Driving and Whirring, Whirring and Driving

Today was the first day that I went out driving in a car that didn’t have dual controls.

Andrea, who is very, very brave and very, very calm, put me on her insurance and came over this afternoon so that I could have my first practice.

I was terrified. Not just a bit.  Totally and utterly terrified.

For some reason this translated into very traumatic dreams last night about breaking my Nigella Lawson measuring jug just as I decided to make some Yorkshire pudding batter in it, and then having hysterics because the dinner party would be ruined.

Then it mostly showed itself in stomach ache, nerves, headache, misery and shouting a lot all morning.  Jason was very kind.  He gave me a hug at lunch time and said that he was very proud of me and he knew how hard it all was for me. This totally finished me off and I just blubbed like a baby for about ten minutes.  It is lovely when someone is lovely, but there are times, times when you have a very tentative grip on your emotional state, when it would be better to say it afterwards.

I thought I was saved when I lost the L plates I had bought for the car. Then unfortunately I found them sandwiched between a lot of family photos.  Everything is sandwiched between a lot of family photos at the moment. I had tons to choose from and the fact that I picked up the right pile indicated that fate wanted me to go out and sweat like a pig whilst controlling a couple of tons of perambulating metal.  Lucky old me.

Anyway. We were going to go to Belgrave cemetery in Leicester, which promises to be chock full of dead relatives I’m trying to track down.  It turns out that this cemetery is on a major ring road by an enormous multi lane roundabout.

We decided to go somewhere else.

She picked me up at about half two and we set off into the wilds.  We got back at about half five. We stopped for refreshments. We stopped at her parents farm so I could visit the cows and borrow her camera.  It was alright.

It wasn’t brilliant, but it was alright. I didn’t stall.  I did lose the plot two or three times, but not badly and not putting us in any life threatening situations and I managed to park at the garden centre and not run over any of the cows at the farm.

I can’t say it was my most funnest afternoon, but it was way better than doing 45 minutes of bay parking in Tesco car park, and there were refreshments.  Refreshments definitely help.  I like refreshments.

It still made me want to cry. But not a lot.  Which is better than the twice in the week where not only did I want to cry. I did. All over the place.

Progress of a sort.

And Andrea says she will take me out again. So that’s good.

On the pooh front, my new camera is broken.

I know.

I have only taken about thirty photos with it. 

I’ve taken it out of the house once.

In its box.

I picked it up yesterday to take some photos of Tilly in her Brownie uniform when I noticed it was making a strange whirring noise.

This is apparently a problem with the auto focus.  It isn’t auto focussing.  It is mainly whirring.

Whirring does not make for great photos.

I am a little disappointed to say the least.

Luckily I bought it from Amazon who have an amazingly sympathetic returns policy.  They pick it up from my house and they will send me a replacement.

Unfortunately my camera is not in stock.  They will send one when it is.  It may take a while.

I am prepared to wait. 

I actually like the camera. It is easy to use and it takes nice pictures. I seem to be the only person in the history of Canon who has had such a problem as everyone I’ve spoken to about it says things like: ‘Oh yeah! I’ve had a Canon for 97 years and haven’t even had to change the battery.’  I will persevere and in the meantime I will have to resort to the phone.

Jason will be pleased.

Winter Draws On

I didn’t blog yesterday.

By the time I realised I hadn’t done it, it was already today.  I thought about it (the guilt fairies came out to play and were whispering about me kneeling on pencils etc), but it was 1.30 a.m. and I could hardly see.  I decided to give in to my tiredness and go to bed.

It was a weird feeling.  I hardly ever don’t blog, even when I’ve got nothing to say, as I’m sure you know.  I woke up this morning feeling oddly bereft.  So, fortified by some rocket fuel coffee I am here, beavering away, assuaging the guilt. Mainly avoiding the pencils.

I got a big up yesterday in a Post of the Day over at Authorblog.  Mrs. Jones, who also got a mention for her rather wonderful Autumnal post, nominated me.  I am very grateful.  It’s rather nice to be mentioned in dispatches.  It gave me a bit of a warm and fuzzy glow for most of the day.  Which was good because I had another hideous driving lesson in my free hours yesterday morning and then cooked for ten people, mowed the lawn, weeded the borders and sewed up the giant hole in the trampoline net, all before bedtime.  It was not good. Not good at all.  I have decided that one of the things that pisses me off the most about the driving lessons is the fact that I am paying for the privilege of having my free time eaten up by something that reduces me to tears.  Why? Why? Why? I am insane.

In my free time I did some family tree.  Word has gotten around that I am now the official family chronicler, which is good.  People keep giving me bags of papers and photos and telling me things.  This is also good.  The problem is that there is a lot of it.  Unbeknownst to me my family is bloody huge and kept lots of things, all of which are fascinating and relevant and absorbing, but which need sorting out and logging and scanning and thinking about.  It is incredibly time consuming.  I am beginning to be swamped by paper.  If you hear that I have suffocated in an avalanche of musty old papers, please don’t be surprised.  I will have died happy.

I love the randomness of the things people keep.  At my mum’s house this week I found a wooden box full of my gran’s papers (my mum’s mum).  I took it downstairs, and my mum said; ‘Oh yes! That’s the box your gran said had to come with us should the house burn down.’  As you can imagine, I was expecting treasure.  And there were some important things, documents etc, as well as my grandad’s watch and some medals.  But there were also some old betting slips with racing form written on them, and some menu sheets from when he was in hospital (he ate a lot of stew), and a newspaper clipping about Leicester in the Blitz.  It was all very bizarre.  I’m glad I didn’t have to risk my life saving it in the fire.  I’d have been very annoyed about the betting slips.

It reminds me a bit of when I decided to be an anti archaeologist.  I used to collect shells and stones and stuff from beaches when I was on holiday and then dig them into our back garden at home in a deliberate attempt to foil future archaeologists into thinking that there must have been a small, coastal lagoon in the middle of Leicester.  I’m sure they would have been completely taken in!  And yes. I was a very strange child indeed.

Right.  Enough of the distant past for now.  On to the very much alive and kicking members of the Boo clan.

Tallulah lost her second tooth the day before yesterday.  She made me pull it out for her.  I hate doing it. I hate the crunching noise they make. I am really hoping that as she gets braver she will be able to pull her own teeth out (only when they’re suitably wobbly of course), because after the last one I had to have a sit down for twenty minutes until I stopped feeling suitably green around the gills.  And the tooth fairy did actually remember her lines for the second time running, so much kudos to her for being alert and on the ball.  It will not last.

Oscar’s abiding love for his granny deepens.  He has been asking every morning this week why I have to get him out of bed, and can’t granny do it instead?  He is very disappointed that she has to do things like live with Grandad, and have a job.  It does not fit in with his plans for her at all, which seem to be that they be joined at the hip constantly.  I think he kind of visualises her as a cross between Jesus and the queen.  Hence our conversation of yesterday morning:

Oscar: ‘Mama?’

Me: ‘Yes Osky?’

Oscar: ‘Does granny trump?’

Me: ‘Yes Osky. Granny does trump.’

Oscar: (In a tone of total incredulity) ‘NOOOOOOOoooooo she doesn’t.’

Me: ‘Oscar. Everybody trumps otherwise they would explode.’

Oscar: ‘No. Granny doesn’t. She does not.’

Me: ‘O.k.’

Pause….

Oscar: ‘Mama?’

Me: ‘Yes Osky?’

Oscar: ‘Does granny fart?’

Me: ‘Yes Osky.  Because farting is the same as trumping isn’t it?’

Oscar: (outraged) ‘She doesn’t! No. She doesn’t.’

Me: ‘Alright then Oscar. No she doesn’t. O.k.?’

Oscar: (satisfied at last that his utterly stupid mother had provided the right answer) ‘Yes!’

Why, why, why do children ask you questions to which they have already decided they know the answer, even if it’s wrong? It must  be some kind of test, and I fail it all the time.

Later he asked me what Granny’s name was.  I told him.  He was amazed. Clearly that couldn’t be true either.  He asked me several times and then went away to think about it.  He came back with a resolute look on his face and announced that it just wasn’t possible and didn’t I know that her name was Granny? Duh!

Constant testing.  That’s the thing.

Autumn draws on apace.  I am delighted. I am not a blistering sun type person.  I love Autumn the best of all, and if I ever emigrated to sunnier climes it would be one thing I would pine for, along with a decent cheese sandwich. We have had a run of clear blue skies, crisp air and that lovely smell of rotting leaves.  I am wandering around muttering; ‘Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness’ and the children think I am madder than normal.  Delicious.  Oscar is also very pleased, he has dug out his Bob the Builder hat and the scarf that Aunty Squirrel knitted him and is all kitted out.  He announced that he hates the sunshine.  So there!

I have a whole day without the children.  I do not have to drive. I do not have to cook until tea time. I am going to eat crisps and  chocolate and mooch about amongst my musty old photographs.  I may even put my pyjamas back on and lounge decadently among the musty old photographs.  Who knows? I don’t have to decide.  That’s the joy of it.  No planning, no forethought, just idleness and pleasure.  How nice.

Throwing a Curve Ball in the Little Shop of Horrors

Leicester, as discussed in previous posts which I cannot be arsed to link to, has a new theatre.

It is a super, shiny, gloriously modern new theatre called ‘The Curve’.

It will not surprise you to learn that it is curvy.

It is also modular, rather like a piece of futuristic Scandinavian furniture which appears to be a set of shelves but is actually a spoon rack with added splash back and a device for peeling kumquats.  This theatre is on the move.  You can make its two theatre spaces smaller or larger on a whim.  You can twiddle the stages about.  You can suspend lemons in buckets from tripods and have the audience glued to the walls with velcro should your heart desire such a thing.

It is a badass, STATEMENT piece of architecture.

People write magazine articles about it and take photographs of it with men with bald heads and tweed lab coats standing outside stroking their chins and pointing at it in wide eyed amazement.

It is supposed to announce to the world that Leicester is a forward, go getting type of city.   It isn’t afraid of culture. it doesn’t piss about going; ‘Can’t we just watch rerun of the Morecambe and Wise Christmas special with a bottle of Babycham and then go for a lie down?’  Oh no! It says; ‘Give me that experimental theatrical happening in Swahili with midget children in the orchestra pit doing sign language that is about four men who live in a sieve and who only have one vest between them.’  Yes. That is what we want.  We want more Brecht in the original.  Where is our sturm und drang?  We wee in the face of Beckett he is so ORDINARY.

It was supposed to have cost us, the taxpayer £7 million of your English pounds.  According to my father, it announced in the paper last week that it actually cost £37 million pounds.  Only thirty million out then.  A mistake anyone could make.

Now. For my thirty seven million pounds I want the goods.  I want the dogs theatrical bollocks served up in a giant martini glass, like canine olives, whilst Dita Von Teese writhes around with her pert nipples in the drink, and Daniel Craig serves the whole lot to me on a doily.  A gold one.

Do I get that?

Do I ‘eck as like.

A bloody shambles.  A farce of a sham of a shambles is what I get.  Repeatedly.

The first time I tried to book anything the website crashed.

I tried again.  The lady on reception didn’t know how to put me through to the ticket office.  I had to call back.

I called back.  The lady at the ticket office had major difficulties processing my requests because there is no clear policy on seating people with disabilities and it instead seems to revolve around a lot of people with post it notes and someone talking very loudly and slowly and using lots of David Brent style hand gestures.

It took twenty five minutes to book two shows.  Then the payment system fell over.  Then it fell over again.

She eventually rang me back.  The payment system fell over.

Three hours later she called me to tell me that the system had accepted the payment.

Since then we have had the issue of them discounting tickets because they can’t sell, but failing to reward loyal customers who book first.  Their failure to give refunds unless your head blows off or they are caught red handed doing something cocktastic and their general failure to employ anyone who seems to know anything at all about theatre other than whether Frank Bruno is in panto this year.

Add to that the fact that last time I took the kids to something there was that bloody idiot woman texting through the performance which took me three quarters of the performance to sort out, and you will sense my reluctance to venture back.  They were eventually very helpful about the texting lady but only after things had gotten way out of hand.

This week they are showing the Menier Chocolate Factory’s tour of ‘Little Shop of Horrors,’ which has had great reviews.  Menier put on some top stuff and I’ve never been disappointed by them. 

Andrea rang me and said did I think it was worth getting tickets?  I had £25 worth of vouchers which I was given for the texting lady disaster, so I said yes, and that we would take the girls with us.

I booked on Monday for tonight.  I needed seats in either of the first two rows, in the middle, as you know.  Andrea not being able to see and all.  I secured such seats and paid handsomely for them.  And I mean handsomely.  I paid less for front row tickets to see Helen Mirren in Phedre at the National Theatre to put this into perspective.

The kids were delighted.

This morning at eleven I got a phone call from The Curve.  The chap I spoke to said (and I paraphrase here, but not much):

‘Er! Hello.  You know you booked front row seats to see Little Shop of Horrors tonight?  Well, there’s been a bit of a mistake.  You see we didn’t realise that there would have to be an orchestra pit.  We’ve had to take out the first three rows of seats.  You can have seats further back to the side if you like?’

I was amazed.  The show actually started its run yesterday.  They have been advertising it for months.  Literally months.  How can you not know that you’ve got a major touring production coming.  A MUSICAL touring production, and not remember or even think about the fact that you will need an orchestra pit?  I asked him this.  He said that they only knew five minutes before the show went on yesterday.  I think this was a lie as there are things such as rehearsals and sets to be built etc, but I was too utterly amazed to bother to argue the toss.

I pointed out that I needed front row seats because my friend was visually impaired and that if they couldn’t offer me what I needed I would have to have a refund.

He said he would call me back.

He called me back and offered me seats further back than he had offered me in the first phonecall, or even better, in the balcony.  Yes, because if she can’t see past the second row, the balcony will be perfect!

I pointed out that I hadn’t paid for her to go to a radio show.

He was not impressed.  He was not going to offer me a refund.

I asked for one.  I also asked for my £25 worth of vouchers to be reinstated from the last time they cocked things up for me.  He agreed but said that it would take several days for the refund to be worked out and sent through.

What could I say? I agreed.

Then I got a phone call offering me seats on the first two rows but split between the rows.  After several more phone calls and some negotiations it ended up with Andrea and the girls on the front row and me in the second. 

And me frothing with frustration.

A good job it was me in the second row.  There was a man with a particularly large head in front of me, and the rake on the seats is virtually non existent, so I ended up watching half the stage.

In the second half Tallulah needed the toilet.  We got out with the minimum of fuss and I decided to bring her back to my seat where she could sit on my knee.  I was on the end of the row so nobody would have to move.

The usher let us out, and then when we came in again tried to make us sit at the back of the auditorium.  This was the final straw.  I just refused and walked her to my seat and sat her down.

Thirty seven million quid and tickets more expensive than for Helen Mirren.

I’d rather watch the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special and go to bed with a Babycham.

You don’t get this at the National.

All Hail Uncle Robber

I was going to post earlier, but a hideous driving lesson meant that when I got home this evening I needed to do something soothing and repetitious.  This meant doing some cataloguing of family photographs instead.  We save photos, but then we never name them. When I try to upload them and I don’t get a photo icon I am struggling to decide whether px304 is the picture of Tallulah scowling in a rubber swimming hat or whether it’s me riding a plastic horse with my knees round my ears. You can understand my dilemma I’m sure.

We went out with Uncle Robber again today. This time it was only me and Oscar.  Oscar decided that far from thinking that Uncle Robber is arch criminal of the century, Uncle Robber is an uncle to be emulated at every turn.  This is because Uncle Robber is a fund of unthought of naughtinesses which Oscar has been so utterly impressed with he has been lost for words at crucial points today.  Things like the fact that rather than pressing the button for the lift once and then waiting patiently, as instructed, Uncle Robber presses the call button repeatedly so that it makes tunes! Oh yes! Now there’s a thing to think about.

Then there’s the whole Uncle Robber unashamedly drinks coca cola even though it is contraband in our house, and thus more desirable than diamonds and more fun than crack.

Or the fact that Uncle Robber can pull fantastically grotesque faces and is very good at driving, gesticulating and swearing loudly all at the same time.

Let’s face the fact that today, nobody has been cooler than Uncle Robber. He’s too cool for school, which is how come he was with us today and not there.  Not that he has to go there any more, but Oscar doesn’t know that.

Uncle Robber also bought us lunch, which impressed both of us no end.

We might even build him a small shrine.

All hail the magnificent Uncle Robber.

p.s. If you’re reading this, Uncle R, if you show him any more stunts like that in the future I will break both of your arms and beat you round the head with the bloody stumps.

Lots of love

Your sister.

Urgh

Urgh.

Weekend predictions spot on.

I feel like hell on wheels. 

Whatever pain killers I’m on are not really touching the sides and I am shattered. Totally shattered.

I have spent the day trying to do as little as possible.

Oscar has spent the day clinging to my legs, chest, arms and belly like some kind of demented koala bear.  I don’t know why he is being so clingy. I just know it hurts.  Especially when he decided that my springy bits would give excellent bounce value when he decided to gallop about on me.  Ow. Ow. Ow.

I sometimes think that the children would not really notice if I slipped away and replaced myself with some kind of padded climbing frame with a pouch.  As long as I attached a megaphone to the top and shouted obscenities every few minutes it would be just the same really.

I look forward to the day when they fail to approach me in the manner of an enthusiastic bear shinning up a pine tree to reach a deliciously quivering camper clinging to the lower branches.

I did manage to go to the pub with my mum and brother earlier in the day.  Oscar threw strawberry ice cream over everyone else, and I, who managed to stay out of range, poured hoi sin sauce all over my lap instead. I expect I didn’t want to feel left out when everyone else was complaining how sticky they felt.

The weather is alternately hot and unbelievably muggy, or absolutely freezing.  Last night I went to bed in pyjamas, socks and a hoodie and I was still cold, so I went and got a hot water bottle.  Today I have spent all day either sweating or shivering and it’s got nothing to do with my inner thermostat.  I packed the kids off to school in thick wool tights and their winter coats and they came out sweating and moaning about being too hot.  It’s doing my head in.  I would just like the bloody weather to make its mind up. I don’t mind if it changes on a daily basis.  It’s when it’s on an hourly basis that I get a bit fed up.  I have spent the last three days worrying about whether now is the right time to put the winter quilt on.  A woman should not have to lie awake fretting about such dilemmas.  It’s not right.  How am I supposed to fit in worrying about Afghanistan and the collapsing economy when I am obsessing over tog ratings?

School went well today. Tallulah was much less rabbit in the headlights again.  She will be positively lissom by the end of the week barring any unforseen disasters.  Tilly actually seems to have a great teacher this year.  She had to do a diary of her activities over the summer holidays as her homework. I moaned about this and said that I thought it was a cop out and that there wasn’t much point because the teachers never read them.  I challenged Tilly to fill her diary with the odd anomaly like for example: ‘The leprechaun family came round for tea and we all had turns sliding down the rainbow,’ etc. She did this. Mainly because I said that if she did I would give her a fiver.

She unfortunately wrote a note at the end of the diary explaining what I had cruelly made her do and how I had said it was a teacher test.  The teacher rose to the occasion, read it all, made notes and just to show how hip and happening she is, she cut out a picture of Grayson Perry at Liberties for Tilly!  I have great hope that last year’s cardigan wars will be a thing of the past and we will venture into pastures new.  Pastures which may be actually quite groovy and happening.

Euclid’s Theorem

My father’s paternal grandmother was called Hannah.  She was the lady who you may recall in another boring blog entry I wrote about geneaology, who went deaf and was plagued by the sound of hymns in her head, constantly.  Not good.  Not good at all.  Hymns are not my favourite songs. No catchy beat, rubbish lyrics and tending to either miserably dull and stentorian or far too happy and clappy.  All bad.

 

Anyway. In her happier days when she wasn’t constantly listening to Harry Secombe belting out Abide with Me, she went on a trip to Montreux.  She kept a very short diary of her time there, and I transcribed it for my family tree the other day.  I found it hugely entertaining, and as it was so short I have copied it for you here, with Boo styling edits.

 

My words in BOLD

 

Friday to Jerrictet (sp?)

 

By plane to Lucerne. By train to Montreux.  Arrived around 3 o’clock.  Had wash and rest.  Then dinner and a tour round Hotel.  Went to bed early. Fair enough. Not exactly going to win Conde Naste Travel Writer of the Year Award, but E for effort.

 

Sat

 

Went into Montreux to see shops.  Euclid got locked in lavatory. Much better! Immediately I start to sing: ‘Oh no! What can the matter be? Three old ladies/stuck in the lavatoreeeee…’etc.  Plus, twenty bonus points and a gold star for being called Euclid.  Imagine knowing someone called Euclid who isn’t an ancient Greek with a beard an a penchant for complex mathematical equations.  And they probably came from Leicester at a time when most people were called Stan. Top marks.  Wasn’t she scared?  Hold up! What? Euclid is a girl. Oh My Good God.  That is even better.  Her parents must have loathed her, or been mad, or both. To make her feel better we went and changed some cheques.  Oh yes! That would do it.  After all, if I’d had the utter misfortune to be a girl called Euclid who’d just spent the last two hours stuck in a Swiss lavatory on the first day of my holidays, and clearly had a problem with confined spaces and sanitary ware, the first thing I’d think of to calm me down would be going to do a bit of currency swapping.  How soothing.  After dinner in the evening we had quite a do in the concert room at the Hotel.  The brass band played, we all sang. I never clapped my hands and sang so much before.  Everyone was so friendly and took post card photos.  There were all nationalities.  A most beautiful day.  I always like it when my friends provide me with free entertainment by being stuck in foreign khazis.  Excellent, and I’ve still got all that money left from the soothing trip to the bank afterwards.  Couldn’t have had a better day if I’d tried, frankly.

 

Sunday

 

Went sight seeing along the lake a most beautiful walk and such lovely flowers and grand hotels.  Bit disappointed that Euclid didn’t have any more mishaps, but at least it didn’t rain.

 

Monday

 

Went from hotel to a barbecue arranged for our company for a day.  A lovely ride in buses.  They roasted an ox over a fire and we all queued up for a slice. I do love a slice of ox when I’m in foreign parts.  We all eat (sic) at tables with a packed lunch and lazed in long deck chairs.  Everything done for our comfort.  Particularly pleased they slaughtered an ox. Better than a fatted calf.  Much leaner.

 

Back to the hotel for a Swiss night.  There was a men’s choir.  They sang folk songs and yodelled until midnight.  And then to bed. Very tired.  Not surprised having to listen to fools in Lederhosen warbling for hours.  It’s enough to give you a nasty headache.  I’m glad nobody in Leicester wears Lederhosen. I find them quite taxing.

 

Tuesday

 

Trip to Vevy by bus.  Charlie Chaplin lives there.  He was out, which was a shame as I’d slipped a spare slice of ox into my handbag from yesterday as I thought he might be partial to it if he happened to be in.  I expect he gets bored of luncheon meat.

 

Afternoon trip to Cheminay.  Went up in funicular to top.  It is like a town on the top of the mountain.  Large shopping centre.

 

We saw a funeral.  I do love a good funeral.  Nothing makes a holiday like a good funeral. I wonder if they had ox sandwiches afterwards.  I hope they didn’t have yodelling by the graveside.  It’d be enough to make you want to jump in yourself and just end it all.

 

Wednesday

 

Went to Champery by bus.  Winding round the mountains through the passes for two hours until we got to the top.  About fifty shops and cafes right at the top.  Had tea in café.  It was a wonderful sight.  Helped by a cup of tea, although to be fair they don’t know how to make it properly.  I expect they leave the bag in for too long. Probably distracted by the sight of all those bald male knees flashing about like wan potatoes.  Urgh. It does put the wind right up you.

 

Houses were built on the edge of the cliffs painted all colours just like dolls houses.  Some had beautiful paintings on them at the sides.  One in particular with a man and his wife and five children walking a long a path in the middle of a field.  The wife had a baby, carrying it in a long shawl and four more children walking with them.  They looked so happy with the fields and the mountains all around them, all in the colours they were wearing and all of them were life sized.

 

Back for dinner, then went to the Rhone glacier.  Saw beautiful rainbow.

Evening. Finished that day with dancing and games at Les Alps.  More photos on post cards of some of the company.  Bed at midnight. A wonderful day.

 

Thursday

 

Walked to Chaillon (sp?) Castle in the morning along by the lake.  Beautiful walk and love lovely flowers.  Afternoon went into Montreux to buy presents to bring home.  I’ve had my spare slice of ox made into a paperweight.  It does look pretty.  Went to a bar in the evening (can’t remember anything after the fourth schapps although I blush to recall fondling a man’s knee in a fit of excitement when he showed me his alpenhorn. Perhaps it’s a good thing that the rest is a blank) and home to bed, ready to leave next day.

 

Friday

 

Had breakfast and waited for taxi to station to catch train to Lugano.  Safe arrived five minutes before train went.  Talk about a sweat on.  He would only take 4 and there were 5.  Had to come back for Mrs.Nunn. Promised her we would not go without her.  Train was in and we did not get in.  At last taxi in sight with Euclid.(Euclid Nunn.  Whatever possessed them? Still I expect her ancestors are delighted. They’re not going to get her mixed up with anyone else at the records office)  What a relief. Although that girl has been a bloody nuisance from day one what with all those escapades with the lavatory.  And the less said about the glacier the better.  Train had waited for her. What a relief.

Things that make you go ‘rraaahhhh’

We are all exhausted.

The children straggled back from their father’s, filthy, windswept and with bags still containing the leftover sandwiches from their trip out yesterday.  Can you tell I’m really not in the mood for him at the moment? How can you sit in your house all day with a bag full of rotting food and not do something about it, then calmly put it in the car and drive it to your ex-wife’s house for her to sort out? I just despair. I really do.

Anyway. Apart from that, the kids had a lovely time yesterday at Belvoir castle and did tons and tons of wonderful Brownie and Rainbow related stuff. Tilly got to carry the flag apparently.  This was a great honour.  She was very impressed.  I am delighted that she is impressed.  It is hard for me to be enthusiastic about Brownies, as you know.  I hated it twenty odd years ago when I went myself and I feel no less inclined not to loathe it now I have to ferry my children about hither and yon and concur with their ridiculous demands.  Still, at least I didn’t have to go to Belvoir castle stand it a field with 5000 children dressed in brown.   For that I must be grateful.

The house is clean.  The children are clean.  We are clean.  Everyone has been fed real food and all the laundry has been done and put away.  Some, if not all beds have been made, and the house is looking reasonable.  Everyone is home, and delighted to be here.  That is good.

I did manage to use the camera briefly. I took a few pictures of the kitchen but Oscar was flinging play doh across it at the time so it doesn’t really do it justice.  I will work out how to upload them later.  It isn’t really worth the effort at the moment as I only managed to take about four before I went on strike.

I had only just picked it up when Jason arrived from Cornwall.  He immediately started badgering me about taking video with it.  I could have swung for him.

It’s not often I get really irritated with my husband. I saved that for my last husband.  My current (and hopefully future) husband and I are incredibly compatible.  This is strange because I am hell to live with and he is hell to live with and we are both hell to live with in different ways.  We are also an acquired taste individually and as a couple.  We have very few friends in common and we carry out most of our hobbies and leisure activities apart from each other, apart from sex!  Despite this we are for the most part, blissfully happy with each other and delighted that we chose each other and not those other rubbish people.

But, at the moment he is driving me mad with his obsession about photographs and videos.  He has started badgering me to take photos.  I do need to be badgered sometimes, it has to be said. I am not a natural photograph taker.  I wait until after something lovely has happened and think ‘damnit! I wish I’d taken a photo of that.’  I have been a lot better since doing the family tree though. It does wake up your need to chronicle everything, and pictures are too fab.  I love it when I find an old picture that is another part of the family puzzle.  It has made me more conscientious about keeping my own records.

Part of my failure to be an effective photographer in the last twelve months, as you will testify, has been Jason’s failure to show me how to work the camera, or indeed, where the camera is, despite my frequent pestering.

Demands for photos ramped up with the purchase of new phone (as previously discussed).  Then when I finally used money he had given me to do anything I wanted with to buy my own camera, solely for the purpose of taking photos, he got a bit huffy.  First he was huffy that I’d asked Andrea, then he was huffy that I had chosen to use a camera to take pictures when I had a phone. I explained my reasons. He huffed a bit less.  Then he gave me the money for my camera, as he said it would be a family thing.

Part of me was pleased. It’s nice when someone gives you £80.  Part of me was irritated that suddenly what was mine, something I had done independently was suddenly being commandeered as a piece of family property.  This is irrational as I don’t really care who takes the photos as long as they get taken, but it was the principle of the thing.  Plus the fact that he was still getting huffy about bloody cameras even after I had solved the problem neatly all by myself without asking for his help.

I asked him why he never got around to showing me how to work the last camera even though I had repeatedly asked him. He said he thought it was a waste of time as I wouldn’t take any pictures with it anyway.  I pointed out that I certainly wouldn’t if I didn’t have a bloody camera to do it with.

Since he has come to terms with the fact that I have a camera and I have also, in the interim been taking more photos with my phone, we are now onto the ‘you need to take video’ thing.  I don’t really want to take video.  I am not really interested in video.  He has pointed out that he is, and that because I am the one who spends most time with the kids, if I don’t do it, then he won’t have any at all.  I agreed that I would take some if it was important to him. He said it was.  I actually took one on Saturday, using my phone. It came out great. I was quite pleased with myself.  I told him I had done it when I spoke to him on Saturday night. 

Then, then he starts on about bloody videoing things with my camera. I’d only had it out the box for five minutes.  I was just taking some practice shots.  Then he wouldn’t drop it, and accused me of being overly annoyed.  Of course I am.  It’s bloody annoying.  It’s like having the video vulture sitting on your shoulder every two minutes.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask to be allowed to look at my own camera in peace and actually learn to take photos with it first before launching into filmed epics. 

I think it’s the way he’s asking that’s annoying me  He’s asking in that accusing way that presupposes that I’m going to be difficult about it, and he just keeps on, even when I have given in to what he wants.  And that just makes me want to be difficult about it.  I know it’s not rational, but that’s how it is.  It makes me want to drop the camera in a bucket of water and shout ‘fuck you matey!’ and run for the hills. 

I do understand.  He is worried that he’s going to forget things.  Me doing the family tree has shown him how much history he has lost, and the fact that his mother’s relatives won’t talk to me or share what they have means that unless I am prepared to do months of painstaking work that will cost money, we probably won’t get much further unless I can get one of them to crack.  He wants to capture every moment of the kids lives so that he can keep it.  And with the grief for his mother still fresh and the fact that Oscar, his first and only blood child is going to be three in a few weeks and clearly isn’t a baby anymore, it’s all a bit raw and real.  I do get it, but it’s still makes me want to go ‘raaaaahhhh’. 

And eat cake.

It’s probably the hormones isn’t it?

I am so tired I have no imaginative titles left in me

I had one of those days today where I woke up more exhausted than when I went to sleep. I am also slightly short tempered, eating everything in sight, including bits of furniture, and nursing a bloated gut. Methinks it could be coming up to the wrong time of the month.  I cannot be sure though, because I am crap. 

My friend and I were discussing this earlier.  We were musing as to why, given the fact that this is a monthly occurence, both of us singularly fail to write down any notes as to when in the month it should be, to at least give us a fighting chance.  Also, given that it is indeed a regular thing, why we should be so surprised every time it happens and somehow feel that it has snuck up on us, and done some low down, devious manoeuvre which we feel resentful of.

I am sure we are trying to blot it out.  It seems only fair.  Who would actually want to remember something so repellent?  I am not one of these people who is able to embrace nature and bodily functions with ease. It has taken ten years of constant testing by the children for me to not flinch when faced with some sort of bodily excretion.  I have trained hard.

Let us draw a veil over the whole thing.

In the rest of the news, Jason had a better day than expected and it looks like things might actually be resolved satisfactorily with no bloodshed.  I remain unconvinced, as until all paperwork is signed and we can wash our hands of the whole affair I feel it would be premature.  Still, the giant festival of recriminations, shouting and horror that he felt might happen have been avoided and he can come home tomorrow and hand everything else to the solicitor to sort out.  This might actually mean that we never have to deal with MP again.  Wouldn’t that be nice?  I could certainly live with that. I might even drink to it.

My new camera has arrived.  Andrea came over this evening and taught me how to point it at things and make a picture come out. This is good.  There are many other things you can do, but at the moment this is about all I can cope with.  If I am going to be the next David Bailey we need to approach it cautiously, just as my bid to be the next Stig for Top Gear. It does not do to rush into these ambitious projects willy nilly.  There has to be a system.

The girls’ dad came round today.  He was supposed to be having them this weekend.  Then he cancelled. I arranged for them to go to a big Brownie Centenary shindig over at Belvoir Castle instead.  Then he rang up and wanted to see them.  They wanted to see him.  They also wanted to go to Belvoir Castle. I invited him over for lunch and then let him drop them to their meeting and pick them up this evening and take them to his house.  It kind of helped me a bit as it meant that I didn’t have to drag Oscar all over the place, especially this evening as they were not due home until 9.00 p.m.  As it turns out they didn’t get home until nearly 10.00 p.m. 

It would not have been fun waiting an hour in a freezing cold car park for them to come home with an overtired toddler on hand, so I was very grateful that their dad was there to do it.  Also I was slightly pleased because he had arrived earlier to find me snapping at the kids and pointed out that he had some fantastic parenting CD’s in the car which I could borrow if I wanted, and which have made him think about parenting in a whole, different light.  I did not point out that thinking was about all he could do, as turning up to take them out to the cinema once every three weeks does not constitute parenting in my opinion, especially when he returns them tired, filthy and having made no attempts to make them wash or brush their hair or teeth.  Because I didn’t say this, and was quite polite about it all considering, it made me feel rather smug that it was him waiting for an hour in a darkened car park and not me.  Petty? Probably. I don’t really care.

Oscar and I had a nice afternoon. It is the first time since the kids broke up for the summer that Oscar and I have had proper mum and boy time together and we enjoyed it.  We went to the hair dressers because he has been telling me for weeks that his hair is too long.  Weirdly his fringe never grows, and I mean never.  It is almost non existent and we have never, ever had it cut in his nearly three years of existence.  The back does get long though and even I had to confess that it was getting a bit curly and wispy.

He had a wonderful time, sitting up in the highest chair, watching himself in three separate mirrors and wearing a cape with bright yellow dogs all over it. He looked like the king of the world.  He was absolutely fascinated by what she was doing with the scissors, which has made me a bit nervous.  Nervous to the point of confiscating the blunt craft scissors, even though they are blunt craft scissors.

After the hair cut we went for a walk.  Oscar decided that the extra lightness afforded by his new, streamlined head, was going to make him a faster runner, so we went up to the local church yard and he practiced sprinting among the grave stones while I filmed him with my phone.  He was most pleased.  We went up there to look for blackberries but they had all gone over, so sprinting it was.  Then we got into quite a complicated conversation about what the gravestones were for.  I went into gushing eulogies as to the skills of the stone masons in order to avoid the meaningful conversations about dead bodies under foot. I just wasn’t feeling strong enough.

Oscar was fascinated by the church and wanted to go in.  Sadly it was locked.  He did get terribly confused at one point and thought it was a prison for the naughty people to stay in.  I have to say that it’s not a bad guess.  Lots of churches are quite forbidding looking and the mesh over stained glass and the big lock on the door probably added fuel to the fire.

We used our superior sprinting power to run over to the park on the way home.  Oscar made friends with a rather charming, flaxen haired maiden, who was clearly impressed with his new hair cut.  He was not very impressed with her, until she slid down the slide backwards and didn’t crack her head open, and then he thought that she was truly a miraculous wonder child.  This was just at the point that her flaxen charms had begun to severely wane for me.

I had suggested, while were were at the church yard, that we collect lots of leaves and feathers and twigs and make Autumnal pictures when we got home.  I was quite pleased with my maternal creativity and my ability to think outside the box of ‘put the telly on and all will be well.’  This was before I ended up with a handbag full of leaves and chewed magpie feathers and a kitchen covered in glue and feathers.  It looks like an explosion in a particularly sticky feather factory.  I didn’t even get a chance to do a picture of my own because Oscar got bored of glueing once all the glue had been transferred to the floor, so he kept me occupied by making me draw eight hundred small portraits of him as a baby in various poses.  He got very cross when I couldn’t make one of the Oscars in the drawing cross the picture and get into his cot.  I tried to point out that drawing and animation were two different artistic media which were pretty incompatible without the aid of film, but he was having none of it.

Bastard.

I am now full of Chinese food and cake, after having spent a lovely evening gossiping and learning to work my camera.  I think I will take lots of photos tomorrow, and if I get a chance to work out how to upload them I might even share some of them with you.  Probably the ones of my own shoe and a couple of the classic ‘finger on the lens’ shots.  I bet you can hardly wait.

The day

I decided to treat myself today and get back into family tree mode.

Now I’ve got a nasty tic in one eye, sore shoulders and scanner’s finger.  It’s a new disease. Like tennis elbow but for the jet age.

Part of me wants to keep going and the sensible part of me thinks. ARE YOU BLOODY MAD?

It is taking my mind off the fact Jason has gone to Cornwall to see MP. Hopefully for the last time.  This would be good on many levels. He came home after work to put off the evil moment, but then got stuck in rush hour and hideous road works on the M5.  He is still going and it’s nearly 11.00 p.m.

To add insult to injury, there is something wrong with our car, and rather than risk it breaking down on the way, he stuck it in the garage and hired a car for the weekend.  Then the crazy ass hotel he chose turns out to be run by an accordion playing lunatic Cornish fool, who charged him £130 for the privilege of staying there and then asked if he could check in no later than ten o’clock this evening as he likes to get to bed early because it’s very demanding making breakfast for all his guests and he needs his rest! Cheeky bugger.  It looks like it will be Rice Krispies and a scowl in the morning then.

School was a little better today for Tallulah, although she still looked quite miserable on the threshold. She came bounding out with a merit award and a sticker for her excellent holiday homework and has proceeded not to pee her pants at all, so I feel that things are moving in the right direction.  The fact that she has also had two party invitations in two days hasn’t hurt I’m sure.  Especially because Tilly hasn’t had any.  That’s always cheering for a sibling isn’t it? 

The girls have spent the evening drawing each other’s portraits whilst in various ‘action’ poses.  I know this because it has felt like the Dresden bombings in our house and I am convinced bits of plaster are in my newly coiffed hair.  I am very happy. I have blonde. My grey bits are covered up.  My straggly bits are chopped and I can see again.  What more could a woman ask from a hair cut?

Driving was o.k. ish today.  Not only did I not kill anyone, and it still didn’t rain, but I also managed to do parallel parking without smashing up anyone’s car or driving into anyone’s front garden.  I really don’t see the point of it, but who am I to argue. I’d rather go fifteen miles out of my way than parellel park, but perhaps I am just an anomaly and everyone else loves it and does it all the time.

I did a lot of stalling today. My feet were not working well.  I am not the most co-ordinated of creatures.  It always amazes me that I can touch type, given the fact that I can fall on my own nose tying my shoe laces up.  The fact that I can touch type also gives me a bizarre type of hope that eventually I will also be able to drive.  I don’t know why I equate the two things, but I do, and it is oddly cheering.

My camera arrived this afternoon. I have not taken it out the box yet. I haven’t really had time.  But I am glad it is here, and one day in the not too distant future I will be reading instructions and leaping into action A la David Bailey.  I am going to buy the children some kind of bandit style masks so I can take photos of them and print them here.  I have been banned by the deeply paranoid members of my family from posting up their faces, even though anyone with half a brain could trace me and my nearest and dearest in a nano second.  I comply because they are kind in many other ways.  They bring me cake, they don’t mind my constant moaning and they are fine with the fact that I post up all their foibles on the internet for everyone to read about.

On the other hand, if I got masks for them I could surely sneak in a few pictures.  I might get one of Oscar doing the mighty ‘bum’ dance, which would delight your hearts.  I just bought the new Black Eyed Peas album and he is particularly keen on it as it is very good for shaking the booty to. Not to be missed.

Right. I am signing off now as I can hardly see to type and my shoulders are screaming out for me to stop.

The Vagina Dialogues

Oscar: ‘Mama. Do you have a willy?’

Me: ‘No Oscar. I don’t.’ (as we have already discussed ad nauseum for several months now)

Oscar: ‘Oh.’

Me: ‘Alright?’

Oscar: ‘No. Mama?’

Me: ‘Yes Oscar.’

Oscar: ‘What do you have?’

Me: ‘A vagina.’

Oscar: ‘A ‘china’?’

Me: ‘No. A vagina.’

Oscar: ‘A pajina?’

Me: ‘No. A VA GI NA’

Oscar: ‘Oh. O.k.’

Later that afternoon Tallulah is singing.  She is happy.  When she is happy and singing she often likes to make up songs.

I pass the living room.  I hear snatches of song.  The melody is lovely, lilting and gentle with lots of trilling notes.  The subject matter on the other hand, is problematic:’

‘Tra la la. I have a vagina.

Tra la la. So do you.

Tra la. Vagina. Vagina. Vagina.  Tra la.

If you are rude to me, tra la, I will kick you in the vagina.

Tra la la.

Vagina tra la.’

etc…

Probably not one for show and tell.