Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Just when you reach the bottom...

For those of you with a tender disposition, then turn away at once. This is Not For You.
For those of you with steely internal organs and iron like constitutions, put on your Blog Safety Belts and listen up.
Wiping Youngest's bottom yesterday.
Like you do.
Found what looked like a smallish sort of long thing coming out of his bottom.
No. Not worms.
So pulled it. Gently.
And out it came, more and more and more. Thin, cotton like strand of navy blue. On and on and on. Started to get the giggles.
'What's the matter,' asked Youngest, from his position between his own legs.
'Um,' I said between bouts of laughter. 'Have got something out of your bottom.'
Youngest starts to get the giggles too.
'What is it?' he asks.
'Don't know,' I splurt, eyes watering so hard I can't see what I am doing.
And I continue to pull thread out of bottom.
(Are you still here? Need a sit down? No? Marvellous!)
Finally it comes to an end. Rather disappointingly. Hold it up in front of Youngest. We stare at it spellbound.
It is at least three feet long, dark navy thread.
'How in God's name did that get in there,' I ask.
Youngest too confounded to answer.
We carefully hold it over the loo, and watch it drop into the bowl.
Later the mystery is solved.
Youngest gets out of bath and is wrapped in huge navy towel. And starts to nibble at it.
'AHA!!!' I shout. 'NO BITING!'
And Youngest beams up at me, thrilled that the mystery is solved.
Honestly, this was SO not in the Parents' Manual.

Monday, 15 March 2010


Most satisfactory.
When a Guest you are Not Particularly Partial to, and would rather them Not Be In The House, owing to their continual drip drip of Judgemental Phrases, uses the Parazone Wipes instead of Loo Paper.
And tells you.
Most satisfactory.

Friday, 5 March 2010

Times Up

I could Kill Time.
Oh, hang on, isn't that what we do when we don't like the time we're in?
Certainly used to when the children were tiny and walks took HOURS AND HOURS of Very Slow Walking, followed by walking BACK to where we already had been, to look closely at a piece of Mud. Or when we would drop stones into the stream and watch the splash. And do it again. And again.
But it killed the time between Breakfast and Elevenses. So that was good.
Killing Time.
What a terrible thing to do.
And yet I have killed more time than you've had Hot Dinners. Truly. I am an Artiste Supreme in the sport of Tuer Le Temps. (That's 'Killing Time' in French! Google translator is enormous fun, you can waste HOURS on it).
Bloomin' time.
Give me some time and I used to slaughter it. Blast the poor bastard to death. Bang. Time gone.
And in those long, long days of babyhood, when each hour seemed like a day, killing time seemed like a terribly good idea.
What I didn't know was that it would become a habit.
And I continued to kill time like it was a rather unpleasant insect to be dealt with. Squashed. Finished with.
Day over. Bed. Brilliant.
Until now.
Now is Different.
Time is running away with me like a horse without a rider. And a wasp stuck to its arse. No sooner have I had my breakfast and cleaned my teeth than it's time for bed. I just about have enough hours to feed everyone, and get to Tesco. Then BANG! Time for the next day.
Time has decided to RIP through my days. Never slowing. Treating each moment like a race.
Just when I needed time to slow. Just when I wanted to savour each moment, try something new, go somewhere different. Just when I thought how nice it was to stand and stare. Just when I grew up.
Time decides to GALLOP.
I could Kill time.
But I won't. I'll savour it. If the bugger will stand still for long enough for me to grab it and hold it fast.
Hah! As if.

Monday, 1 March 2010

Entertainment or Torture?

We have a frightfully jolly evening here in our village. Once a year.
In the Village Hall.
Everyone arrives. Has a drink. Tables for eight are spread out around the room.
Gradually everyone settles down around their table and the Entertainment Begins.
The first year Husband and I arrived here, we ambled up the road to the Village Hall, having been invited to this Annual Delight. We were under the mistaken idea that there would be Food, Drink, and the chance to Mingle a little with the people we were going to live amongst.
Arrived a Tad Late.
Sat down at table with Total Strangers.
And watched, in Befuddled and Horrified Fashion, the Entertainment.
Old men with Harmonicas would get up and fiddle about singing something.
Ancient women would recite Poetry. For Quite a Long Time.
Keen Guitarists would Dum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum for Prolonged Moments.
Once, a girl sang, in quite a different key from her Accompanist, a song of love and loss. We laughed Silently and Agonisingly the whole way through.
Never Again, we thought.
I don't think we've missed one. There is something strangely Compelling about Local Entertainment. It's just so bad that it's a Must in the social calendar of the year.
But this year it was different.
Husband and I had been Roped In to creating some Entertainment ourselves.
We had thrown together some Husband and Wife material, his and hers stuff, which we thought hilarious. Which was worrying. As it probably was a load of Bollocks. But, what the hell, it was surely better than Harmonicas.
Oh. My. God.
Nearly didn't do it. Nearly baled out, last minute fashion, owing to nerves and lack of bottle.
However, thought What The Hell again and got on with it.
So, with thumping heart and racing pulse, entered the Village Hall.
We were third in Programme.
Had to sit, with stomach churning, all the way through the Cold Meats and Salad Fare, followed by Apple Pie and Cream. Threw back a couple of drinks.
Watched Act 1. Two ancient ladies recite Poems.
Act 2. Man with Harmonica. Sang quite a few songs. Almost nodded off.
Then us.
Dragged our chairs over to where we were Performing.
Husband calm and cheerful.
Me a lump of Nerves and Jitters.
And began.
Everyone laughed! Guffawed! (May I just say that we WANTED them to laugh... we WERE being amusing, honestly)
Sometimes we had to stop altogether to wait for the laughter to calm down.
They LOVED us.
And I really began to enjoy it.
Sitting there with Husband, saying the words we had practised over and over again, seeing the sea of faces roaring with laughter. Seeing Husband's face, enjoying himself hugely. Grin from ear to ear.
We finished. The applause was prolonged and genuine.
Husband and I had smiles to match.
We gave our last bow and went to sit down.
Hooray. That was done then.
Had to sit through eight more Pieces of Entertainment.
Man with lots of pieces of paper, who read from his pieces of paper. For Ages. Lost one of his bits of paper and had to search, forage even, for it, amongst his considerable wear.
People with stiff faces from trying not to Yawn.
Someone got up to recite some Poetry. Spoke at length about a bicycle. Not sure why.
And then it was time for the Community Singing.
Ker'ist. I thought my smile would actually damage the muscles in my face, the ache was so acute.
Finally, at twenty nine minutes past eleven the Entertainment came to a slow and shuddering end.
The Relief! The Joy!
Husband and I made our way down the hall to the door.
'Lovely act!' someone said.
'You were brilliant!' said another.
'God, you were funny!' said yet another.
We smiled at them and made our Modest Exit. Basking in glory.
Out we went into the cool night air.
Man with pieces of paper was standing there. The one who foraged through his clothes trying to find Page Fourteen of his Amusing Anecdotes.
'Lovely act!' someone said to him.
'You were brilliant!' said another.
'God, you were funny!' said yet another.
Perhaps we'll leave Britain's Got Talent for other acts then.
Quietly, though, I think we did Rather Well. And I know for sure, that both Husband and I loved it.
We'll have another go next year. Maybe with a Harmonica?
See you then!