Pee'sd off

Christ, have done it again.
Very Nice Man came round to fix the gutter, which had been ripped off during storms of late (causing much grief in night as one heard the bang bang banging of loose guttering about six feet away from head ALL NIGHT LONG).
Anyway.
Very Nice Man arrived with very long ladder and proceeded to go up very long ladder to wrench bastard guttering away from roof and replace with new. Hooray!
I hovered at the bottom of ladder while Very Nice Man shouted a lot from the top of the ladder. Most of which I couldn't hear, as he was face to face with roof, and sound was rather muffled.
Anyway.
Offered him some tea. Called for dog who was sniffing about. Dog came, and neatly cocked his leg and pee'd all over the Very Nice Man's tool box.
Ker-ist.
While Very Nice Man was still speaking I backed into utility room, which was conveniently placed just behind me, grabbed large wad of loo paper also conveniently placed just behind me, and made for the tool box, loo paper hidden behind my back.
Very Nice Man was still talking.
Bent over double quick, wiped back, forward, sideways and a quick flourish to finish, and made for the compost heap with what I hoped was a Nonchalent sort of walk.
Very Nice Man didn't have a clue.
Thought that I really ought to wipe it with proper antibacterial wipes, so went back into house.
But phone rang, I got distracted, and the next thing I knew was the Very Nice Man was at my front door with his tool box.
Bye, he said, cheerily.
Bye! I said back. Not looking at tool box.
Which was decidedly damp.
Oh, for God's sake, YOU WOULDN'T HAVE OWNED UP EITHER.

O Christmas Tree!

Oh, God, no.
It's that time of year again.
Yuletide.
When the children assist in the Decorating of the Tree.
Help. Me.
Not that I am Anal by any stretch (sorry) of the imagination, but I DO like my decorations to look sort of Nice.
About this time, up goes the tree, and I grit my teeth and clench buttocks as Children, with squeals of joy, ruin the Bastard Tree in about three minutes.
A cluster of glittery sort of horrors are placed all over it, while endless small (WHY?) bits of tinsel are draped round and round and ROUND it until the green of the tree is totally obliterated, and it resembles a rather unpleasant sort of Naff Lady Costume in Panto.
And the baubles.
Oh, God, don't let me even THINK about the Baubles...
Each January I surruptitiously chuck Nasty Baubles in the bin, and breathe sigh of relief that NEXT year we will have tasteful, modest, rather Chelsea looking decorations on our tree.
And what happens the next December? Eh?
Blasted teachers (am one of them) send home tatty old bits of tinsel and tired felt, wrapped round lavatory rolls, while Proud Child bears this treasure home, and carries it, with great Pomp and Circumstance, to the tree.
And hangs the Horror on it.
I WANT MY TREE BACK.
I want a modest little ensemble of lights and glass and colour. I want people to Oooh and Ahhh as they first take a peek of it. I want to sip champagne, with the fire roaring, the tree twinkling, and friends chatting.
I want, I want, I want....
And so, last night we decorated the tree. And I clenched said buttocks while children bickered over where to put tinsel, lights, baubles and general crap.
When I realised that they actually were Doing It Right.
!!!
!!!
!!!
Really!!!
Middle Son instructed younger two to stand back while he draped lights round and round. Standing back to check they were even.
!!!
Youngest draping tinsel randomly round anywhere, and the others telling him to stop, as they hadn't finished doing the lights yet.
!!!
On finishing the lights, out came the tinsel.
Oh, Ker-ist.
Round the tree the tinsel went, children standing back and looking at their handiwork as they decorated.
!!!
Up went lovely bright red baubles, then gold. Always being checked they were in the right place.
'It's looking good,' commented Middle Son occasionally, to himself.
And it was!!!
The fairy lights twinkled in all the right places, the glass bits danced with light, the shiny bits shone just in the right places, and when the tree was done, and we all stood back, we gave out a unanimous, Ahhhhh.
Because it was beautiful. Truly.
And I felt ashamed of my horrible pre-conceived ideas of how Crap my children were at decorating trees and such.
Because they are rather Superb after all.
And we spent an evening in the company of the most beautiful tree in the world, with the firelight glancing off tinsel and glass, and glinting most satisfactorily through my glass of wine.
Hooray!! Another milestone passed in this Parenting Malarkey.
Chuffed, I am.
Really Chuffed.

Insect Days

Had the most glorious time today.
It was an Inset day (Insect day) and after asking Youngest where he wanted to go, he announced, without any hesitation at all...
'DFS please.'
Ker-ist.
Had thought that he might like to go swimming/bowling/cinema/beach (please, no, too flipping cold) or maybe a little hot chocolate with a bucket of marshmallows on the top.
Nope.
DFS.
"OK!" I said. Brightly. Tightly.
And we did.
After a mighty nice breakfast at our local deli... BEFORE which Youngest complained long and hard about WHY should we have breakfast somewhere else and WHY didn't we just stay at home and WHY should he go when he didn't want to, etbloodycetera, and AFTER which Youngest said, WHY don't we come again tomorrow, and when I said No, quite firmly, due to the eye watering bill, he said but WHY until I quietened all of that sort of questioning with a Look.
Anyway, and so to DFS we went.
For God's sake.
And, once again, DFS poured its magic over us.
No, really!
We started with the Crap Sofas by the entrance (bright red and rock hard, euurggh, we all said) and moved on to the Floral Section (swirly flowers and shiny hard legs, eurrgghh, we all said) And then we moved on to the Electronic Chairs.
Really!
Awesome stuff.
You press a button and watch as your feet slowly appear from the floor until they are well above you and all you can see is the ceiling. We all sat in various violently coloured Electric Chairs (as Youngest called them) and waved cheerily across the yards of carpet and wandering Pensioners. (I have to watch that, as Pensioner will be me in 9 years)
And we ended up on a vast thing, about 15 feet long, presumably a sofa, but really, you would need a Hangar for that piece of kit...
We all sat in a straight line on this huge slice of Upholstery, when along came a rather keen shop assistant, eyes on stalks, as he probably thought we would buy the bugger.
Nope.
But I said conversationally, nice sofa, how much, and he lit up like a Christmas Tree, and told us everything we never wanted to know about sofas, until our eyes glazed over and we began to swoon with boredom.
And so we left the Boring Man, as Youngest so aptly described him, and rejoined the normal world outside the shop.
It was fun, though, and we might make another trip next Insect Day, weather permitting.

You know when they say that you look like you've been through a hedge backwards?
Well, that was me.
Yesterday.
You see, I actually went through a hedge backwards.
Twice.
Clearly I had to go forward in order to be able to reverse the process and go backwards. I could have quite easily turned around, and gone back through the hedge forwards again. Only I couldn't, you see, as I had to hold my dog by his tail, in order to prevent him running after a man and his two dogs along the lane.
And so, there I was, hair attached in agonisingly painful fashion to rather a lot of brambles, in the MIDDLE of our hedge, and wishing that I had NOT let the dog out just before I had my nice cup of tea, well deserved after SIX hours of very dull ACCOUNTANCY work. For God's sake.
And as I clutched the very end of said dog's tail, I found that my grip was not going to hold.
Dog (Milo)gave an almightly yelp and leapt out from our hedge, into lane, bounding around with two rather cross looking dogs, and an equally cross looking man. Utterly unable to follow, due to thick branches, brambles and nasty looking nettles, I stayed put.
'Ooops!' I said, in conciliatory tones. 'I let go of my dog's tail! Silly old me!'
And I leaned forward, peering through the hedge, trying to catch eye of Cross Man, while tearing brambles off hair, clothes and face. Mad Woman of Borneo-style.
Cross Man, after aghast looks in my direction, started shouting at his dogs, and so I joined in and shouted at mine.
None of them paid the slightest attention, as it was clearly more fun sniffing bottoms and comparing notes.
When all of a sudden, Milo (my dog) came belting through the hedge, tail between his legs, turned around and prepared to go out again.
'Oh, no you don't!' I said, breezily and confidently.
As Milo went straight out onto the lane again.
This jolly little ritual went on for an agonising couple of minutes, while I alternated between yelling and wheedling. Just what Dog Owners Shouldn't Do.
Finally the little bugger (Milo, not the Cross Man) belted back into the hedge again. With an almighty leap in his direction, I grabbed him by the collar, and speaking through the large branch now actually lying across my face said,
'Got him! Thanks so much! Off you go!' sort of stuff, and to my intense relief, Cross Man started off up the lane, dogs trailing behind.
Thank Buggery for that, I thought.
And then realised that I was completely Stuck.
Brambles were pinning me down on every side, and one large branch had me braced against another.
Flipping Wonderful.
And so I Went Through a Hedge Backwards. Slowly, hair tearing out, face scratched, nettles doing their damndest to prickle and sting as much bare skin as they could.
Bastards.
And as I finally prised myself loose, Milo darted forward. Again.
'OH NO YOU UTTER UTTER BUGGER NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!' I yelled, and lurched forward, JUST grabbing his collar and.... yes..... Going Through The Hedge Backwards Again.
Ker-ist.
I dragged my Bad Dog into the house, slammed the door and went to check the damage in the downstairs loo.
Peering into the mirror was a Sight to Behold.
My recently cut hair was combed forward by obliging branches and twigs, giving me the look of a teenage Rock Star, only with mad eyes and nettle stings on cheek and forehead. I had sticks clinging to shoulder, a large leaf of indeterminate origin, hanging from my left ear, and my beautifully clean shirt was blackened and green in equal measures.
In short I was a shocking sight.
And so, sipping my tea a few minutes later, having tidied up a bit, my children looked at me in amazement.
'Mummy, what HAPPENED to you? You look like you've....'
None of them could find a suitable comment.
So I finished it for them.
'...Been through a hedge backwards?'
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Bloody dogs.



Just too cute, eh?

Summer Holidays...

I forget.
Each Summer holidays I forget how wonderful they are, how sodding HARD they are, how full the days, how LONG some days, how short some others...how blissful some moments (beach, sun, children playing and me reading 'The Help') and how BLOODY AWFUL other moments ( beach, sun, children playing and me freezing my tits off in an icy wind, longing for home and tea)
I forget the highs and the lows, the tumbles and the scrapes, the giggles and the rows. I forget how FULL each moment is when we are all together, eating our breakfast, arguing over the cereal choices (low and v. v. boring) bickering over what to do that day, chuckling at memories of the previous day.
I forget the bliss of lie-ins, as children crawl out of bed early and watch TV or else lie in themselves, and we all emerge, tousle haired at about 9.00, clustering round the kettle as I make tea to take back to bed.
Forget the guitar teacher coming at 5, and realise with horror several hours later, as we amble slowly home from the beach, pink faced and glowing from hours of body surfing.
Forget timetables and lists.
Just being. Day after day after day.
Each year I forget this. And each year I remember, with heart stopping gratitude, that the Summer holidays are here again.
Until the cat is sick over the children's dirty washing, or voices are raised for the 5th time within an hour, over a RABBIT RUN for God's sake, and I wish fervently for September, and the bliss of an empty house, and lists, and timetables.
But for now, I am loving it.
For now, this is, I think, heaven on earth.
(Ker'ist, children all in tears about how to bounce on trampoline. Lunch not made and Husband fed up with ironing each night as I moan how little time there is to do everything. So hard to fit it in between my morning cup of tea, tennis and swim on the beach... )

I'm Still Standing....

My new Best Friend. In the middle.
My old Best Friend. On the left. Husband.
And WHY didn't I take my camera??
WHY did I just have a crappy old mobile phone to take the PICTURE OF SUCH AN ICON?
Grrr.
And, no, I DON'T have a rather unpleasant stain on my left nipple. It was a VIP sticker, and bloody hard it was to rip off the shirt after we got home, I can tell you. (Gosh, what HUGE bazookas I seem to have. They aren't that big, honestly. It's the light. Ho hum.)
A REALLY fun evening. In Hove Cricket Ground, of all places. Meeting Elt (all his friends call him that, you see, and I AM a friend now that I have met him for at least 3 minutes) and rocking along to his music for almost THREE hours. I didn't know a single word of any of them, but know all the tunes, and so drove everyone mad around me as I 'yelled' all the songs without One Single Accurate Word of the Lyrics.
Awesome.
And then we got home, and the cat was sick.
Oh, well.
It was fun while it lasted.
THANK YOU to my darling Brother-in-law and Sister who donated these wonderful tickets to us... just because.
They ROCK.

Flossing 'eck.

I bloody hate visiting my Dental Hygienist.
This is because am not Particularly Partial to having painful exploration of mouth, and hearing Tutt Tutt'ing as rubbery fingers make their squeaky way round my molars, forcing my mouth open in position that is, quite frankly, wide enough to fit a small automobile in.
My teeth are, after all, My Teeth.
I think my Hygienist thinks they are Hers.
She almost weeps as she stabs at them with what appears to be an Extremely Sharp Utensil.
'Well, have you Flossed?'
Have I 'eck.
Since my last visit to her six months ago I flossed like Mad Woman for six weeks. Urged my husband to Floss. Friends to Floss. Strangers to Floss.
I was Floss Queen. Smug too. Looking in mouths for signs of Flossing.
'Ah.' I'd think. 'That Person Does Not Floss. Look at those Yellow Bits.'
Well. Time passed. And the flossing phase was over. Each night I'd look at that damned little plastic floss container and feel Floss Guilty. To make up for it I'd swill a bit of Mouth Wash round the old tombstones. Grin maniacally in the mirror. Grimace to show the teeth at the back.
And not Floss.
But now its time to see the Hygienist Again.
Feel like rather Cross and Grumpy Adolescent.
Have dusted the floss container and flossed last night. Sulkily.
And again this morning.
HATE going to my Hygienist.
I go next week.
Bet she Sighs Heavily and asks,
Well, have you Flossed?
Have I 'eck.

Daughters... a mixed blessing?

Half term was upon us and we had done Bugger All.
'What are we doing today?' would ask Daughter, aged Almost Eleven, twiddling with her hair and looking bored, even though it's only 7.05 am.
'Um.' I'd say. Which is all I seem to say when asked that question.
That question makes me paralysed with Crap Mother Paralysis.
When you can't think of a good answer because you don't want to do ANYTHING today except eat breakfast, drink coffee and read the paper. And then go back to bed.
Had no courses booked.
Had no friends booked.
Had nothing planned, bar visiting family over the first weekend.
And was loving it. Except for Bored Daughter asking what we are doing today, we would have had rather a nice time.
I had thoroughly cleaned the kitchen.
I had thoroughly cleaned the top of my desk, papers not needed any more chucked out, and the rest put carefully away into the right files.
Thrilling!
Except for Bored Daughter.
Who managed to instill panic that am Crap Mother by her tones of quiet resignation that today would be another Boring Day.
Oh, dear.
So. What to do?
Had asked her to ring her friends and arrange a play date.
No friends are around, it seemed.
Had asked her to get her swimming things out, and we would Go Swimming with her brothers.
'But you will hate that,Mummy,' she says.
'No, I won't,' I lied.
She looked miserable AND bored at the same time. Amazing combination.
We decided not to go swimming.
I arranged a riding lesson for her at the end of the week.
'But that's ages away,' she complained, looking irritated, miserable AND bored.
Again, impressed at the mix of emotions.
And so I arranged a little visit to one of my friends, with loads of children.
She hated it.
'They were all much younger than me, Mummy. It was SOOO boring.'
Aside from beating her with a concrete pavement, was flummoxed on what to DO with the girl. Until I realised that maybe, just maybe, she needed a hug.
And so she got one. Arms tight round her, and breathing in her hair type of hug.
And I felt her misery and boredom leaving her, as she hugged me back.
'Sorry, Mummy,' she whispered.
And I kissed the top of her head.
Daughters.
Precious.


And here she is... throwing herself into a lake after a sailing lesson... (NOT booked this half term)

Yet Another Lavatorial Tale

It was a blissful momentary thing. It seemed that my work as a Mother was done. Complete.
I had no more need to chastise, clean, order around or shout.
Why?
This morning, was running around as normal, shouting at people (mostly my children) and ordering people (mostly my children) to get lunch boxes, PE kits, coats (bloody cold this morning, eh?) book bags, heads, etc into some semblance of order so that we could get them all to school...
When I smelt it...
A shiny, green, fresh sort of smell, not often found in my house, unless instigated by me...
Namely.
Toilet Duck.
Yes, I smelt it... an aura of Cleanliness and Order, of Shiny Enamelled Lavatories, of Non-Crappy Loo.
One of my children had Actually Used it.
To clean out the loo after Performing.
The window was open, the loo shiny new, and the sweet sweet smell of Toilet Duck flooded the senses. (and the bloody Bowl, must have used half the bottle)
I tell you, my work is over.
The lessons over the last 22 years are finally coming to Fruition.
'Have you Flushed?'
'Is it clean?'
'Can my friends sit down on the seat without Fresh Urine all over their legs?' ('Ewww, Mum, you are DISGUSTING.'
'Not half as much as you PEE'ING with abandon ALL OVER THE WALL.')
But no. Not any more, it seemed.
One of them could handle Toilet Duck. Appropriately.
And this would surely mean that the others would too.
Take me home, James.
My work is done.
And then, this evening. As I sat at the computer, in that peaceful moment after the carnage of tea and washing up and more shouting, was interrupted in my blissful reverie by child crashing their way into the downstairs loo.
Smugly waited while they Went. And smugly waited until they had finished.
Smugly went into loo to inspect Pristine Lavatorial Dwelling.
Oh. Shit.
Literally. Round the bowl and even on small pieces of loo paper on the floor.
An entire tree's worth of lavatory paper piled up, meringue style, almost to the top of the loo. And the stench! Brought tears to the eyes...
STOP. REWIND.
Back to basics.
Work as Bossy Cow of a Mother is to continue...
Sigh....
(Incidently, what the HELL does a DUCK have to do with lavatorial cleanliness???
Why not Toilet Tortoise? Or Lavatory Limpet? Or Bog Bat? Grrrrr)

The Hungry Caterpillar

Bugger it.
It appears I have reached new depths.
Was taking my two younger children to school this morning. Beautiful May sunshine, albeit rather chilly at 8.45 a.m. Kissed the children, said 'Morning' to anyone within reach, passed the time of day with a friend and talked about nothing much, and was about to walk back home when same friend plucked a small Green Caterpillar from my rather natty new cardigan (another story) and deposited it into my hand. I rather gingerly held it on the end of my index finger, thanked her politely (she paid absolutely no notice, never does) and started off down the road, sticking out my index finger as if playing guns with Youngest.
Not really liking this small Green Caterpillar being on the end of my finger, tried to shake it off. No luck, so flicked the slimey green bugger off into the hedge.
'Eww!' said a passenger of car sloping past (so slowly could hear the news on the radio through the open window)
Ewww?? I thought? Why?
And then realised.
Eww.
They thought I was flicking off a bogie. Snot. Nose Mucus. Greeny. Any other delightful word that describes such an odious function. Flicking it OFF my finger and into the hedge.
In full sight. A Great Big MOVING Green Bogie. (anyone on the other side of the Atlantic? A Booger to you)
Fab.
New depths.
I wanted to shout after the disapproving backside of the car 'Hey YOU! It's not a bogie, it's a CATERPILLAR!' but thought, quite rightly I think, that this would have made me seem even more weird.
And so I'll simply kill my friend and then let things lie for a while.
Or else pluck a caterpillar from HER natty cardigan (not QUITE as natty as mine) and place it just below her nostril. With Superglue.
For God's sake, WHY ME.
Grrrr.