Katyboo1’s Weblog

I was so zoned yesterday I think I put the wrong day down as a title.  Sorry about that folks.  It just goes to show that even Advent Calendars are not capable of stopping the march of time and fuckwittage that I am prone to.  A terrible thing.  Soon I shall have to start numbering the children and labelling everything.  Rachel once had a completely crazy great aunt.  Her name was Ione and she decided that she didn’t like it, so she changed her name to Marigold.  So that she would remember she decided to label everything in her entire house; ‘Marigold’s television,’ ‘Marigold’s fridge,’ etc.  She also kept everything in mothballs, which was a joy and delight when Rachel’s parents found they were made executors of her very eccentric will, and had to spend three weeks stinking and clearing the house of sticky labels.  One day in the not too distant future this will be me. It’s one way to get revenge on the children.

The children have declared all out war on each other this morning.  So far Tilly and Tallulah have argued about: toast; shreddies; orange juice; getting dressed; who got up first and whether one woke up the other on purpose; pastry cutters; felt tip pens; whether Tallulah will ever be bigger/taller/older than Tilly; who owns the scrap paper and who Oscar likes the most.  It’s amazing what they can find to argue with each other about.  If they showed the same level of ingenuity, dedication and concentration to everything else in their lives they’d be at Oxford getting a triple first by now.

The only way I have been able to get them to stop trying to kill each other is to send them into the lounge to watch television. They should make a children’s version of that terrible show ‘Gladiators’.  It would be fantastic I would enlist our girls immediately.  They could beat the living crap out of each other using giant inflatable matchsticks or whatever it is, and release all their pent up aggression, coming home with a fantastic prize for all the family and a deep sense of inner peace.  I might write to someone at Channel Five (inspired of Glenfield). 

At this point in the proceedings they then argued over who was going to watch what, and who was in control of the remote control.  My throat was hoarse from shouting and I marched in threatening to kill them both.  I shout a lot.  I am a very tense and grouchy mother at the best of times, so to have sore throat is a real achievement, with which the neighbours will no doubt agree.

I am not too bothered about upsetting the neighbours at the moment frankly.  Our closest neighbour has only spoken to me once since I moved in, to tell me to put a number on our house so that the postman won’t mix our houses up.  Since then she has never so much as looked at me in the street.  She also has a small yappy type dog which spends its entire life shouting at our fence and the apples on our tree, as far as I can make out.  Three days ago she dropped a very festive christmas card through our letter box which made me deeply suspicious.

I then chided myself for my unchristianly thoughts and decided she was probably just one of those jolly (read: mad) souls who enjoyed christmas so much she just had to share it with everyone in the world.  I should have stuck with my original suspicions, as later on that day a postman arrived with the biggest parcel in the world.  It was about the size of a large bale of hay (one of the shredded wheat type ones) and was swathed in bright blue plastic.

I got quite excited, thinking that maybe someone had sent me a present, or I had been sleep shopping on the internet again. It turned out to be none of the above.  It turned out to be the lady next door having something delivered and writing copious notes on the delivery slip to say that if she wasn’t in it would be fine to drop it off at my house.

Now, I am not an entirely un-neighbourly type woman.  I would be fine to take in a parcel for a neighbour, but I do like to be asked first.  I especially like to be asked if the parcel is the size of a small piece of farm machinery and fills half of my front hall, requiring me to fold up the baby buggy.  I was quite illustrated, as Tallulah would say.

To add insult to illustration, I couldn’t go round to tell her it was here because I’d got three children on my own and didn’t fancy getting them all togged up for a trip round to the neighbours house.  In the end I sent Tilly round and stood in the drive shouting every thirty seconds to make sure that she didn’t a) lose her way (believe me, it’s possible) or b) get kidnapped.  Tilly found her teenage daughter in who not only didn’t come round to collect it, but said that maybe (MAYBE!) her mother would come round to get it the next day.

It sat in the hall until the following day.  I had to wrench the children from trying to piggle holes in it to see what it was; trying to bounce off it; climb it, and eat it.  I was getting more and more illustrated by the moment.  On the way to school I saw neighbour and dog consorting in the front room and thought: ‘be kind, be calm, drop in on the way back and tell her it’s here  There really is no need to kill her at all’.  I went round, knocked on the door.  The dog went mad, the radio chirped.  I stood on the step.  I stood on the step.  She failed to appear.

In the end I was so mad I went home, dragged the parcel round and forced it through the entry and down the passage to her house.  I’m not kidding you, it was so big it got wedged in the passage and I had to shunt it through.  As I was pushing it through I felt like one of those barge boys who used to push canal boats through tunnels, and hoped it was full of limoges china.

I sat it on the step, rang the bell and silence came the reply.  I left it there, and since then have had no word of thanks or apology.  I’m so mad I’m spitting chips.  I know it’s only a little thing, but it’s so rude.  Next time a parcel comes for her I’m going to mince it into little bits and feed it to the yappy type dog.  Hah!

Back to the kids. It was at this point they united against me and decided that they loved each other dearly and agreed on everything.  They are now quite amicably watching the television.  It’s good to have a figurehead of general loathing against which you can unite and bond.  Today and every day for the rest of my life it appears that this is my job. 

Jason came home from London last night, which is wonderful, as we have missed him terribly all week.  I tried to have the house looking reasonable for his triumphant return, but the hall light blew five minutes before he walked in, and I have every type of bulb known to man, except one which would be suitable for re-illuminating the hall. 

I also endeavoured to have the children fed and watered, deciding on a tea they would like so there wouldn’t be any fracas.  I cooked scrambled egg, sausages, spaghetti hoops and toast, which is normally a great and revered treat. You’d have thought I was serving them a plate of warm sick each.

Tallulah in particular was extremely sulky.  She seems to have violently taken agin the world of sausages and informed me that not only did she not like these particular sausages, but that she has never liked sausages in the whole history of ever, and she can’t imagine where I got the idea that she ever did.  She personally requested the spaghetti hoops, but then said that they were too tomatoey, and just pushed the egg desultorily round the plate with her fork making a face like a bulldog licking a thistle. 

I was going for something like; ‘Little House on The Prairie’ and what we actually ended up with was; ‘The House of Tiny Tearaways’ just before they had to stop transmission for fear of upsetting the viewing public. Jason walked into the stygian gloom to be confronted with me, hands on hips shouting: ‘If you don’t eat your dinner immediately I’m going to put you in bed for the rest of your life you horrible child’.  I was so loud that his ears blew backwards with the force of a hurricane and his hair was tidily rearranged into a nineteen fifties quiff.   

Tallulah was wailing and petulantly waving her fork, Tilly was wiping egg over the newly washed chair covers, and Oscar had just thrown a lump of sausage in the air because he was feeling left out.  Thus the faint illusion of our idyllic family life was crushed underfoot brutally before it ever really fluttered into being. Thankfully he didn’t run screaming for the front door.  It seems the crazy fool actually missed all the chaos. 

Apparently London was too quiet.  You heard it here first folks.  Never mind the dazzling West End and twenty four hour shopping in Tesco Brent Cross, it’s just dull, dull, dull in comparison to the throbbing metropolis that is Glenfield. You had better start booking your weekend mini breaks now before the rush begins.

We did manage to get two whole hours sitting together on the sofa staring at the television screen before we fell into bed, which was quite pleasant.  We decided to watch a load of episodes of Location, Location, Location we had Sky plussed for an emergency night when we couldn’t cope with anything too taxing.  We love Kirsty and Phil.  I am deeply impressed by a woman who can wade through so much mud in four inch heels and red tights without missing a beat.  It’s a skill.  She’s posh, she probably learned it at finishing school.

We spent an enjoyable time shouting at the complete idiots who despite having expertise freely to hand, decide to ignore all advice and spend £450,000 living in an old Wagon Wheel wrapper on the side of the M40 because it seemed like a good investment at the time. 

This fragile peace was also rudely shattered at about midnight when Oscar woke us up vomiting into his duvet, which he proceeded to do for the next three hours on and off.  In between the vomiting he was lovely, and wanted to play.  Frankly I don’t know which was worse.  It’s nice that he wasn’t distressed by his plight, which was at times, fairly pitiful, but it is hard to be enthusiastic about making ‘Wah! Wah! Wah!’ sounds with your hand against his mouth when he’s just thrown up all over you and you both smell like an old parmesan factory. 

After I’d changed his cot bedding for the fourth time we had to substitute sheets for towels, and brought his cot into our room so that we could hear him if he started choking.  We were smothered, he was smothered, and I was beginning to run out of towels as well as cot sheets.  I got fed up of trogging up and down two flights of stairs to the washing machine, so I just started piling all the sicky items into our shower, which was a pleasant sight at half past eight this morning when I finally gave up and got up. 

Even though it was freezing last night we agreed that we needed the window open unless we planned to scrub the whole bedroom down between bouts of puking.  The smell of regurgitated soya milk is both distinctive and extremely unpleasant (metallic and cheesey.  A winning combination, but not one which Yardley will be releasing as a classic fragrance next Christmas I feel).  We sat shivering and snatching moments of sleep whilst immersed in pools of sick until about four o’clock this morning when he finally decided he was feeling a lot better and dropped off to sleep in a nanosecond.  We on the other hand, sat and stared at each other in shell shock, surrounded by twisted sheets, piles of towels and stinking baby clothes. 

It took quite a while to recover, and poor Jason had to be up at the crack of dawn anyway as he had to go and sit two exams.  I’m amazed he actually went and did them, as I’d have rung them in hysterics demanding to be able to retake them when I’d had more than two hours sleep.  He’s so sensible bless him.  He did pass as well, which was amazing to both of us as he has no recollection of either getting there or back, or what he said in either exam. 

Typically, and yet most unfairly Oscar seems as happy as Larry, and has demolished his usual three course breakfast of fruit, toast and more fruit with great gusto this morning.  He has bounded round the kitchen, colouring in the floor with the felt tip pens the girls had let fall out of their evil clutches and emptying all my cupboards of pots and pans.  He is currently attempting to dismantle Tallulah’s dolls house brick by brick, much to her complete dismay, because for once in her life she is actually being very diligent and tidying her room. 

She came up with a couple of classic lines at lunch time.  We got some photographs from our friend who took some for us so that we can send various mad relatives pictures of us all.  She was looking at them very critically and suddenly announced: 

‘Dada? You’re very cute, but you’re not as cute as a new born chick you know.’ 

He does indeed know.  He has never been fluffy chick material I am afraid.  He’s far too rugged for that!  That’s good for me mind you.  I’ve never been much of a fan of clean, cut, classically handsome men.  People like Leonardo Di Caprio give me the creeps.  Being too handsome is highly suspicious in my book.  Plus, you never want to end up with someone who spends more time in front of the mirror than you.  It’s unnerving. 

Having said that, everyone in the known universe spends more time in front of the mirror than me.  I whiz past, make sure I still have hair and eyes and that’s it!  When Matilda was about two, I found her chatting to herself in front of our bedroom mirror.  The conversation went along the lines of: 

Matilda: ‘Well.  Hello there.’ 

Matilda: ‘Hello’. 

Matilda: ‘You are very beautiful aren’t you?’ 

Matilda: ‘Yes. I am.’ 

Matilda: ‘You are the most beautifullest person I have ever seen.’ 

Matilda: ‘Yes! That’s right!’ 

This was followed by much smiling, preening and general tossing of long and gorgeous locks. How nice to have such utter self confidence.  I do admit to having bred particularly gorgeous children however.  This is not parental pride speaking by the way.  I have corroboration from other sources, and I would indeed be the first person to own up if I thought my children looked like Mr. Potatohead.  Although naturally I wouldn’t tell them that. 

I spoke to Jason’s mum on the phone the day before yesterday.  She has relinquished all her present buying to me this year (for us, not everyone thank God, or I would be going totally insane), and having sent me some funds I was speaking to her about what she wanted me to do with it.  She said: ‘Get Jason some clothes.  He dresses like a tramp!’ 

Poor boy.  It comes to something when your own mother thinks you have the sartorial elegance of a Big Issue salesman.  He has acres of clothes, including a very nice Ted Baker suit and some Paul Smith shirts, he just doesn’t wear any of them.  He finds clothing in general restrictive and uncomfortable, and if he could just wear shorts and very baggy t-shirts all his life he would be a happy man. 

Thankfully he’s not into naturism, of which I only approve in the under fives, as they are the only ones who can get away with it.  Other than that I don’t care what he wears as long as he’s happy and doesn’t get arrested.  He does make me laugh though, and I must love him because I still haven’t burned his Terminator Two t-shirt despite three years of threats and the urge to cut it up for dusters.

As you know, the weather at the moment is not exactly conducive to the shorts and t-shirt fraternity.  Jason smokes, but he won’t smoke in the house, and has set up a small den in the garage with a chair and an ash tray (we don’t have a garden shed.  He is very deprived, and if we divorce this will probably be the clinching argument).  In the summer this is lovely, and he spends hours out there with Lee and his laptop setting the world to rights and planning a new religious movement in which short ownership and Jeremy Clarkson feature heavily.   In the winter it is teeth achingly cold.  He will not compromise over his attire, merely adding a large winter coat and a pair of socks!  I pray to God he never gets locked out because even I admit he looks like a bit of a pervstrel.  It’s the coat/socks combo that does it, with the acres of bare leg in between! 

I have told Jason’s mum that I will indeed get him some clothes.  In the mean time I have actually purchased him some books on how to win millions of pounds playing poker and instructed him to say to his mummy: ‘Thank you for my lovely shirt.  I will wear it for work and think of you.’  She will never know the difference and be happy that she has contributed to the growth in sartorial excellence of her number one son, and he will be happy because he might win big and he much prefers playing poker to wearing uncomfortable clothes. 

I am very good, and never have to go to spy school because I am already so brilliant that they will probably write to me and ask me to guest star in the next series of Spooks. I know you are thinking: ‘But Katy, the jig’s up.  You’ve confessed all over the internet airways.’  But I am one step ahead of you there.  Jason’s mum has many talents, but keeping the internet afloat for more than thirty seconds without crashing it and having to ring him for advice is not one of them.  My secret is safe.  Huzzah! 

After lunch, Tallulah announced firmly; ‘When I am all growed up, I shall have a pink hosepipe, so that I can grow lots of things.  That will mean I am very growed up.’ I was unaware that ownership of a pink hosepipe was the defining moment of adult life.  I do not have a pink hosepipe and my track record of growing things is also pretty poor.  I suspect the two things are connected.  I also suspect that this explains why I am heading into middle age fast, but still have not decided what I want to do when I am grown up. I’m not sure whether I actually want to get a pink hosepipe though.  Being grown up seems singularly dull, and I much prefer being very silly and juvenile and watching everyone else being grown up for me.