now I know how it happens. And I have empathy - vats of it - for all the mothers who are forced to guzzle wine before the 7pm watershed out of sheer desperation. May tomorrow be a better day.
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
It was all going extremely very well.
I was having such a good day. Seriously. I could almost imagine my husband calling me from whichever European country he is in today and me telling him what a glorious day I'd had. I'd be positive, without a single moan. He'd realise what a lovely wife he has and return home laden with Parisian pastries.
But I'm not sure I can now. Things went awry late afternoon....(insert twinkly going back in time music here with cloudy edges around your peripheral vision - ala Balamory)
I started out triumphantly. Not only did I manage to make a cottage pie before 7am in a bid to get a headstart on dinner, I also managed to clean the kitchen, do laundry, catch up on email and get the children fed, dressed and out the house all without raising my voice once.
Then I was brave enough to ask someone to fetch son 2 from pre-school so that I could attend son 1's school poetry event. That person kindly agreed and I was filled with a warm feeling that I am at last getting to REALLY know people here. Know them well enough to do me a favour. I actually felt deeply, seriously part of a community. In my advancing years, this is something that is becoming increasingly important to me. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I grew up in a small village where you knew everybody's names (including all children and dogs) and everybody's business. You couldn't go for a walk along the towpath without stopping for a chat and very often a quiet beer (obviously as a child I wasn't the one drinking the beer. I was the one fetching it.) I think I'm trying to recreate that, only now I'd like to be the one drinking the beer.
I had a triumphant day at work where I think I might finally be on the cusp of doing some PR with a celebrity. It's a heady experience for me. I don't really do celebrities. I don't read Heat magazine (sorry Katyboo) and I'm not particularly clued up on who's gained a pound or dropped twins and is back in a size 0. So this is all very new and exciting. I also managed to speak to a solicitor who will help me get some proper, grown up contracts in place and he won't charge me the earth to do it. I got sent my business plan from Business Link and it all looks do-able if a little heavy on red tape. I was super proactive on almost everything in fact and came away feeling as though several of my to do things are now ticked. Always satisfying.
I then scuttled off to watch the poetry thingy at the school. I hid behind the other parents so my son couldn't see me and melt into tears. He joined in very well wearing a cardboard hat that I think was meant to be bear ears as they had to recite a poem about honey. It was very sweet and it made me feel all boingy.
I then got to have a cup of tea with the lovely lady who fetched son 2, which just helped rekindle my feelings of community love. And we all traipsed home to have a story and a box of smarties - because I was feeling benevolent.
Next up I did something I've been meaning to do for months. I called the tumble dryer company to let them know that although our machine tumbled, it didn't dry. The girl on the phone was about as clueless about tumble dryers as I am but she suggested that maybe I check the lint filter. I told her I cleared it after every cycle. But I did say that I didn't think it fitted in the slot very well. She suggested I might want to check it. I plunged my hands into the murky depths of the tumble dryer lint slot and discovered to my horror, a lifetime supply of lint that had squeezed through the ill-fitting lint liner. I told the lady I'd call her back. I then got a wooden spoon and spent several satisfying minutes fishing lint out and at last pulled out an inch size wooden block, which was the cause of the lint thingy not fitting. I felt like a genius (it really doesn't take much) knowing that I had solved a niggling problem and saved myself lots of money in the process.
By this point I was positively radiating good thoughts. However, it all came crashing down around us when son 2 refused to eat the cottage pie because it was 'gusting' and son 1 refused to eat the cottage pie because 'he hates it.' This resulted in quite a lot of bad behaviour - including my own in which I had to prove that it wasn't disgusting and ate enough for three people.
We moved up to the bath and son 1 decided it was appropriate to spit his toothpaste bubbles in his brother's eye. This was not a game. It was malicious. He was duly dealt with by being removed from the bath and plonked in his room. This was his cue to turn on the booster volume knob and let loose his lungs. Just when we thought it couldn't get worse, we discovered a small pile of half chewed olives that son 1 had left lying on son 2's bed. When I asked son 1 to pick them up and put them in the bin, you would have thought that I was actually asking him to fish maggots from the recycling bin and eat them.
And so the screaming continued. And little by little my shiny, happy glow got yelled out. Worst of all, I vowed and promised, promised and swore that tonight I would absolutely, definitely not be having a glass of wine. Whose dumb idea was that anyway? Not sure whether to be resolute and feel virtuous in the morning or simply say, sod it. I think I know which one I'm plumping for.
But I'm not sure I can now. Things went awry late afternoon....(insert twinkly going back in time music here with cloudy edges around your peripheral vision - ala Balamory)
I started out triumphantly. Not only did I manage to make a cottage pie before 7am in a bid to get a headstart on dinner, I also managed to clean the kitchen, do laundry, catch up on email and get the children fed, dressed and out the house all without raising my voice once.
Then I was brave enough to ask someone to fetch son 2 from pre-school so that I could attend son 1's school poetry event. That person kindly agreed and I was filled with a warm feeling that I am at last getting to REALLY know people here. Know them well enough to do me a favour. I actually felt deeply, seriously part of a community. In my advancing years, this is something that is becoming increasingly important to me. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I grew up in a small village where you knew everybody's names (including all children and dogs) and everybody's business. You couldn't go for a walk along the towpath without stopping for a chat and very often a quiet beer (obviously as a child I wasn't the one drinking the beer. I was the one fetching it.) I think I'm trying to recreate that, only now I'd like to be the one drinking the beer.
I had a triumphant day at work where I think I might finally be on the cusp of doing some PR with a celebrity. It's a heady experience for me. I don't really do celebrities. I don't read Heat magazine (sorry Katyboo) and I'm not particularly clued up on who's gained a pound or dropped twins and is back in a size 0. So this is all very new and exciting. I also managed to speak to a solicitor who will help me get some proper, grown up contracts in place and he won't charge me the earth to do it. I got sent my business plan from Business Link and it all looks do-able if a little heavy on red tape. I was super proactive on almost everything in fact and came away feeling as though several of my to do things are now ticked. Always satisfying.
I then scuttled off to watch the poetry thingy at the school. I hid behind the other parents so my son couldn't see me and melt into tears. He joined in very well wearing a cardboard hat that I think was meant to be bear ears as they had to recite a poem about honey. It was very sweet and it made me feel all boingy.
I then got to have a cup of tea with the lovely lady who fetched son 2, which just helped rekindle my feelings of community love. And we all traipsed home to have a story and a box of smarties - because I was feeling benevolent.
Next up I did something I've been meaning to do for months. I called the tumble dryer company to let them know that although our machine tumbled, it didn't dry. The girl on the phone was about as clueless about tumble dryers as I am but she suggested that maybe I check the lint filter. I told her I cleared it after every cycle. But I did say that I didn't think it fitted in the slot very well. She suggested I might want to check it. I plunged my hands into the murky depths of the tumble dryer lint slot and discovered to my horror, a lifetime supply of lint that had squeezed through the ill-fitting lint liner. I told the lady I'd call her back. I then got a wooden spoon and spent several satisfying minutes fishing lint out and at last pulled out an inch size wooden block, which was the cause of the lint thingy not fitting. I felt like a genius (it really doesn't take much) knowing that I had solved a niggling problem and saved myself lots of money in the process.
By this point I was positively radiating good thoughts. However, it all came crashing down around us when son 2 refused to eat the cottage pie because it was 'gusting' and son 1 refused to eat the cottage pie because 'he hates it.' This resulted in quite a lot of bad behaviour - including my own in which I had to prove that it wasn't disgusting and ate enough for three people.
We moved up to the bath and son 1 decided it was appropriate to spit his toothpaste bubbles in his brother's eye. This was not a game. It was malicious. He was duly dealt with by being removed from the bath and plonked in his room. This was his cue to turn on the booster volume knob and let loose his lungs. Just when we thought it couldn't get worse, we discovered a small pile of half chewed olives that son 1 had left lying on son 2's bed. When I asked son 1 to pick them up and put them in the bin, you would have thought that I was actually asking him to fish maggots from the recycling bin and eat them.
And so the screaming continued. And little by little my shiny, happy glow got yelled out. Worst of all, I vowed and promised, promised and swore that tonight I would absolutely, definitely not be having a glass of wine. Whose dumb idea was that anyway? Not sure whether to be resolute and feel virtuous in the morning or simply say, sod it. I think I know which one I'm plumping for.
Monday, 15 September 2008
Baking under the influence
WHOOOSH. KERFLUMP! That is the sound of me shooting out of the birthday party organising flume and landing in a crumpled ball of lethargy. I have survived. And can now joyously forget about children's parties until next February. Hoorah.
It all went remarkably fine. Well except for the birthday boy getting so uptight at the prospect of the happy birthday song being sung to him that he came out in a blotchy rash all over his face (or maybe that was just from excessive e-numbers?) I'm not sure why my children hate the birthday song as much as they do. I can't blame them. It's a fairly doleful, cheerless dirge. In fact I think the composer of the song might have been Eyeore.
But besides that, it went swimmingly. The pirates made their pizzas. My kitchen remained remarkably red sauce free, although there is a gentle dusting of flour on the surface of most of the kitchen appliances. My pirate stickers are all untouched as none of the small boys were interested in decorating their pizza boxes. Why would you when you could charge around naked hitting each other with balloons instead? The presents were ripped open and muddled up so I have no hope of ever knowing who gave us what. Most of the presents have already lost most of their component parts and we're left with the boxes, which is really all they're interested in anyway.
So all in all, an absolutly exhausting past time, but a success nonetheless. However, there were two small baking incidences that are worth reporting. On Friday night (i.e. birthday party eve) I had finished vaccuming the floors, wrapping pass the parcels, blowing balloons, making pizza boxes and a myriad of other tasks, I thought I'd better knuckle down to make some fairy cakes. However, I had by this time had some wine. Quite a lot in fact.
I opened my baking bible (Nigella's Domestic Goddess) and turned to the fairy cake page, only to find that I'd obviously dropped a lot of icing sugar or cake batter onto the page at some prior baking extravaganza and most of the fairy cake recipe had been obliterated. So I had to resort to a different recipe book. Sob.
I took out my 'How to cook anything' American book as it does what it says on the tin and tells you how to cook anything, including fairy cakes. Except that as this is an American book, a single recipe won't make the standard 12 fairy cakes as a UK recipe will. No, my friends. American recipes will make enough fairy cakes for all the children in my son's school... and their extended families. So I had to at least halve it. I was going to divide by three but that was way beyond my mental abilities after 3 glasses of wine. So I began.
Except that I was foiled at the first hurdle as it called for a stick of butter (or rather helpfully, 8 tablespoons). Now having lived in America, I know they very kindly sell their butter in sticks. They don't do that here. And I didn't quite see how I could scoop 8 tablespoons of hard butter out of a lump and I didn't feel like sticking the whole block in the microwave.
So I googled 'stick of butter' (thank god for google) and came up with the answer. Which was 4 oz. Which I then had to divide. At which point I got a bit lost and guessed. I think I then kept switching between the full and the halved recipe until at last I got the bit calling for two eggs (i.e. one) which had to be separated. I did so and mentally patted myself on the back for not getting yolk into the white and vice versa in my less than sober state. It then said to beat the eggwhites until they reach soft peak stage. That's all well and good if you have more than one egg white. But my big beater just wouldn't work on one egg. And besides, it was already dirty and I wasn't in the mood to wash it.
So I opted to use my handheld blender. I ended up with egg on my face (literally). What remained of the egg white never managed to reach anything remotely close to soft peak stage. it reach frothy on the top with runny underneath, vaguely reminiscent of sperm. I gave up and dumped the lot in the cake mix and said sod it.
Despite that, they rose and tasted fine. I'm not sure how. But they did. There's something to be said for drunk baking (although one does find the kitchen in a bit of a mess the next day).
Having mastered baking under the influence of alcohol, this morning I thought I'd have a go at baking under the influence of a ticking clock. I was meant to bake a cake for my son to take to pre-school today but quite frankly, could not be arsed. So this morning, he asked where his cake was with big doleful eyes. At which point my heart broke and I said: It's coming right up.
So having gotten up at the crack of sparrow fart to open presents, I then had to feed the children, do all the normal before school pandemonium and bake a cake, which I did at warp speed. However, I hadn't quite factored in enough time for the cake to cool. I left it cooling while we sprinted up the road to deposit son 1 at school. I had exactly five minutes once back home to turn two semi warm cakes into something that my son would be proud of. He had requested pink icing, so I liberally smeared pink butter cream frosting between two cakes and smeared even more on the top and sides. Son 2 and I took turns pelting it with smarties and that was that. Perfection. For five seconds.
Then the heat from the cakes began to melt the butter cream and the top cake oozed away from its friend below. Tough, we were late. We set off for pre-school, me driving at 30 miles per hour the whole way. I never realised how many hills there were between our house and the pre-school because everytime we went up one or down one, the cakes would slide ominously apart, threatening to decorate the upholstery with pink frosting.
We got there. The cake looked like a pink, melting leaning tower of pisa, with many fingerprints on one side where I'd valiantly tried to slide the two pieces back together. The staff gave it some sideways glances. But I didn't care. Son 2 thought it was magnificent.
I then raced home, packed in a full day's work in 4 hours, fetched children and the remainder of the cake which by late afternoon had solidfied nicely, and had more small boys around to play in the afternoon to help eat the rest of the cake. Everyone is now in bed. I have a lot of cake washing up stuff to do downstairs. But I have made it through to the other side of the birthday. I'm not sure if I feel more exhausted now, or three years ago having just given birth.
Only how many more years of birthday parties to go???
It all went remarkably fine. Well except for the birthday boy getting so uptight at the prospect of the happy birthday song being sung to him that he came out in a blotchy rash all over his face (or maybe that was just from excessive e-numbers?) I'm not sure why my children hate the birthday song as much as they do. I can't blame them. It's a fairly doleful, cheerless dirge. In fact I think the composer of the song might have been Eyeore.
But besides that, it went swimmingly. The pirates made their pizzas. My kitchen remained remarkably red sauce free, although there is a gentle dusting of flour on the surface of most of the kitchen appliances. My pirate stickers are all untouched as none of the small boys were interested in decorating their pizza boxes. Why would you when you could charge around naked hitting each other with balloons instead? The presents were ripped open and muddled up so I have no hope of ever knowing who gave us what. Most of the presents have already lost most of their component parts and we're left with the boxes, which is really all they're interested in anyway.
So all in all, an absolutly exhausting past time, but a success nonetheless. However, there were two small baking incidences that are worth reporting. On Friday night (i.e. birthday party eve) I had finished vaccuming the floors, wrapping pass the parcels, blowing balloons, making pizza boxes and a myriad of other tasks, I thought I'd better knuckle down to make some fairy cakes. However, I had by this time had some wine. Quite a lot in fact.
I opened my baking bible (Nigella's Domestic Goddess) and turned to the fairy cake page, only to find that I'd obviously dropped a lot of icing sugar or cake batter onto the page at some prior baking extravaganza and most of the fairy cake recipe had been obliterated. So I had to resort to a different recipe book. Sob.
I took out my 'How to cook anything' American book as it does what it says on the tin and tells you how to cook anything, including fairy cakes. Except that as this is an American book, a single recipe won't make the standard 12 fairy cakes as a UK recipe will. No, my friends. American recipes will make enough fairy cakes for all the children in my son's school... and their extended families. So I had to at least halve it. I was going to divide by three but that was way beyond my mental abilities after 3 glasses of wine. So I began.
Except that I was foiled at the first hurdle as it called for a stick of butter (or rather helpfully, 8 tablespoons). Now having lived in America, I know they very kindly sell their butter in sticks. They don't do that here. And I didn't quite see how I could scoop 8 tablespoons of hard butter out of a lump and I didn't feel like sticking the whole block in the microwave.
So I googled 'stick of butter' (thank god for google) and came up with the answer. Which was 4 oz. Which I then had to divide. At which point I got a bit lost and guessed. I think I then kept switching between the full and the halved recipe until at last I got the bit calling for two eggs (i.e. one) which had to be separated. I did so and mentally patted myself on the back for not getting yolk into the white and vice versa in my less than sober state. It then said to beat the eggwhites until they reach soft peak stage. That's all well and good if you have more than one egg white. But my big beater just wouldn't work on one egg. And besides, it was already dirty and I wasn't in the mood to wash it.
So I opted to use my handheld blender. I ended up with egg on my face (literally). What remained of the egg white never managed to reach anything remotely close to soft peak stage. it reach frothy on the top with runny underneath, vaguely reminiscent of sperm. I gave up and dumped the lot in the cake mix and said sod it.
Despite that, they rose and tasted fine. I'm not sure how. But they did. There's something to be said for drunk baking (although one does find the kitchen in a bit of a mess the next day).
Having mastered baking under the influence of alcohol, this morning I thought I'd have a go at baking under the influence of a ticking clock. I was meant to bake a cake for my son to take to pre-school today but quite frankly, could not be arsed. So this morning, he asked where his cake was with big doleful eyes. At which point my heart broke and I said: It's coming right up.
So having gotten up at the crack of sparrow fart to open presents, I then had to feed the children, do all the normal before school pandemonium and bake a cake, which I did at warp speed. However, I hadn't quite factored in enough time for the cake to cool. I left it cooling while we sprinted up the road to deposit son 1 at school. I had exactly five minutes once back home to turn two semi warm cakes into something that my son would be proud of. He had requested pink icing, so I liberally smeared pink butter cream frosting between two cakes and smeared even more on the top and sides. Son 2 and I took turns pelting it with smarties and that was that. Perfection. For five seconds.
Then the heat from the cakes began to melt the butter cream and the top cake oozed away from its friend below. Tough, we were late. We set off for pre-school, me driving at 30 miles per hour the whole way. I never realised how many hills there were between our house and the pre-school because everytime we went up one or down one, the cakes would slide ominously apart, threatening to decorate the upholstery with pink frosting.
We got there. The cake looked like a pink, melting leaning tower of pisa, with many fingerprints on one side where I'd valiantly tried to slide the two pieces back together. The staff gave it some sideways glances. But I didn't care. Son 2 thought it was magnificent.
I then raced home, packed in a full day's work in 4 hours, fetched children and the remainder of the cake which by late afternoon had solidfied nicely, and had more small boys around to play in the afternoon to help eat the rest of the cake. Everyone is now in bed. I have a lot of cake washing up stuff to do downstairs. But I have made it through to the other side of the birthday. I'm not sure if I feel more exhausted now, or three years ago having just given birth.
Only how many more years of birthday parties to go???
Monday, 8 September 2008
A frightfully successful couple of days, what.
This cartoon shall be explained in the last paragraph.
How did it get to be Monday evening already? Not that I'm complaining as it means a) the children are in bed and b) it's nearly Tuesday. Not that I had a bad Monday. In fact, it was quite exciting as my shiny new Organised Mum Life Book Planner thingy arrived. I plan on spending my evening morphing into super geek girl (which involves a fetching cape thrown over elasticated pants) and writing in super neat writing everything that I have to do.
I've collated the several thousand newsletters from schools and invitations and doctors appointment cards and address books and the Sunsail brochure (just in case I need to add their holiday hotline number to my emergency contacts) and enter each item with great dedication so that I am the very picture of Organised Mum. In fact the Organised Mum people might want to hire me to be their new model as few will be able to compare in organisedness.
What's more, I am positively glowing in domestic goddess-ability as I whipped up a triumphant batch of courgette chutney last night using up the last of our triffid-like vegetables and used our home grown apples to make my children apple crumble for their pudding (it was pearls before swine as one wouldn't eat the fruit and would rather have had an ice cream in a cone and the other didn't like the crunchy bits because they stuck in his teeth - not to mention that he had a sore bum bum that was putting him off his dinner).
I still however, have about 1000 apples and pears to deploy in a cooking crusade but they can loiter on the kitchen counter and indeed on their trees for a while longer.
I've had a fairly successful work day, remembered to take a friend's childs birthday present to pre-school, found someone to mow our lawn and had the world's strangest chat with a mental health charity from whom I made the grave mistake of ordering some pirate aprons from.
You see I need the aprons for son 2s birthday party this weekend. And despite scouring the interweb could find no pirate aprons that wouldn't cause me to remortgage the house, except these. So I ordered them last week. Today I received a note saying thank you for your order. We're processing it and you can expect it in 10 days. The party is this Saturday.
So I wrote back explaining that I would be having 8 three year olds dressed as pirates in my kitchen ready to make pizzas but not without their pirate aprons. So a very charming chap named David gave me a call. He congratulated me on being the first person EVER to buy anything off their website, which is why they were caught a bit off guard, not realising they might actually need the products that they sell. I asked if that qualified me for something complimentary, forgetting that I was talking to a mental health charity. So he chuckled and said, 'erm, yes we might be able to rustle something up.' I do hope it's not a mental health problem as I have enough of those already.
Anyway, David said that he was terribly sorry but they only had enough pirate fabric for four aprons and could he send me 4 with lighthouses on instead. Now what, pray tell, are you supposed to do in this situation? Do you say, 'Abso-bloody-lutely not. I paid for 8 pirate aprons and the theme of the party is pirates and without the pirate aprons the whole thing will just fall apart as all the little beasties argue about who's going to get the pirate one vs the WI inpired lighthouse ones.' Or do you think, 'These kind people are trying to raise funds for people who don't have a lift going all the way to the top and perhaps I should just accept it and go.' So I reluctantly agreed to support the mentally ill and accept the lighthouse aprons, knowing full well that I would be the person breaking up fights come Saturday morning. In fact, by donating money to the charity, I'm probably just investing in my future as my sanity is on the brink anyway.
Then hallelujah! David rang back. They'd manage to find some more fabric 'stashed away at the back'. The back of what, I wondered? So the good people of the charity will be whipping up another 4 pirate aprons and that he would personally endeavour to get them to me before the big day, because he wouldn't want me to have a riot on my hands. Problem solved.
So all in all, a fairly successful day. And indeed, we had a lovely weekend too. We got to go to the theatre on Friday night which was both entertaining and allowed me to feel cultured, not a feeling I have very often. And I got to guzzle gins and tonics before the show and during interval.
On Saturday we attended a friend's 40th. It was meant to be a summery party in the gardens of a rambling manor house. All of it was true except for the summery part. So instead we marched in heavy downpours across Salisbury plain, which was very pleasant, but not particularly good for my hairdo that evening. We had a fabulous, if somewhat surreal, evening (or maybe it was just the wine that made it all a bit blurry and strange around the edges). All the men were asked to make a contribution to the entertainment by regaling us with tales, poems, anecdotes about the birthday boy. This varied from limericks, piano playing, to the Jabberwock poem, to singing ABBA songs. It was all very 1890s and I expected at any moment for the ladies to retire to play a game of whist while the gents had whiskey and cigars. What's more, as a foreigner, I found the frightfully proper English accents almost comical. I felt sure that I was on a black adder set. I found myself speaking as though I had several large hot potatoes in my mouth, which when combined with a South African twang is probably a little odd.
However, the best part (besides the tremdendous quiche starter and fabulous fillet of beef and gallons of wine), was the cartoon place settings created for each person. The host and hostess spent hours trying to find cartoons that they felt most accurately reflected each guest. Mine is above (it would be below except for some reason I am unable to put pictures on my blog anywhere except at the top). I believe that I have never seen anything that quite so accurately sums up my life. And the lady in it even looks like me (albeit it a rather more glamorous and skinny version of me).
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
Holiday packing. It's crap.
Tomorrow we go on holiday. Our first proper holiday for a long, long time. I should be wildly enthusiastic and champing at the bit to get away. However, there is a small issue that stands between me and that holiday feeling. Packing.
I have written a list of everything we need. Not just on a scrap of paper you understand, but in a shiny new duck egg blue notebook which I got free in a magazine. I started the list a while ago and add to it whenever I think of something else that is absolutely vital. The way the list currently stands, we are going to need a our very own personal ferry to cart all our crap to France. It's not like we're going to Mongolia, Sudan or the Amazon. We don't need survival gear. As far as I know France is a first world country. Yet I still feel compelled to take everything we own on the off chance we might need it.
I would start to rationalise and make cuts to the list, but I know that the minute I delete an item, it'll be that very item which becomes the holiday 'must have'. And as the mother, it will be my fault that it's not there.
I am way too weary to start packing now. But I feel I have done good prep work. Besides my trusty list, I've done copious amounts of laundry (all of which was wet through thanks to the sodding rain), and have attempted to dry most of it. I've done my ironing (first time in two months). I've charged the camera batteries. I've ordered and received our European Health Cards. I've got foreign currency and travel insurance. I've bought an in-car DVD player and new DVDs to entertain the kids. And I've remembered to add travel sick pills to my list. I've still got to buy food supplies and I've yet to get a pedicure or tummy tuck, but I don't think I'm going to manage to squeeze those in between now and tomorrow evening.
So I'm pretty well organised. I just can't be arsed to actually get all the stuff and shove it into bags. Also, much of it needs to be packed directly from the garage into the boot of the car. And packing the car is husband's job. In fact it is any man's job. They have to have this job for two reasons:
Firstly, they don't do anything else related to the holiday besides throw a few pairs of undies and a couple of shirts in a bag for themselves. They don't have to book accomodation or make travel arrangements. They don't have to work out dates that suit everybody. They don't have to make lists of what to pack. They don't need to pack enough clothes for children that will cover 5 peed in pants a day, rain, mud, sunshine or a potential blizzard and still get it into a teeny tiny bag. They don't have to come up with a cunning packing plan that ensures you have a bag with enough snacks, drinks, changes of clothes, nappies, toys, books, medicine and baby wipes for every leg of the journey. They don't need to do any of the above really. They simply have to arrive at the alloted departure time with their own bag of kit and a mutter about 'all this crap' that they have to heave into the car.
Secondly, men like packing car boots. They find it cathartic. It reminds them of the days when they were small boys and got to build towers out of wooden blocks and had to make sure they had just the right piece to fit into just the right hole. I'll readily admit that I am rubbish at packing cars. Men excel at it. That is until you have to open the boot and get the one thing you forgot to pack in the emergency day sack (like moo moo the toy cow), which results in much swearing, rolling of eyes, sighing and tutting as though they are thoroughly exhausted with having to do all this holiday malarkey and must their darned wife try their patience now?
So no, I'm not feeling thrilled at the prospect of going on holiday right this minute. I'm sure that once the car is packed, we've survived the overnight ferry crossing, the five hour car drive, found our destination, managed to cobble together a meal for starving children on the remaining car snacks, and I can sit down and enjoy a glass - make that a bottle - of French wine, I will be very happy to be away. But until then, I've got a bit of work to do.
So blog readers, I shall not be blogging until my return, no doubt armed with tales of how thanks to my perfect packing skills, the holiday was a dream (except for the part where I have to drive two boys across France on my own on the return as husband's leaving early to get back to work. Goody).
I do hope that it stops raining at some point otherwise we could well be returning to a flooded house, which might negate the relaxation afforded by the holiday.
Do wish me Bonne Chance!
Toodle pip
I have written a list of everything we need. Not just on a scrap of paper you understand, but in a shiny new duck egg blue notebook which I got free in a magazine. I started the list a while ago and add to it whenever I think of something else that is absolutely vital. The way the list currently stands, we are going to need a our very own personal ferry to cart all our crap to France. It's not like we're going to Mongolia, Sudan or the Amazon. We don't need survival gear. As far as I know France is a first world country. Yet I still feel compelled to take everything we own on the off chance we might need it.
I would start to rationalise and make cuts to the list, but I know that the minute I delete an item, it'll be that very item which becomes the holiday 'must have'. And as the mother, it will be my fault that it's not there.
I am way too weary to start packing now. But I feel I have done good prep work. Besides my trusty list, I've done copious amounts of laundry (all of which was wet through thanks to the sodding rain), and have attempted to dry most of it. I've done my ironing (first time in two months). I've charged the camera batteries. I've ordered and received our European Health Cards. I've got foreign currency and travel insurance. I've bought an in-car DVD player and new DVDs to entertain the kids. And I've remembered to add travel sick pills to my list. I've still got to buy food supplies and I've yet to get a pedicure or tummy tuck, but I don't think I'm going to manage to squeeze those in between now and tomorrow evening.
So I'm pretty well organised. I just can't be arsed to actually get all the stuff and shove it into bags. Also, much of it needs to be packed directly from the garage into the boot of the car. And packing the car is husband's job. In fact it is any man's job. They have to have this job for two reasons:
Firstly, they don't do anything else related to the holiday besides throw a few pairs of undies and a couple of shirts in a bag for themselves. They don't have to book accomodation or make travel arrangements. They don't have to work out dates that suit everybody. They don't have to make lists of what to pack. They don't need to pack enough clothes for children that will cover 5 peed in pants a day, rain, mud, sunshine or a potential blizzard and still get it into a teeny tiny bag. They don't have to come up with a cunning packing plan that ensures you have a bag with enough snacks, drinks, changes of clothes, nappies, toys, books, medicine and baby wipes for every leg of the journey. They don't need to do any of the above really. They simply have to arrive at the alloted departure time with their own bag of kit and a mutter about 'all this crap' that they have to heave into the car.
Secondly, men like packing car boots. They find it cathartic. It reminds them of the days when they were small boys and got to build towers out of wooden blocks and had to make sure they had just the right piece to fit into just the right hole. I'll readily admit that I am rubbish at packing cars. Men excel at it. That is until you have to open the boot and get the one thing you forgot to pack in the emergency day sack (like moo moo the toy cow), which results in much swearing, rolling of eyes, sighing and tutting as though they are thoroughly exhausted with having to do all this holiday malarkey and must their darned wife try their patience now?
So no, I'm not feeling thrilled at the prospect of going on holiday right this minute. I'm sure that once the car is packed, we've survived the overnight ferry crossing, the five hour car drive, found our destination, managed to cobble together a meal for starving children on the remaining car snacks, and I can sit down and enjoy a glass - make that a bottle - of French wine, I will be very happy to be away. But until then, I've got a bit of work to do.
So blog readers, I shall not be blogging until my return, no doubt armed with tales of how thanks to my perfect packing skills, the holiday was a dream (except for the part where I have to drive two boys across France on my own on the return as husband's leaving early to get back to work. Goody).
I do hope that it stops raining at some point otherwise we could well be returning to a flooded house, which might negate the relaxation afforded by the holiday.
Do wish me Bonne Chance!
Toodle pip
Friday, 25 July 2008
Summer party - just a casual BBQ - not much effort required really
Tomorrow is the big day. Our annual summer party. We expect to have about 30 adults....and roughly the same number of children....all under the age of 7. The intention is to be outdoors, enjoying the garden, eating our own body weight in BBQd sausages and swimming in the pool. For the kids we've got face paints, bubbles, inflatable plastic things, ride on tractors, sports day games, the trampoline and the pool. For grown ups we've got lots of wine. It should be fab.
But according to the BBC weather page, the forecast is light showers. Excellent. Just what we need. At least they're 'light' showers as opposed to torrential rain with galeforce winds. Which was equally likely. So can't complain really.
As a result, this evening, husband and I shall attempt to erect two marquees - our rainy day back up plan - plus inflate two large inflatable ball pool thingies that will irritate the living hell out of me when the children scatter the balls all over the garden so that we spend the next year finding them nestling amongst our tomato plants. I also have to defrost the 17 tonnes of meat, make a potato bake to feed the masses and attempt to curry some peaches (my casual nod to a South African side dish. If this was a real South African affair, it would be called a Braai and there'd be double the quantity of meat cooked over a coal fire with beer bread, mielie pap and carrot and orange salad with beer - Castle Lager. But it's not, so it's a British BBQ with sausages and Pimms.)
Tomorrow we need to collect ride on tractors, a big gas BBQ from the pub down the road, prepare the rest of the food, clean the pool, set up a million other things including tents for people camping in the garden. And then once people arrive, I'll get to paint children's faces, organise kids races, shout at too many children jumping on the trampoline at once, instruct drunken grown ups to get off the trampoline altogether, serve food, break up fights, get kids into bed when they're over excited and over tired, and clear up.
At some point I do plan on having a glass of wine and a lie in the sun should the rain bugger off.
But it has become apparent to me that I am a fool for organising this party every year. For it to truely be a success I need a) Guaranteed sunshine (not something I'm ever going to get on this grey island) b) staff and lots of them including a herd of babysitters and kids entertainers, plus cleaners, chefs and groundsmen, c) lower expectations.
But fingers crossed it will all go swimmingly. I will attempt to report back with a hangover on Sunday evening. Till then, have a good weekend.
But according to the BBC weather page, the forecast is light showers. Excellent. Just what we need. At least they're 'light' showers as opposed to torrential rain with galeforce winds. Which was equally likely. So can't complain really.
As a result, this evening, husband and I shall attempt to erect two marquees - our rainy day back up plan - plus inflate two large inflatable ball pool thingies that will irritate the living hell out of me when the children scatter the balls all over the garden so that we spend the next year finding them nestling amongst our tomato plants. I also have to defrost the 17 tonnes of meat, make a potato bake to feed the masses and attempt to curry some peaches (my casual nod to a South African side dish. If this was a real South African affair, it would be called a Braai and there'd be double the quantity of meat cooked over a coal fire with beer bread, mielie pap and carrot and orange salad with beer - Castle Lager. But it's not, so it's a British BBQ with sausages and Pimms.)
Tomorrow we need to collect ride on tractors, a big gas BBQ from the pub down the road, prepare the rest of the food, clean the pool, set up a million other things including tents for people camping in the garden. And then once people arrive, I'll get to paint children's faces, organise kids races, shout at too many children jumping on the trampoline at once, instruct drunken grown ups to get off the trampoline altogether, serve food, break up fights, get kids into bed when they're over excited and over tired, and clear up.
At some point I do plan on having a glass of wine and a lie in the sun should the rain bugger off.
But it has become apparent to me that I am a fool for organising this party every year. For it to truely be a success I need a) Guaranteed sunshine (not something I'm ever going to get on this grey island) b) staff and lots of them including a herd of babysitters and kids entertainers, plus cleaners, chefs and groundsmen, c) lower expectations.
But fingers crossed it will all go swimmingly. I will attempt to report back with a hangover on Sunday evening. Till then, have a good weekend.
Monday, 21 July 2008
Teacher's present etiquette. Why someone needs to write a book.
I've said it before but I'll repeat myself because I can: there is a market for a book telling parents who are about to send their first child off to school what school etiquette is. There are so many things you just don't know and I'm sure they become readily apparent the first time you've embarrassed yourself hugely in front of all the other parents/teachers/head teacher/pupils. But it would be nice to avoid that embarrassment and just be able to read up on what is supposed to happen.
For example, tomorrow is the last day that my son will be at pre-school forever (unless he keeps forgetting how to wipe his own bottom and the big school sends him back for another year's hygiene training). And until very recently, it skipped my notice that as a parent with nothing else to do or money to spend on things, you are supposed to buy teachers presents at the end of the year, particularly if you're leaving and never coming back.
This fact actually came to my attention a couple of months ago but was like a ball of fluff. It just drifted in one ear and out the other and I didn't think twice about it. Until today. Actually until an hour ago. So what do you get for a teacher at 7pm the night before the day it is to be presented? In fact what do you get them full stop? And are you just supposed to give the main teacher a present or all the staff? You see how many questions there are that a book could easily explain. I can see paragraphs being consumed on this subject alone.
So back to the subject of what to get them. I've been advised that wine is always well received. I'm sure it is. It's quite well received in this house too. And although I could afford to buy one not-totally-vile-and-semi-drinkable bottle, I certainly don't feel like paying for it five times over to thank all the staff. If I'm going to spend that much on wine I'd like to be the person consuming it. I mean it is these same people who send my children home with glitter and pine needle art so how big a thank you should they get? Despite all these very good arguments for not buying wine, the decision is somewhat made for me as we have none left in the house (why we invested in a wine fridge I'll never know - it's never full). So that's the end of the wine discussion.
Moving on. I could get son to wake up early tomorrow morning (he does anyway) and create a lovely piece of art for them (pay back time - I'll go digging for grass shavings now). But I fear that they probably won't appreciate yet another piece of - let's face it - fairly dire artwork. They probably see enough of it in their day jobs so taking it on holiday with them probably won't happen. So scratch that off the list.
I believe that gawdy trinkets like a pink ceramic elephant with tears running down its cheeks holding a sign saying: I'll miss you my best teacher, are considered naff. And rightly so. Which is good because we don't have any of those in the house either.
Which leaves one thing. Baked goods. I can do baked goods. I'm not convinced the teachers want baked goods. I have no idea if they have nut allergies or on a mega-slimming programme before trying to squeeze into their summer bikinis. But quite frankly, tough. It's chocolate brownies in cellophane bags with gold ties (because I do just happen to have some of those in the house, a carry over from my walnut packing episode several years ago... it's a long story) and they will take them and smile. If they feed them to family, hand them in at a homeless shelter or drop them in a bin, I don't care. It's the thought that counts. And the bloody effort at this time on a Monday evening (particularly because Husband still has to bring home the chocolate as I don't have enough.)
So there, dilemma solved. But I was seconds away from embarrassing myself by arriving empty handed. And given I still have another child who has to spend two full years there, and given his propensity for peeing in his pants, I probably need to curry favour now. Now if someone had just written a book about this, I would have had none of these conundrums.
Must bake.
For example, tomorrow is the last day that my son will be at pre-school forever (unless he keeps forgetting how to wipe his own bottom and the big school sends him back for another year's hygiene training). And until very recently, it skipped my notice that as a parent with nothing else to do or money to spend on things, you are supposed to buy teachers presents at the end of the year, particularly if you're leaving and never coming back.
This fact actually came to my attention a couple of months ago but was like a ball of fluff. It just drifted in one ear and out the other and I didn't think twice about it. Until today. Actually until an hour ago. So what do you get for a teacher at 7pm the night before the day it is to be presented? In fact what do you get them full stop? And are you just supposed to give the main teacher a present or all the staff? You see how many questions there are that a book could easily explain. I can see paragraphs being consumed on this subject alone.
So back to the subject of what to get them. I've been advised that wine is always well received. I'm sure it is. It's quite well received in this house too. And although I could afford to buy one not-totally-vile-and-semi-drinkable bottle, I certainly don't feel like paying for it five times over to thank all the staff. If I'm going to spend that much on wine I'd like to be the person consuming it. I mean it is these same people who send my children home with glitter and pine needle art so how big a thank you should they get? Despite all these very good arguments for not buying wine, the decision is somewhat made for me as we have none left in the house (why we invested in a wine fridge I'll never know - it's never full). So that's the end of the wine discussion.
Moving on. I could get son to wake up early tomorrow morning (he does anyway) and create a lovely piece of art for them (pay back time - I'll go digging for grass shavings now). But I fear that they probably won't appreciate yet another piece of - let's face it - fairly dire artwork. They probably see enough of it in their day jobs so taking it on holiday with them probably won't happen. So scratch that off the list.
I believe that gawdy trinkets like a pink ceramic elephant with tears running down its cheeks holding a sign saying: I'll miss you my best teacher, are considered naff. And rightly so. Which is good because we don't have any of those in the house either.
Which leaves one thing. Baked goods. I can do baked goods. I'm not convinced the teachers want baked goods. I have no idea if they have nut allergies or on a mega-slimming programme before trying to squeeze into their summer bikinis. But quite frankly, tough. It's chocolate brownies in cellophane bags with gold ties (because I do just happen to have some of those in the house, a carry over from my walnut packing episode several years ago... it's a long story) and they will take them and smile. If they feed them to family, hand them in at a homeless shelter or drop them in a bin, I don't care. It's the thought that counts. And the bloody effort at this time on a Monday evening (particularly because Husband still has to bring home the chocolate as I don't have enough.)
So there, dilemma solved. But I was seconds away from embarrassing myself by arriving empty handed. And given I still have another child who has to spend two full years there, and given his propensity for peeing in his pants, I probably need to curry favour now. Now if someone had just written a book about this, I would have had none of these conundrums.
Must bake.
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
I need wine.
I am gagging for a glass of wine. I can imagine the sound of icy cold pinot grigio or chardonnay or to be honest any damn thing being poured into a glass. The first sip. The cutting coolness of it. Aah. But it's Tuesday. That's a day of the week. Not the weekend. And we're not supposed to be drinking during the week because
a) it costs too much
b) it's fattening
c) you're not supposed to have a million units of alcohol a week. Something to do with gout and liver disease.
So we have supplemented wine for tea. In my case, rooibos tea. And quite frankly, caffeine free tea is not a very satisfactory wine replacement.
I know that if I don't have any wine tonight, tomorrow morning I will wake up feeling clear headed (well as clear headed as anyone waking up before the birds can feel) and I will have the warm glow of satisfaction that I didn't succomb to what are worrying alcholic tendencies.
But it's been a not brilliant day. Not awful mind, just a bit out of sortish.
Firstly, I'm definitely having a career wobble. I shouldn't be surprised. I have one about once a month (hmm, I wonder what the cause could be?) I am my own worst critic and the slightest thing tends to make me question my abilities. Right now I am grappling with the 'do I scale up or do I stay small' dilemma. Both have pros. Both have cons. Both require me to remove my butt firmly from the fence which I've become quite comfortable sitting on.
Secondly, I have two small boys. Yes, I may have mentioned them before. Today, the younger son was apparently tired. Very. That means an awful lot of completely irrational behaviour coupled with loud yelling. And that's just me... ba boom. But the older one wasn't on fabulous form either - and given he currently sports a black eye from his younger brother head butting his cheekbone - he looks more thuggish than usual.
We had the fight over who was going to have the orange cup, for something new and completely different. Then we had the fight about who was going to play with which of the 4,000 plastic cars we own. Then we had the fight about who had said 'Snap' first. Son 1 hasn't quite mastered the art of losing so playing a game like snap is dangerous ground. Then son 2 refused to go for a pee. And then promptly peed his pants. Then I had to get dinner going and son 2 wanted to help. By that read, I peeled the potatoes. He used the peeler to lacerate my cookery book. I chopped the potatoes. He 'helped' by putting them into the pot of water .... dropping them from about 15 feet up so that the entire kitchen was drenched by the end of it.
Broccoli, a firm favourite in our house, became the world's most evil vegetable during today's dinner and son 2 also refused to eat the mashed potatoes he had helped make. For pudding, I offered yogurt. Cue major screams as yogurt doesn't include ice-cream or chocolate. Finally resigning themselves to boring old yogurt, they proceeded to fight about who was going to snap the tubs apart. Eventually the both pulled, ripping two of the tubs in half resulting in a yogurt explosion and cries of: 'That one's oogy. I don't want that one.' Obviously. So much for Gordon Brown saying not to waste food. Does the man have children? Real ones?
Anyway, I could go on about bathtime antics and the fact that the younger son caused the older son to smash his head into the toy box just before bed, but I won't. Because I'm going to go get some wine. I'll pretend it's Saturday. After all, it's Wednesday tomorrow which means I'm not working. Hurrah.
a) it costs too much
b) it's fattening
c) you're not supposed to have a million units of alcohol a week. Something to do with gout and liver disease.
So we have supplemented wine for tea. In my case, rooibos tea. And quite frankly, caffeine free tea is not a very satisfactory wine replacement.
I know that if I don't have any wine tonight, tomorrow morning I will wake up feeling clear headed (well as clear headed as anyone waking up before the birds can feel) and I will have the warm glow of satisfaction that I didn't succomb to what are worrying alcholic tendencies.
But it's been a not brilliant day. Not awful mind, just a bit out of sortish.
Firstly, I'm definitely having a career wobble. I shouldn't be surprised. I have one about once a month (hmm, I wonder what the cause could be?) I am my own worst critic and the slightest thing tends to make me question my abilities. Right now I am grappling with the 'do I scale up or do I stay small' dilemma. Both have pros. Both have cons. Both require me to remove my butt firmly from the fence which I've become quite comfortable sitting on.
Secondly, I have two small boys. Yes, I may have mentioned them before. Today, the younger son was apparently tired. Very. That means an awful lot of completely irrational behaviour coupled with loud yelling. And that's just me... ba boom. But the older one wasn't on fabulous form either - and given he currently sports a black eye from his younger brother head butting his cheekbone - he looks more thuggish than usual.
We had the fight over who was going to have the orange cup, for something new and completely different. Then we had the fight about who was going to play with which of the 4,000 plastic cars we own. Then we had the fight about who had said 'Snap' first. Son 1 hasn't quite mastered the art of losing so playing a game like snap is dangerous ground. Then son 2 refused to go for a pee. And then promptly peed his pants. Then I had to get dinner going and son 2 wanted to help. By that read, I peeled the potatoes. He used the peeler to lacerate my cookery book. I chopped the potatoes. He 'helped' by putting them into the pot of water .... dropping them from about 15 feet up so that the entire kitchen was drenched by the end of it.
Broccoli, a firm favourite in our house, became the world's most evil vegetable during today's dinner and son 2 also refused to eat the mashed potatoes he had helped make. For pudding, I offered yogurt. Cue major screams as yogurt doesn't include ice-cream or chocolate. Finally resigning themselves to boring old yogurt, they proceeded to fight about who was going to snap the tubs apart. Eventually the both pulled, ripping two of the tubs in half resulting in a yogurt explosion and cries of: 'That one's oogy. I don't want that one.' Obviously. So much for Gordon Brown saying not to waste food. Does the man have children? Real ones?
Anyway, I could go on about bathtime antics and the fact that the younger son caused the older son to smash his head into the toy box just before bed, but I won't. Because I'm going to go get some wine. I'll pretend it's Saturday. After all, it's Wednesday tomorrow which means I'm not working. Hurrah.
Monday, 7 July 2008
My brain is full. I need an assistant
Perhaps having children has shrunk the size of my brain. Perhaps my brain is now just full of new things - like all the words to The Wheels on the Bus, Horsey horsey don't you stop and every other children's song on the planet. Maybe the constant juggling of a million different things everyday is making my brain's receptors short circuit - like trying to remember what time to fetch which child from where or whether we still have toilet paper or frozen peas left in the house.
Perhaps its years of drinking too much wine which has slowly killed the brain cells, leaving me with fewer that function. Or perhaps it's just chronic sleep deprivation.
Whatever it is, I think my brain is full. I'm finding it increasingly hard to remember things. It's like my brain processes something and then immediately deletes it to make room for other new stuff coming in.
The result is that after a full day's work in which I feel I have achieved nothing concrete, my brain feels as though a small family of hamsters has taken residence and are frantically spinning their wheels.
I really think I need an assistant. Someone who can handle all the billions of little things that fly at me everyday. They need to be organised. Very organised. Because I'm not. They need to be able to do things like take out magazine subscriptions for me (a pathetic task that will earn me no money and cost me a fortune but which must be done for work purposes. Incidentally, to all those magazine publishers out there, streamline your blinking ordering process please!! And no, I do not want to be sent any sodding information from any of your carefully selected partners).
The assistant will also have to update my press lists and tidy out my outlook inbox and possibly even call the odd journalist or two on my behalf. They will have to search for and scan client coverage. They might even have to answer the phone. And they must be willing to be paid a pittance.
Know anyone?
Because unless I get someone soon, I'm just going to start responding to everyone with the same response: Brain says no.
Must go fetch the children from somewhere. Just got to remember where.
Perhaps its years of drinking too much wine which has slowly killed the brain cells, leaving me with fewer that function. Or perhaps it's just chronic sleep deprivation.
Whatever it is, I think my brain is full. I'm finding it increasingly hard to remember things. It's like my brain processes something and then immediately deletes it to make room for other new stuff coming in.
The result is that after a full day's work in which I feel I have achieved nothing concrete, my brain feels as though a small family of hamsters has taken residence and are frantically spinning their wheels.
I really think I need an assistant. Someone who can handle all the billions of little things that fly at me everyday. They need to be organised. Very organised. Because I'm not. They need to be able to do things like take out magazine subscriptions for me (a pathetic task that will earn me no money and cost me a fortune but which must be done for work purposes. Incidentally, to all those magazine publishers out there, streamline your blinking ordering process please!! And no, I do not want to be sent any sodding information from any of your carefully selected partners).
The assistant will also have to update my press lists and tidy out my outlook inbox and possibly even call the odd journalist or two on my behalf. They will have to search for and scan client coverage. They might even have to answer the phone. And they must be willing to be paid a pittance.
Know anyone?
Because unless I get someone soon, I'm just going to start responding to everyone with the same response: Brain says no.
Must go fetch the children from somewhere. Just got to remember where.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Wine plus children
Why in the name of all things holy do children insist on waking up at 5.30am on a Sunday morning, particularly when the night before involved several rather large glasses of wine? And why must they also choose this exact time to do a poo and yell that they need their bottom wiped? Because quite frankly, stumbling out of bed to face a small boy on all fours with his yet to be cleaned bottom waving in the air - arms presented so to speak - is not quite how I like my Sundays to start.
And if anyone knows how to turn off a remote controlled T-rex that won't stop roaring, please let me know because it's about to become extinct.
God my head. Crawling back to bed now...
And if anyone knows how to turn off a remote controlled T-rex that won't stop roaring, please let me know because it's about to become extinct.
God my head. Crawling back to bed now...
Friday, 23 May 2008
Pain relief
Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow. Apparently I have muscles loitering somewhere deep inside my legs and they're trying to tell me that jogging isn't a very clever thing to do. Meanwhile my head is making it's views known too.
You see last night lovely husband was away at a not very exciting business awards dinner, so I had full command of the TV remote control. I packed in an inordinate amount of viewing - 1 episode of Desperate Houswives, American Idol final, 2 episodes of Grey's Anatomy and 1 episode of House. (Which meant I missed the second Eurovision Song Contest semi-final, but there are only so many hours in the day). But having a TV marathon like that requires one of two things: snacks or wine. I opted for the latter, despite our no drinking during the week policy. I think I might have had a glass or two too many.
So this morning's 6am start wasn't pleasant. And I can't quite believe it - because it's not yet 7am - we've already had a fight about which way the bloody toast should be cut. Older son stood right next to me while I said: squares or triangles? He explicitly said triangles. If the fridge could vouch for me, it would. No sooner had I made the first fatal incision, his wailing lament began.
'I WANT SQUARES. I WANT SQUARES. I WANT SQUARES.' Of course you do dear. However, I still haven't quite figured out how to glue toast back together. Had he requested jam on toast, I might have managed to cobble something together. But he wanted plain butter. Luckily younger brother also had plain butter and hadn't yet had his toast cut because and I quote: 'The butter has melted in and I don't want it melted in'. So with my slightly thick and fuzzy head, I foolishly made the mistake of assuming it would be ok to give the unwanted uncut toast to older brother so that it could be cut into squares.
Let's just say it wasn't ok and it all ended with me being called a 'poopy pants'. Just when things where about to spiral out of control, younger beastie managed to trap his hand in a cupboard door - something he excels at doing on a regular basis. Lots of loud screaming ensued ending with a vital sticking plaster application (although there wasn't a scratch on him).
If only my head and legs could be treated with a pirate motif plaster. Things would be a lot more pleasant.
P.S. Wine producers should by law have to put labels on the bottles that say: If you're going to have to face a small child on all fours with his bottom waving in the air in need of a post poo wipe the morning after consumption, we strongly urge you not to drink this.
You see last night lovely husband was away at a not very exciting business awards dinner, so I had full command of the TV remote control. I packed in an inordinate amount of viewing - 1 episode of Desperate Houswives, American Idol final, 2 episodes of Grey's Anatomy and 1 episode of House. (Which meant I missed the second Eurovision Song Contest semi-final, but there are only so many hours in the day). But having a TV marathon like that requires one of two things: snacks or wine. I opted for the latter, despite our no drinking during the week policy. I think I might have had a glass or two too many.
So this morning's 6am start wasn't pleasant. And I can't quite believe it - because it's not yet 7am - we've already had a fight about which way the bloody toast should be cut. Older son stood right next to me while I said: squares or triangles? He explicitly said triangles. If the fridge could vouch for me, it would. No sooner had I made the first fatal incision, his wailing lament began.
'I WANT SQUARES. I WANT SQUARES. I WANT SQUARES.' Of course you do dear. However, I still haven't quite figured out how to glue toast back together. Had he requested jam on toast, I might have managed to cobble something together. But he wanted plain butter. Luckily younger brother also had plain butter and hadn't yet had his toast cut because and I quote: 'The butter has melted in and I don't want it melted in'. So with my slightly thick and fuzzy head, I foolishly made the mistake of assuming it would be ok to give the unwanted uncut toast to older brother so that it could be cut into squares.
Let's just say it wasn't ok and it all ended with me being called a 'poopy pants'. Just when things where about to spiral out of control, younger beastie managed to trap his hand in a cupboard door - something he excels at doing on a regular basis. Lots of loud screaming ensued ending with a vital sticking plaster application (although there wasn't a scratch on him).
If only my head and legs could be treated with a pirate motif plaster. Things would be a lot more pleasant.
P.S. Wine producers should by law have to put labels on the bottles that say: If you're going to have to face a small child on all fours with his bottom waving in the air in need of a post poo wipe the morning after consumption, we strongly urge you not to drink this.
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