Morning

It is a miracle that small boys ever grow up to be men.

This morning nobody had to go to school.  Tilly is still rather grey faced. Tallulah’s teachers are on strike, and nobody will have Oscar.

It was an absolute luxury to be able to get into bed without setting the alarm.  I know I get to do it on weekends, but there is something extra decadent about not having to do it in the week.

I was shattered last night, properly shattered.  I fell asleep watching the Culture Show special on the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, and rather than struggle to stay awake, as is my wont, I gave in and went to bed at half past nine.  I remember thinking; ‘I will never get to sleep now’, just before I fell into an unconscious, snoring mass.

All things being equal, I would probably have slept until at least half nine this morning, giving me twelve hours of glorious, uninterrupted, health giving sleep.

Alas. It was not to be.  At seven o’clock this morning a small boy’s large voice drifted up the stairs:

‘Mama?’

‘Mamaaaaaaaa?’

‘MAMAAAAAAAAA!’

I rolled out of bed and growled off towards the stairs.

I croaked (my voice is still 70% Bonnie Tyler (Total Eclipse of the Heart), 15% Capstan Full Strength, 10% adolescent boy, 5% normal.

‘WHAT?’

A wavery plea:

‘But Mama! I had to wake you.  I cannot find my blue teddy bear.  I cannot find him anywhere.’

I smack my forehead with my palm in the international gesture for WHAT THE FUCK?

I growl.

‘Play with something else. Learn to live without him. Be quiet. I am going back to bed.  Do not wake me up again unless it is an emergency.’

I stomp off back to the warm delights of the duvet.

Twenty minutes later:

‘Mamaaaaaaa! I have done a pooh. I have wiped my bottom. I just need you to check that I have wiped it properly.’

I give up.

I get up.

I inspect bottoms.

I thank the lord for the sleep I already did get and try to be grateful.

I plunge my head face first into the Lavazza.

This is where you find me…

nowt much

Tilly has been out of school all day, poorly.  She has stomach cramps and a grey face. I pray to God she is not turning into me.  She is, I think, experiencing what I think of as pre puberty puberty.  It is annoying and inexplicably emotional but without the blood loss.  This is better than with the blood loss.  She is not convinced.

Tallulah has been to school, but she is not going tomorrow, due to strike action.  At this point it is very unlikely that Tilly will be going either. I am quite impressed with this. It is not often that my children synchronise so that I do not have to split myself nine million ways to satisfy all their demands.  If Tilly doesn’t puke and Tallulah doesn’t take ill, or get nits before breakfast I might finally be able to take them all to have their hair cut.  The girls have not had a hair cut for about eight months now.  It keeps slipping off the bottom of our agenda.

They need summer sandals too.

It is things like these that do not get done in favour of learning how to say; ‘bring me an orange juice’ in Spanish, and learning to karate chop your foe in the jugular by extending one finger.  This is all very well, but there are times, when your children are referred to as ‘urchins’, and look like barefoot versions of Cousin It, that things like footwear and hair cuts become more desirable.

Oscar is not too bad, as I have him in my evil clutches most days.  His hair, although a bit lively (as in bouncy, rather than with lice) is reasonably presentable, and he has some new Spiderman Crocs that he is negotiating with me to sleep in. Although he will not get to sleep in the crocs (I know. I know. Harsh and unfair.) he will pass muster.

The girls will not.

I found Tallulah looking very uncomfortable the other day.  She said her pants (as in under crackers) were too tight.  I looked at the label.  It said ‘aged five to six’.  She is eight next week.  No wonder she looked pained. It was a wonder she wasn’t snapped in two.  We had a serious wardrobe clear out, and purchased more capacious underwear.  That’s a start.

I noted in the supermarket today that Sainsburys have half their children’s clothing department already  dedicated to ‘back to school’ wear.  My children do not break up for another fortnight.  They haven’t even left school to go back to it yet.

Not only that but I never, ever buy their new school clothes at the beginning of the holidays anyway.  My children always make a point of growing like fury during the six week holidays.  Not only do they grow taller, but their feet grow and in some cases they change shape entirely, much like Morph.

They only do it to thwart my plans to be organised and avoid the back to school rush.  Even if I buy clothes that are deliberately too big to make allowance for their growth spurt, they will find ways to thwart me.  Things like Tilly’s legs will grow, but her waist will shrink.  You would think this is ideal, but not when your school trousers either fall down round your ankles every three minutes or you look like an extra in Star Trek.

So I turned away from the temptation to buy heaps of clothes now and just throw them in a cupboard for the next eight weeks.  I would feel smug for a week until Tallulah started growing an extra leg, and then there would be nothing but recriminations all round.

I did however, finally manage to get Tallulah a few birthday presents.  Her list was complex, due to the fact that she really doesn’t need or want anything.  This has never hindered any nearly eight year old from making a giant list in the past, and it certainly hasn’t stopped her.

Unfortunately many things on her list she already has in abundance, and there is really no room for fluffy toy kitten number eighteen and small toy dog in a handbag number twenty six.  Then there are the things she wants that she is banned from having for one reason and another. Not fire arms, but toys that she had in the past that she has either thrown away, failed to play with, given away or broken, and has now decided she cannot live without.  Then there is the stuff that is unavailable, like books and/or dvd’s that are not coming out until the Autumn.

I was fairly depressed about this state of affairs, as was she.  I cheered her up by telling her to leave it to me, and that I would think of a wonderful surprise.  All well and good, but I have been singularly bereft of ideas.

During my perambulation round Sainsbury’s this morning I actually managed to find a few small things she will love, and this has unlocked the well spring of inspiration for the finishing touches to her birthday surprise.  I think she will be happy. Me, I’m just relieved.

 

 

 

Halt

At Oscar’s nursery they have a password system.  Not for every day use, but for when people who do not usually pick your child up pick them up for you.  This is a good way of making sure that not just any person can wander in and pinch your child away.

When you start your child at the nursery you choose the password, so that it is something familiar to you.

We must have done this way back in the mists of time.

On Friday afternoon, when I could have done with three me’s and at least seven more sets of hands, my parents offered to pick Oscar up from nursery for me.  This was hugely helpful as he still goes to nursery where we used to live, despite us now living half an hour away by car.  It does add significantly to the school run time when Jason is away and I have to do the drop off and pick up.

I dropped him off on Friday morning and told one of the girls who works there that granny and granddad would be doing the honours.

She said casually: ‘Great.  They know the password then?’

I looked at her blankly.  I thought about it very hard.  I replied: ‘Nope. I’m almost sure they don’t know the password.’

She looked mildly alarmed.

I continued:

‘They can’t know the password, because I don’t know the password and I made it up.’

We have never had to use it before.

We trundled off to the office to find Oscar’s file.  We were going to look it up.

We looked it up.

It wasn’t there.

We were thinking of a new password. Something that I would remember and my parents would remember which wouldn’t require me to come down and break everyone out of chokey at an even more inconvenient time than usual.

We were getting nowhere fast. I could only think of things like ‘poopy mcplop pants’ and other unsuitable and highly scatalogical phrases.  It’s just the way my brain works. I think it’s probably a kind of tourettes tic that only really presents itself under extreme pressure.

Luckily, just as things were getting hot, sweaty and desperate, the nursery manager came in and asked what we were all doing standing round looking bug eyed and perplexed.

We explained.

She said: ‘Oh yes. I know your mum and dad.  I’ll vouch for them.’

It was an absolute life saver.

I was explaining all this to mum later, and we were trying to figure out what the original password had been.  We went through several variations but nothing rang any bells at all.

This is my problem with passwords.  You have to have passwords for so many things these days, and you are supposed to make them secure and safe.  That’s all very well, but my brain does not remember secure and safe.  My brain remembers things like poopy mcplop pants or things like katy’s password is katy’s password.

This is not allowed in our house.  Jason is an IT freak and insists on creating these incredibly complex passwords which are meaningful yet entirely arcane.  He then gives me equally meaningful and arcane keys by which to remember them.  It just makes my head spin round.

I sometimes leave myself notes.

These notes obviously have to be cryptic.

I find a note.  It says something like: ‘Password to the vaults where you store the diamonds.’

I get excited.  We need those diamonds. We are broke.

I read the notes.  The notes are as follows:

‘As P follows Z, the rhubarb mines wend their way down to the river bank.  Hold Arthur’s hand to the count of five. Attach flap A to flap B along the dotted line and hold.  Yellow wellies are best when filled with red carnations.  Do bring along a rolled up copy of the Times Newspaper for easy identification.  Your mother’s cat’s brother’s name.’

I read this.

I realise that once this made perfect sense to me.

Now it is just unintelligible bollocks that looks like something Tallulah wrote when she wanted to be in the Secret Seven (actually she would never want to be in the Secret Seven.  It is one of the only things she has ever had nightmares about.)

This is why we do not have the diamonds.

And if it weren’t for the nursery manager, Oscar would still be in nursery waiting patiently for us to remember the right password to effect his release.

As Tallulah used to say when she was very small, and going through a phase of only letting you through doors if you could give her the correct password:

‘No mama. The password is assword.’

Quite.

Glastonbury Boo Style

It is quarter to two. I have to be up in four hours. I really need to go to bed.

Instead I am having a slight panic attack moment which has lasted several hours.

I have decided to deal with it with my usual head in the sand; ‘la la la I can’t hear you’ methods.

This has mostly involved watching three days worth of Glastonbury on BBC iPlayer with extensive use of the fast forward button.  I have discovered several things:

• Mark Radcliffe is very funny and I love him dearly
• Mark Radcliffe does not make up for the gaping, John Peel shaped hole which will be forever present in all Glastonbury programming.
• Jo Whiley and Lauren Laverne are very pretty, and look considerably better after three days and no sleep in a giant mud filled field than I do on a normal morning with full access to all facilities.
• I am sorry pop fans, but Zane Lowe is a bit of a knob.  He may know a bit about music and be cool, but he’s still a cock.
• I cannot deny the fact that Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’ makes me howl like a child who has lost his favourite bear every time I hear/see it.
• Beyonce was surprisingly good, particularly given the fact that I don’t actually like any of her music.
• E from the Eels cannot sing. This does not take away from the fact that a) I still love the Eels, and b) he has a stupendous beard
• I am way too old for Glastonbury, even on the telly mostly.
• I am glad I stayed at home.  Three hours with a cup of tea and a fast forward button is infinitely preferable to three days getting trench foot and having to relieve myself in  portaloo.

So there you have it.

Glastonbury in a nutshell, complete with biscuit crumbs.

Now I really, really must go to sleep.

 

 

Praise Be

Today we have been listening to Neil talking about world religions as we have trundled about the county, eating up petrol and poohing fumes all over the environment.

The subject of sainthood came up in passing.  Tallulah leapt on this eagerly. She goes to a Catholic school. Saints are da bomb for those of the Catholic persuasion.  I was always rather a fan of St. Agatha who had her breasts cut off for some reason I cannot quite fathom.  All statuary of St. Agatha requires her to wander around looking forlorn carrying her lopped off breasts on two plates like two wobbling blancmanges.  You’ve got to love her.

Then there’s Padre Pio who had the stigmata.  I was a sucker for Padre and his bleeding wounds when I was going through a peculiarly religious phase at about the age of twelve.  If there had been a poster of him, I’d have probably put it on the wall.

As it is I had to make do with Morten Harket, which I think on reflection was probably the better deal.

These days I have a fondness for St. Cecilia who I believe as well as being the patron saint of music is also the patron saint of televisions.  I expect she watched a lot.

Not.

Anyway…

Tallulah was talking about Mother Theresa.

She explained that Mother Theresa gave everything she had to work with poor orphans (check), and spent her life helping people and doing good works (check).  She also said that Mother Theresa was a saint.

NOOOOOOOooooooo

Mother Theresa is not a saint.

I explained that lots of people thought that the things she had done in her life were super saintly, and in fact much better than the things some of the olden day saints were sainted for (not marrying evil princes and turning into bears and the like. Or living in huts on remote islands growing their beards and growling at people), but that there were very strict rules about being a saint.

One can only be canonised if it has been proved to the satisfaction of the saints marketing board that one has done the requisite number of miracles, and that they are in fact miracles, and not Paul Daniels’ Magic Tricks from the set you got for Christmas in 1982.

Tallulah said, very wisely: ‘It must be a lot harder to do miracles in these days than it was in the olden days, because we know lots of things now that we didn’t know then.’

We talked about this some more.  We talked about some of the things we do now that if we were able to take that knowledge and ability back a couple of hundred years, would mean that our saintly robes would be a shoo in, without us having to lose vital body parts or grow body hair.

I asked Oscar what he would do in order to become a saint.  He thought for a moment and said with very deep conviction:

‘I’d make a toasted cheese sandwich.’

Fairly miraculous I think you will agree.

What do you grow on the moon?

Oscar: ‘Mama. Do you know that you can plant seeds on the moon?’

Me: ‘No. Can you?’

Oscar: ‘Yep. You definitely can.  The man on the radio said so.’

Me: ‘How would you do that, given the lack of gravity?’

Oscar: ‘Well. First you would dig a hole with a spade. Then you would put the seed in. You would cover it with earth afterwards.  You could bring the earth in the rocket.  You would also bring your watering can, because if you don’t water the seed, it just won’t grow.’

Me: ‘But what about the no gravity thing?’

He ignores me and chatters on happily about the plant growing and growing and growing.

Clearly I am a fool.  If the man on the radio hasn’t mentioned gravity, then we don’t want to be fussing ourselves about it.

I change tack

Me: ‘What kind of plant would you grow on the moon?’

Oscar: ‘A tall one.’

Me: ‘No. I mean is it a flower or a vegetable, or a tree? What does the seed grow into?’

The look on his face only confirms his suspicion that I am a total imbecile who should not be trusted with the care of small children.

Oscar: ‘Tomatoes of course.’

You idiot is clearly the sub text of that line.

One Man Two Guvnors

Andrea and I had a fantastic day in London yesterday.

The weather was glorious.  Truly glorious.

As I am still poorly ick, I started off bundled up, wearing my UGGS.  By the time we got to Luton even I had started to warm up. Luckily I had stuck my sandals in my handbag and was able to effect a switcheroo, and shed some layers of clothing, meaning that I didn’t arrive looking as much like a bag lady as I did when I set out.

We went to the National to see One Man, Two Guvnors starring James Corden (Smithy from Gavin and Stacey).  It was fantastic.

Based on an Italian Commedia Dell’Arte tradition it was basically a tarted up slapstick/farce/pantomime.  I laughed until I cried.

It has been updated, and is set in Brighton in 1963. Sets wobble, people fall down stairs and pop out of cupboards.  There is a great deal of physical comedy with water, and fire and soup. There is a lot of audience participation, quite a lot of ad libbing (or it seemed like it), and a huge amount of total and utter silliness.

The cast was superb, and one of the absolute joys was being seated near enough to the stage to be able to see that not only were they quite often desperately trying not to laugh themselves, but they also spent large amounts of time trying ruthlessly to make each other laugh, which in itself was very funny.

The plot is largely irrelevant, as most of it is utter nonsense. It is just an excuse to get a boatload of very talented comic actors with a superb sense of timing and a feel for including the audience in the joke, on stage and mucking around.

I haven’t laughed so much since I saw Steve Mangan and Jessica Hynes in The Norman Conquests.

Even if you don’t like Corden, you cannot deny that this is his forte, and his stage presence is superb. He is funny, mesmerising, charming and absolutely engaged with his material. It was a joy to watch.

The current run is sold out, but it has had such stellar reviews from everyone there is hope that they will extend the run. It is going to be screened as an NTLive performance in September, and it is also going on tour.

It absolutely did me the power of good. I haven’t felt so much like my old self in a very long time.

I paid for it with a rough journey home and having to go straight to bed when I got in, but it was absolutely worth it.

The Power of Radio

We are still listening to Neily Wheely talking about history.

On Friday morning as we were going to school, the children actually requested that I put it on.

Result.

He was talking about the Olmec people of South America, and in particular, a carved, stone face made of serpentine.

At one point in the programme he was describing being in the museum and holding the carving.

The programme then cut away to him clearly standing in an outside location.  He said something like:

‘Here I am, deep in South America, standing at the foot of a temple.’

Oscar turned to Tallulah in the back seat and whispered in total awe:

‘Wow! How did he get there so fast?’

Mrs. Roody Feeds the Dormouse

We survived Tilly’s tea party.

It wasn’t too bad.  This was mainly down to my executive decision to slope off at the beginning and leave them to it unless there was screaming (of an evil kind), and/or crashing noises.

The only time I had to intervene was when Oscar couldn’t get his Batman costume off to get to the loo.

As predicted.

Otherwise it went well.  Although Tilly was exhausted, bless her.  Details to be found by clicking on this lovely link and wandering over to The Dormouse’s Last Stand.

If you click on this link, you will find a teaser for Mrs. Roody’s tea party of the century, to be held on July 4th on behalf of FSID and The Dormouse’s Last Stand.  You really do need to be there.

The tea parties are beginning to happen slowly but surely.  It is wonderful to be even a small part of them, for the cake, and for the fact that every single penny we are raising is going to make a difference to some poor family somewhere.

 

Clumpiness Abounds

It’s one of those clumpy type days today.

By that I mean that I have a fair few things to do, but rather than them being stretched out in a leisurely manner over the day, they are concentrated into small speed bumps of intense activity when many of the things I need to do all need to be done at roughly the same time.

In between that I have times when there are things I should be doing, but clearly, as I am sitting here writing this, they are more fluid.

I think I would cope better with life if there weren’t so many of these clumpy days in it.

What I invariably find about these clumps is that they happen at the times of day I am least prepared for them. Early mornings for instance, is a great time for clumps.  I hate early mornings with a passion.  Well, I would if it were not just too much damn effort to hate them with a passion so early in the morning.  Usually the most I can muster at those times is a kind of weary despair. At best a weary indifference.

Early afternoons is also a bad time for me.  I should, in theory be much more awake by this time of day, but I find that my natural circadian rhythms do not agree with me.  They have clearly allocated this time for my siesta.

It does make me wonder whether my genetic heritage has a lot more of the Mediterranean influence than anyone is letting on.  Judging from the family tree work I did last year, it appears that most of my forebears lived in a ditch not far from Broughton Astley, surviving on mangel wurzels and hand outs from the parish.  I do wonder if one or several of them got bored of this and buggered off to the med to live La Dolce Vita.

By three o’clock most days I am barely awake.  By four I am operating at full on zombie mode, and must not be disturbed from the small, domestic paths I have carved over the years, which if followed without interruption, allow me to pretend to actually be awake, but without having to make the effort of opening my eyes and/or engaging my brain.  By five I am beginning to pull out of the slump and by six o’clock in the evening I begin to feel more rejuvenated again.

This is going to be a problem this afternoon as it is Tilly’s rainbow tea party that she is hosting in order to raise funds for FSID.  Seven pre teen girls will be coming over, and Tilly is going to be in charge of all the catering.  In theory.

In practice I expect that there will be a lot of good will and effort, and mama will have to step into the breach at crucial moments.

Tallulah and Oscar are beyond excited.  They think all Tilly’s friends are wonderful and exotic, and want to be best friends with all of them.  Tallulah will sing, shout and show off more than is seemly.  I am hoping the bumpet will not rear its ugly head again.  Or its ugly bottom.

Oscar wants to wear his Batman costume.  This spells disaster, as we all know, from previous experience that he cannot use the toilet in his all in one nylon bat suit that fastens snugly at the back. Nor can he eat food through his plastic moulded Bat Mask.  This will not stop him a) wearing it, or b) attempting to do all the above and more, accompanied by a series of high pitched squeaks and unrelenting drama.

Jason is due home from a week working fifteen hour days in London, just as this party reaches its zenith.  He is very much of the opinion that an Englishman’s home is his castle.  He does not really approve of visitors at all, even the ones he likes.  He particularly does not approve of visitors under the age of 21.  They are too squeaky and they interrupt his domestic bliss.

His domestic bliss mainly involves him being able to lounge about in his pants with no fear of recrimination, and being able to reach moments of deep, zen like calm by standing in his garage in the dark.

It is going to be absolute chaos.

Because of this, after I have ticked a few more chores off my eternal list, I shall be fleeing to Mrs. Roody’s, where she has put a large slice of red velvet cake in the safe for me.