OK, so technically I'm a writer as I do get paid to write. However, if ever there was an ego that could be elevated to dizzying heights with one look and then blasted back to the gutter with a second, it's that of the writer who is often paid to write, well, how should I put this?.... crap.
I have on the odd occasion truthfully answered the most common just-met-you question at a dinner party question:
"So, what do you do?"
However, the shuffle forward of an Eames chair and the glowing, conspiratorial smile quickly make me realise my mistake. As my questioner draws closer I can just imagine the thoughts going through their head - how they're going to tell their friends that they sat next to an author at dinner on Saturday; how they'll drop my name into conversation - 'oh yes, I've met her you know...' They're even planning the outfit they'll wear when I invite them to my next book launch. And in those few seconds between question and answer, what's going through my head? 'How do you make cat litter web articles sound sexy?'
Oh yes, in the past couple of weeks I have indeed embraced the glamourous world of cat litter, as well as putting pen to paper on subjects as scintillating as SAD therapy lamps and dog insurance. At least JK Rowling got to sit in a cafe and drink tea when she penned her tomes.
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
Ikea Amnesia
Spot the obvious errors in the following sentence:
“We went to Ikea on Saturday”.
OK, so if this was a GCSE English paper you might come a cropper trying to unearth any grammatical faux pas. However, if you live in England and have ever graced this palace of doom with your presence, you should immediately be able to spot three alarm-bell ringing hum dingers.
1 WE
You might not necessarily have spotted that first one to be fair but it wasn’t a trick question, I promise. The ‘we’ refers to the hubby, and the two kids, plus myself. Therein lies the error. NEVER, EVER take children to Ikea. We shall live to regret that decision and the memory of it shall be etched in my brain somewhere just below childbirth and tooth extraction.
2 IKEA
You’ll kick yourself if you didn’t get this one. We all know the horrors that await just inside those revolving doors. From the absence of pencils to the absence of everything you went in to buy.
3 SATURDAY
I know, I know, we only have ourselves to blame….
Anyway, it seems the God of cheap tat was not looking down on us favourably that particular day. The Omens were clear for all to see but we stupidly ignored them.
It began with Jess retching just as we pulled into the car park. Hubby performed an admirable emergency stop but unfortunately not in time to whisk her from the car before she’d unburdened her stomach of the last couple of meals all over her and the car seat. I haven’t bothered bringing a change of clothes out for her since she was a baby so all we could muster was a 3-6 month size t-shirt that was lying around in the boot of the car. She’s three. Needless to say, it was a little on the uncomfortable side.
We then spent an hour trying to find the piece of furniture that we’d come for. Having finally located said item, I traipsed the kids up to the café while hubby went to collect it (no off-the-shelf pick-up for this item; it had to be paid for, ordered and collected separately, all at different desks). It was going rather well until he called to say that, having waited 20 minutes for the thing to arrive, he was told that they only had the doors – cue more queuing for a refund.
There is nothing on this earth that could have persuaded me to go back the following week to collect the remaining parts so we then had to choose the next least offensive item in the catalogue that was the right size.
I swore under my breath, while Jess continued to chew her way through her fish and chips. The man on the next table was also eating fish and chips, except he’d obviously ordered two portions of the kids’ meal. I can only assume it worked out cheaper than an adult meal. Him and the missus sat in front of their little pink florescent plastic plates, moaning about the queue and the staff and I made a silent promise to never return to Ikea…until the next move.
“We went to Ikea on Saturday”.
OK, so if this was a GCSE English paper you might come a cropper trying to unearth any grammatical faux pas. However, if you live in England and have ever graced this palace of doom with your presence, you should immediately be able to spot three alarm-bell ringing hum dingers.
1 WE
You might not necessarily have spotted that first one to be fair but it wasn’t a trick question, I promise. The ‘we’ refers to the hubby, and the two kids, plus myself. Therein lies the error. NEVER, EVER take children to Ikea. We shall live to regret that decision and the memory of it shall be etched in my brain somewhere just below childbirth and tooth extraction.
2 IKEA
You’ll kick yourself if you didn’t get this one. We all know the horrors that await just inside those revolving doors. From the absence of pencils to the absence of everything you went in to buy.
3 SATURDAY
I know, I know, we only have ourselves to blame….
Anyway, it seems the God of cheap tat was not looking down on us favourably that particular day. The Omens were clear for all to see but we stupidly ignored them.
It began with Jess retching just as we pulled into the car park. Hubby performed an admirable emergency stop but unfortunately not in time to whisk her from the car before she’d unburdened her stomach of the last couple of meals all over her and the car seat. I haven’t bothered bringing a change of clothes out for her since she was a baby so all we could muster was a 3-6 month size t-shirt that was lying around in the boot of the car. She’s three. Needless to say, it was a little on the uncomfortable side.
We then spent an hour trying to find the piece of furniture that we’d come for. Having finally located said item, I traipsed the kids up to the café while hubby went to collect it (no off-the-shelf pick-up for this item; it had to be paid for, ordered and collected separately, all at different desks). It was going rather well until he called to say that, having waited 20 minutes for the thing to arrive, he was told that they only had the doors – cue more queuing for a refund.
There is nothing on this earth that could have persuaded me to go back the following week to collect the remaining parts so we then had to choose the next least offensive item in the catalogue that was the right size.
I swore under my breath, while Jess continued to chew her way through her fish and chips. The man on the next table was also eating fish and chips, except he’d obviously ordered two portions of the kids’ meal. I can only assume it worked out cheaper than an adult meal. Him and the missus sat in front of their little pink florescent plastic plates, moaning about the queue and the staff and I made a silent promise to never return to Ikea…until the next move.
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
While the Kids are Away...
We moved house last week. We seem to do this about every 18 months so it wasn’t too much of a hassle. In fact, I’d even go as far as to say it was relatively enjoyable. No I’m not some kind of sadist, it’s just that my parents took the kids for three days while we packed, moved and unpacked. This was the equivalent of a mini break for us. Normally, over the course of a weekend we manage just a few exchanged pleasantries and this is generally done to the backdrop of ever increasing toddler demands, or the unmistakable tug of sticky hands on trouser legs. Thoughts of cold beer and curry usually add a bit of frivolity to one’s step as the kids’ bedtime routine draws closer but other than that, it’s business as usual.
So, anyway, this particular weekend meant three nights out in a row, lie-ins until 8am and more conversations that we’ve had in the last year or so. I’d recommend moving house to any frazzled parents out there! The removal men did make the whole process pretty stress-free. There was the usual contingent:
Old Bloke (usually called Harry)
Been with the firm 40-odd years and they don’t have the heart to let him go. Doesn’t do a lot in the way of lifting or carrying, as his back creaks and everyone (including you) feels bad about letting him lift anything. Stops for a break and a chat every ten minutes and chats about the good old days, the rising price of bread and the problems with the local ASBOs.
The Mouthy One (usually called Geoff)
He’s the leader in all but name, the guy that the others all look to for direction. He puts the clients at ease with very poor jokes. Usually a bit on the tubby side from a diet rich in crisps and Mars bars but can still shift the furniture around when duty calls. Drinks tea non-stop all day long.
The Whippet (usually called Brian)
He’s the dark horse. He’s probably shorter and less well built than the clients but he’s as strong as an ox. He’ll be busy spinning double wardrobes around to get them down stairwells while the others are still sizing up the job.
The Good Looking One (usually called Paul)
Often a bit of a loner, he’s the one whose name you’ll keep forgetting because he just gets on with the job and doesn’t say a word all day. He’s between jobs or just doing this part time while he completes his personal trainer course.
So, anyway, this particular weekend meant three nights out in a row, lie-ins until 8am and more conversations that we’ve had in the last year or so. I’d recommend moving house to any frazzled parents out there! The removal men did make the whole process pretty stress-free. There was the usual contingent:
Old Bloke (usually called Harry)
Been with the firm 40-odd years and they don’t have the heart to let him go. Doesn’t do a lot in the way of lifting or carrying, as his back creaks and everyone (including you) feels bad about letting him lift anything. Stops for a break and a chat every ten minutes and chats about the good old days, the rising price of bread and the problems with the local ASBOs.
The Mouthy One (usually called Geoff)
He’s the leader in all but name, the guy that the others all look to for direction. He puts the clients at ease with very poor jokes. Usually a bit on the tubby side from a diet rich in crisps and Mars bars but can still shift the furniture around when duty calls. Drinks tea non-stop all day long.
The Whippet (usually called Brian)
He’s the dark horse. He’s probably shorter and less well built than the clients but he’s as strong as an ox. He’ll be busy spinning double wardrobes around to get them down stairwells while the others are still sizing up the job.
The Good Looking One (usually called Paul)
Often a bit of a loner, he’s the one whose name you’ll keep forgetting because he just gets on with the job and doesn’t say a word all day. He’s between jobs or just doing this part time while he completes his personal trainer course.
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
Clash of the Builders
I thought it was bad enough when the supermarket next door decided that the current housing market would be greatly boosted by the addition of a two-storey block of flats above the store.
I spent our erratic and single digit summer days trying to distract my daughter from the sight of scantily clad, heavy-set Eastern European scaffolders working just metres from our backyard. I'm not a prude but many of them did insist on working in skimpy, tight trunks, leaving little to the imagination as they lent over the scaffold to adjust their nuts and bolts. The incessant drilling continues to the point where you can't have a conversation if you're standing in the kitchen during the day and I've toyed with the idea of taking up sign language as I can't see them finishing it for at least a year or two.
And now, next door's extension is underway. To be fair the builders did pop round this morning to introduce themselves. However, I wasn't expecting them to start demolishing walls quite so soon. Don't they usually scope the place for a good week or so, drain the house of tea bags and dunkers and then go off on holiday before they even contemplate moving the tools in? Apparently not in this case, which bodes well if we ever need any building work done I guess.
There is now a drilling competition going on between them on one side and the Co-op collective on the other. I, meanwhile, must sit in the middle of this building site, consoled only by painkillers and ear plugs.
I spent our erratic and single digit summer days trying to distract my daughter from the sight of scantily clad, heavy-set Eastern European scaffolders working just metres from our backyard. I'm not a prude but many of them did insist on working in skimpy, tight trunks, leaving little to the imagination as they lent over the scaffold to adjust their nuts and bolts. The incessant drilling continues to the point where you can't have a conversation if you're standing in the kitchen during the day and I've toyed with the idea of taking up sign language as I can't see them finishing it for at least a year or two.
And now, next door's extension is underway. To be fair the builders did pop round this morning to introduce themselves. However, I wasn't expecting them to start demolishing walls quite so soon. Don't they usually scope the place for a good week or so, drain the house of tea bags and dunkers and then go off on holiday before they even contemplate moving the tools in? Apparently not in this case, which bodes well if we ever need any building work done I guess.
There is now a drilling competition going on between them on one side and the Co-op collective on the other. I, meanwhile, must sit in the middle of this building site, consoled only by painkillers and ear plugs.
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Mad Dogs and Englishmen
Sometimes it’s great being British. I don’t know how many conversations I’ve had with people this week about the weather – that mainstay of British pleasantries.
It’s almost a given that you have to bemoan the current weather conditions, whatever they may be so, over the last couple of days, we’ve all been sweating, panting and collapsing our way through that brief glimpse of sunshine that constitutes British summertime.
I’ve had my fair quota of complaints and have managed to hold my own during these dialogues: maggots infesting the food bin; milk going sour before I can get it home from the Co-op; really bad buggy-pushing tan lines etc etc. Oh, the traumas we must endure in the daily grind of life.
No doubt the rain and grey skies will return swiftly and provide a change in direction not only of the weather but the conversations.
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Excuse Me While I Staighten my Halo
My daughter was at nursery today and my son had a settling-in session this morning, in preparation for his starting day next month when I go back to work. He seemed to be enjoying himself so I left him to it and made my way home with a spring in my step.
I had two hours until I had to pick him up. Two blissful, child-free, glorious, bonus hours to do with exactly as I pleased. And what did I do….?
I cleaned the oven.
Now any sensible person, given the opportunity to slack off their regular duties for a couple of hours, would have probably placed oven cleaning somewhere between callous removal and pulling the hairs from the plughole, in terms of priorities. But no, according to my warped sense of task completion, this was apparently of huge importance and couldn’t wait another day. Despite the fact that the oven was purchased well over six months ago and the inside hasn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a cleaning product, I seemed to get it into my head that it would spontaneously combust if the layers of food weren’t scraped from within immediately.
So, when hubby returns tonight, I shall no doubt don dying swan mode, look at him with weary eyes and bemoan my exhausting day as a charlady. At which point, he’ll probably look back at me as if I’m mad and daydream about all those Sky+ programmes he would have caught up on if he’d had a couple of hours free time.
I had two hours until I had to pick him up. Two blissful, child-free, glorious, bonus hours to do with exactly as I pleased. And what did I do….?
I cleaned the oven.
Now any sensible person, given the opportunity to slack off their regular duties for a couple of hours, would have probably placed oven cleaning somewhere between callous removal and pulling the hairs from the plughole, in terms of priorities. But no, according to my warped sense of task completion, this was apparently of huge importance and couldn’t wait another day. Despite the fact that the oven was purchased well over six months ago and the inside hasn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a cleaning product, I seemed to get it into my head that it would spontaneously combust if the layers of food weren’t scraped from within immediately.
So, when hubby returns tonight, I shall no doubt don dying swan mode, look at him with weary eyes and bemoan my exhausting day as a charlady. At which point, he’ll probably look back at me as if I’m mad and daydream about all those Sky+ programmes he would have caught up on if he’d had a couple of hours free time.
Monday, 14 July 2008
Table Manners Optional
Breakfast time; a military operation of epic proportions.
My son's too young to understand that the time between sitting in his highchair and getting fed is directly proportional to the time it takes to prepare the cereal. My daughter is old enough to understand but too impatient to actually sit quietly. So he howls while she repeats the same request over and over in ever increasing decibels. As the volume increases so do my stress levels and I’ve only been out of bed for an hour.
Then, just as the whole scene is about to explode and I’m ready to join in the screaming, quiet descends but for the sound of toddler raspberry blowing. Suddenly the decision to have a relatively close age gap seems to justify itself as baby and toddler wavelengths coincide and my son giggles uncontrollably and looks at his big sister with awe. Emboldened by this display of appreciation, she continues blowing raspberries until he gets the hang of it and starts joining in. Thus, they keep themselves amused until breakfast is ready.
It’s still more ‘feeding time at the zoo’ than ‘tea at the Ritz’ but hey, the volume is such that I can actually hear Wogan on the radio and have a few sips of tea – bliss!
My son's too young to understand that the time between sitting in his highchair and getting fed is directly proportional to the time it takes to prepare the cereal. My daughter is old enough to understand but too impatient to actually sit quietly. So he howls while she repeats the same request over and over in ever increasing decibels. As the volume increases so do my stress levels and I’ve only been out of bed for an hour.
Then, just as the whole scene is about to explode and I’m ready to join in the screaming, quiet descends but for the sound of toddler raspberry blowing. Suddenly the decision to have a relatively close age gap seems to justify itself as baby and toddler wavelengths coincide and my son giggles uncontrollably and looks at his big sister with awe. Emboldened by this display of appreciation, she continues blowing raspberries until he gets the hang of it and starts joining in. Thus, they keep themselves amused until breakfast is ready.
It’s still more ‘feeding time at the zoo’ than ‘tea at the Ritz’ but hey, the volume is such that I can actually hear Wogan on the radio and have a few sips of tea – bliss!
Friday, 11 July 2008
Once More into the Fray
Toddler World: to those not acquainted with this assault on the senses (primarily hearing and smell), it’s essentially a large room packed full of screaming children playing on padded mats and bouncy shapes.
However, this isn’t just a play centre. Nannies use it as a social networking arena whilst the less hands-on carers see it more as a home office, as they perch on a bench with a coffee and the paper or mobile phone. There they sit for the duration, heads bowed, oblivious or simply unconcerned by their feral children who nudge, shove and swipe equipment from the other kids, safe in the knowledge that they will go unchallenged.
At the other end of the spectrum, there are the neurotic parents and Toddler World provides them with the ideal opportunity to raise their stress levels. They follow their kids around like stubborn shadows, diving headlong between them and any other children. This is in case skin contact is made and life-threatening germs are passed on.
My personal space was firmly encroached upon this morning, as a woman tried to remain within umbilical cord distance to her son, shoving interlopers aside like annoying flies. Had I been less sleep-deprived and my normal confrontational self, I would have shoved her back. However, it probably would have been as effective as trying to topple a bus. She was built like a Ukrainian shot putter and had feet that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a butcher’s window. Instead I simply smiled as someone’s feral child whipped the legs out from under cotton wool son on the bouncy castle and she made valiant but comically unsuccessful attempts to climb on and save him.
However, this isn’t just a play centre. Nannies use it as a social networking arena whilst the less hands-on carers see it more as a home office, as they perch on a bench with a coffee and the paper or mobile phone. There they sit for the duration, heads bowed, oblivious or simply unconcerned by their feral children who nudge, shove and swipe equipment from the other kids, safe in the knowledge that they will go unchallenged.
At the other end of the spectrum, there are the neurotic parents and Toddler World provides them with the ideal opportunity to raise their stress levels. They follow their kids around like stubborn shadows, diving headlong between them and any other children. This is in case skin contact is made and life-threatening germs are passed on.
My personal space was firmly encroached upon this morning, as a woman tried to remain within umbilical cord distance to her son, shoving interlopers aside like annoying flies. Had I been less sleep-deprived and my normal confrontational self, I would have shoved her back. However, it probably would have been as effective as trying to topple a bus. She was built like a Ukrainian shot putter and had feet that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a butcher’s window. Instead I simply smiled as someone’s feral child whipped the legs out from under cotton wool son on the bouncy castle and she made valiant but comically unsuccessful attempts to climb on and save him.
Hello Dolly! (Dolly Parton, o2 Arena, Sunday 6 July)
Wow. I went to see Dolly Parton at the o2 on Sunday night and yet again, I was blown away. Apart from being a prolific songwriter, the lady sure knows how to belt out a tune and keep an audience entertained.
A two-hour set with no support act is no mean feat for a lady comfortably into her sixth decade. And, far from taking things easy, she managed to throw a few shapes when her contemporaries would probably be rattling round the stage strapped to life support equipment, or spend their entire show with buttocks firmly planted to a padded stool.
She pretty much covered every emotional tract, as she swam seamlessly between classic crowd pleasers such as ‘Jolene’ and ‘9 to 5’, to full-on tear jerkers like the absolutely astonishing ‘Do I Ever Cross Your Mind’ There wasn’t a whisper from the 20,000 strong audience as the diminutive diva belted out a hauntingly beautiful acapella version of ‘Little Sparrow’.
The best thing about it was that she wasn’t there simply to plug her new album; fans will always buy your latest releases but Dolly seems to know what people want to hear and she’s not afraid to comply. Songs were interlaced with plenty of (admittedly predictable) yarns and boob jokes but again, the fans expect it and that’s part of her charm. From the top of her platinum blond piled-up hairdo to the tips of her heels, she’s the ultimate entertainer.
A two-hour set with no support act is no mean feat for a lady comfortably into her sixth decade. And, far from taking things easy, she managed to throw a few shapes when her contemporaries would probably be rattling round the stage strapped to life support equipment, or spend their entire show with buttocks firmly planted to a padded stool.
She pretty much covered every emotional tract, as she swam seamlessly between classic crowd pleasers such as ‘Jolene’ and ‘9 to 5’, to full-on tear jerkers like the absolutely astonishing ‘Do I Ever Cross Your Mind’ There wasn’t a whisper from the 20,000 strong audience as the diminutive diva belted out a hauntingly beautiful acapella version of ‘Little Sparrow’.
The best thing about it was that she wasn’t there simply to plug her new album; fans will always buy your latest releases but Dolly seems to know what people want to hear and she’s not afraid to comply. Songs were interlaced with plenty of (admittedly predictable) yarns and boob jokes but again, the fans expect it and that’s part of her charm. From the top of her platinum blond piled-up hairdo to the tips of her heels, she’s the ultimate entertainer.
Monday, 7 July 2008
Babies and Weddings: A Match Made in Purgatory
Unless you have absolutely no relatives, friends or fee-charging babysitters within a couple of hundred miles of your home, there is absolutely no excuse for bringing a baby to a wedding as far as I’m concerned.
Having attended a number of weddings as both a guest and parent (though without the little darlings in tow, I hasten to add), I feel the same way about babies at weddings as those reformed smokers who wheeze and cough when anyone in eyesight so much as takes a packet of cigarettes out of their pocket.
So, having safely deposited our offspring with their aunt on Saturday, we psyched ourselves up for a whole blissful day and night of freedom. Two glasses of bubbly were slickly removed from a passing tray of drinks and we clinked our glasses with a self-satisfied sigh of relief. It was therefore a bit of a crash back down to earth when we took our seats a few glasses later, only to discover that we’d been placed on the ‘parents with young children table’.
I know the horror that is table planning so I have no bone to pick with the happy couple. It actually makes perfect sense to place people of the same age group or life stage together, as it’s a great way to break the ice and spark conversation. However, as most of them had opted to bring their little bundles of joy with them, conversation was way down the list of priorities.
We just about managed to get through the introductions before bottles, cloths, jugs of hot water, baby wipes, milk powder and cuddly toys materialised. Buggies were pulled between chairs so bona fide guests were squashed up like commuters in rush hour and the beautifully laid table was swiftly turned into something akin to a new mums’ coffee morning, as baby paraphernalia took over.
Luckily, the couple to our right didn’t have children with them either so we did manage some semblance of traditional wedding banter. The upside was that no one else on the table was drinking, so the four of us had free reign of the wine, alcohol providing some distraction from the frenzied baby feeding and burping that was taking place all around us.
Our brief conversation with the couple to the other side of us consisted of a précis of baby’s sleeping routine. This wasn’t exactly riveting but we smiled politely and were somewhat relieved to hear that junior would suck every last dribble of milk then settle down to sleep until the following morning.
This all seemed to be going according to plan and the couple finally poured themselves a thimble of wine and tucked into their starters – now looking decidedly cold and unappetising. However, before forks could reach mouths the buggy started rocking and the dulcet tones of baby cries rang out around the room. Dad made a swift exit and went off to do a tour of the grounds in an attempt to get him back off to sleep. He wasn’t the only one: a constant procession of haggard-looking parents could be seen passing by the entrance of the marquee, pushing buggies and looking longingly at the wine-swilling guests within.
They made the occasional diversions back inside but these tended to be brief and largely consisted of passing the buggy baton to the other partner. By the time coffee was served, most of them were packing the dozen or so barely started bottles back into oversized change bags. The husbands tried to down surreptitious glasses of wine while the wives were strapping the babies in the buggies and then, like so much dust, they were gone.
Errant baby wipes blew around the table legs like tumbleweeds in the desert and we sat at the near-empty table wondering just why anyone would bring a baby to a wedding.
Having attended a number of weddings as both a guest and parent (though without the little darlings in tow, I hasten to add), I feel the same way about babies at weddings as those reformed smokers who wheeze and cough when anyone in eyesight so much as takes a packet of cigarettes out of their pocket.
So, having safely deposited our offspring with their aunt on Saturday, we psyched ourselves up for a whole blissful day and night of freedom. Two glasses of bubbly were slickly removed from a passing tray of drinks and we clinked our glasses with a self-satisfied sigh of relief. It was therefore a bit of a crash back down to earth when we took our seats a few glasses later, only to discover that we’d been placed on the ‘parents with young children table’.
I know the horror that is table planning so I have no bone to pick with the happy couple. It actually makes perfect sense to place people of the same age group or life stage together, as it’s a great way to break the ice and spark conversation. However, as most of them had opted to bring their little bundles of joy with them, conversation was way down the list of priorities.
We just about managed to get through the introductions before bottles, cloths, jugs of hot water, baby wipes, milk powder and cuddly toys materialised. Buggies were pulled between chairs so bona fide guests were squashed up like commuters in rush hour and the beautifully laid table was swiftly turned into something akin to a new mums’ coffee morning, as baby paraphernalia took over.
Luckily, the couple to our right didn’t have children with them either so we did manage some semblance of traditional wedding banter. The upside was that no one else on the table was drinking, so the four of us had free reign of the wine, alcohol providing some distraction from the frenzied baby feeding and burping that was taking place all around us.
Our brief conversation with the couple to the other side of us consisted of a précis of baby’s sleeping routine. This wasn’t exactly riveting but we smiled politely and were somewhat relieved to hear that junior would suck every last dribble of milk then settle down to sleep until the following morning.
This all seemed to be going according to plan and the couple finally poured themselves a thimble of wine and tucked into their starters – now looking decidedly cold and unappetising. However, before forks could reach mouths the buggy started rocking and the dulcet tones of baby cries rang out around the room. Dad made a swift exit and went off to do a tour of the grounds in an attempt to get him back off to sleep. He wasn’t the only one: a constant procession of haggard-looking parents could be seen passing by the entrance of the marquee, pushing buggies and looking longingly at the wine-swilling guests within.
They made the occasional diversions back inside but these tended to be brief and largely consisted of passing the buggy baton to the other partner. By the time coffee was served, most of them were packing the dozen or so barely started bottles back into oversized change bags. The husbands tried to down surreptitious glasses of wine while the wives were strapping the babies in the buggies and then, like so much dust, they were gone.
Errant baby wipes blew around the table legs like tumbleweeds in the desert and we sat at the near-empty table wondering just why anyone would bring a baby to a wedding.
Saturday, 28 June 2008
Ain’t No Such Thing as a Free Lunch
Free lunch maybe not, but coffee, yes.
I couldn’t bear the thought of yet another trip to the swings yesterday. That sinking feeling of Groundhog Day spurred me on to venture further afield and a few clear tantrum-free days gave me sufficient confidence to attempt an excursion with the Maclaren and buggy board. (My arms were still a little sore from Monday’s explosion in the park and subsequent fireman’s lift home – Jess kicking and screaming under my arm while I tried to manoeuvre the buggy with the other hand.)
I thought we’d keep it nice and simple and just go to Southbank. Apart from Jess asking to go to the café for juice pretty much as soon as we arrived at London Bridge, it was a really nice morning out. Perfect for toddlers: train ride; boats and river to look out; loads of space to run around by City Hall; and loads of cafes.
We finished with a wander around Borough Market, which is potentially a nice, cheap morning out in itself, depending on how much will power you have. Of course, the more realistic outcome is that you’ll end up spending the equivalent on bread and cheese as you would for entry to a theme park and a hotel for the night…but it will be artisan bread and cheese lovingly prepared by virgin hand-maidens in outer Mongolia.
We stopped at a café and the ridiculously chirpy barista gave me my coffee for free. I’m not quite sure why as he had limited English and a very thick accent but mutual smiling and nodding seemed to convey the offer of complimentary beverage and my subsequent thanks. Who says London’s an unfriendly place?
I couldn’t bear the thought of yet another trip to the swings yesterday. That sinking feeling of Groundhog Day spurred me on to venture further afield and a few clear tantrum-free days gave me sufficient confidence to attempt an excursion with the Maclaren and buggy board. (My arms were still a little sore from Monday’s explosion in the park and subsequent fireman’s lift home – Jess kicking and screaming under my arm while I tried to manoeuvre the buggy with the other hand.)
I thought we’d keep it nice and simple and just go to Southbank. Apart from Jess asking to go to the café for juice pretty much as soon as we arrived at London Bridge, it was a really nice morning out. Perfect for toddlers: train ride; boats and river to look out; loads of space to run around by City Hall; and loads of cafes.
We finished with a wander around Borough Market, which is potentially a nice, cheap morning out in itself, depending on how much will power you have. Of course, the more realistic outcome is that you’ll end up spending the equivalent on bread and cheese as you would for entry to a theme park and a hotel for the night…but it will be artisan bread and cheese lovingly prepared by virgin hand-maidens in outer Mongolia.
We stopped at a café and the ridiculously chirpy barista gave me my coffee for free. I’m not quite sure why as he had limited English and a very thick accent but mutual smiling and nodding seemed to convey the offer of complimentary beverage and my subsequent thanks. Who says London’s an unfriendly place?
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Taking the Rap
There’s nothing like a nice picnic in the park on a sunny day...
Unless that is, you’ve just spent an inordinate amount of time unpacking food, blankets and children only to find yourself cosily ensconced between a school trip and a family of ASBOs.
So there we were, Finn trying to gorge himself on grass and serviettes and Jess rifling through the bag for anything that contained EU regulation-defying sugar quantities – all pretty normal so far.
Then the impromptu hip hop gig began, as the bare-chested Vanilla Ice impresario started trying to rap along to Snoop Dogg. Can you rap out of tune? I’d never really considered it until my ears were tortured by his excruciatingly bad karaoke. His girlfriend seemed suitably impressed and I tried to distract Jess from the more colourful language:
‘What does muthaf**** mean mummy?’, is not the type of question I envisioned having to answer just yet.
He continued assaulting our eardrums as a seemingly never-ending line of school children returned from the kiosk with ice creams. They all sat down close enough to provide the ultimate in toddler torture – watching someone else eat ice cream when you’re not allowed one.
It was definitely time to go home: just the one final hurdle of squeezing past a mum and her toddler. It was a bit tricky as the pavement was narrow and she was slurping from a can of Stella while her two Staffies strained on their leads. I tell you what though – transfer that Stella to an ice-cold pint glass and put it on a table in a beer garden and I’d be there!
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
Hell Hath No Fury Like a Toddler Scorned
It was all going so well. One of those mornings when you think you’re on top of things: that it’s really not so difficult to get two children ready by a certain time.
I had it all under control. The sun was shining, they were playing my tune on the radio and I was (somewhat smugly) multi-tasking to my heart’s content – feeding the baby with one hand, spooning a few cornflakes into my mouth with the other and directing toddler-dressing operations between mouthfuls.
And then, in an atom splitting instant, this precarious tower of domestic harmony collapsed around my ears and the happy scene became one of utter carnage.
Jess screamed that she hadn’t given daddy a second cuddle before he left for work. The ‘second cuddle’ is just the latest addition to an ever-increasing list of bizarre rituals that must be undertaken in order for the day to progress without a heinous toddler tantrum. As it’s a nursery day for Jess and I was trying to keep things moving in order to deliver her on time and without incident, I opted for ‘tantrum avoidance strategy’ on this occasion. This basically just involves trying to undo or resolve the problem – something ridiculously minor in the eyes of a rational adult but of monstrous importance to a toddler.
So, I left Finn with his mouth gaping like a fish as he prepared for another spoonful of Weetabix that wasn’t arriving and I dashed to the increasingly vocal Jess. I scooped her up and dashed out the front door to see if hubby had already unchained his bike and left – luckily he hadn’t so ‘second cuddle’ was administered and we went back inside. I let my guard down, assuming the calamity had been averted and shut the front door with a sigh of relief.
How could I have forgotten? Such a small thing; one of the first additions to the handbook of ‘bizarre toddler rituals’. Shame on me for not remembering that Jess has to shut the door every time we come back in the house, oh yes, in a very specific way, every single time. An ear-splitting screech told me it was too late to backtrack – too late to simply open the door again and give the neighbours another chance to see my pyjamas.
Within seconds she was prostrate on the floor, arms and legs flailing about, snot smeared all over her face and in her hair and absolutely no chance of getting to nursery for at least another hour.
I almost didn’t hear the crash in the kitchen above the din of the tantrum. I could see Finn in his highchair so went back to see what he’d dropped on the floor. Turns out he got fed up waiting for the Weetabix to come to him and I hadn’t pushed it far enough out of reach. It was now spectacularly decorating the walls, radiator and a good section of the hand-painted units.
How is that such a seemingly small amount of food can spread so far?
I don’t know about eating, this stuff must surely have any number of practical uses. It seems to dry instantly into an impermeable mass that no amount of wiping, rubbing or scraping can remove. I chiselled away with a palette knife as Jess continued her Sylvia Young Theatre audition in the hallway and Finn smeared his Weetabix winnings further into his scalp.
Only two more meals to get through today…
I had it all under control. The sun was shining, they were playing my tune on the radio and I was (somewhat smugly) multi-tasking to my heart’s content – feeding the baby with one hand, spooning a few cornflakes into my mouth with the other and directing toddler-dressing operations between mouthfuls.
And then, in an atom splitting instant, this precarious tower of domestic harmony collapsed around my ears and the happy scene became one of utter carnage.
Jess screamed that she hadn’t given daddy a second cuddle before he left for work. The ‘second cuddle’ is just the latest addition to an ever-increasing list of bizarre rituals that must be undertaken in order for the day to progress without a heinous toddler tantrum. As it’s a nursery day for Jess and I was trying to keep things moving in order to deliver her on time and without incident, I opted for ‘tantrum avoidance strategy’ on this occasion. This basically just involves trying to undo or resolve the problem – something ridiculously minor in the eyes of a rational adult but of monstrous importance to a toddler.
So, I left Finn with his mouth gaping like a fish as he prepared for another spoonful of Weetabix that wasn’t arriving and I dashed to the increasingly vocal Jess. I scooped her up and dashed out the front door to see if hubby had already unchained his bike and left – luckily he hadn’t so ‘second cuddle’ was administered and we went back inside. I let my guard down, assuming the calamity had been averted and shut the front door with a sigh of relief.
How could I have forgotten? Such a small thing; one of the first additions to the handbook of ‘bizarre toddler rituals’. Shame on me for not remembering that Jess has to shut the door every time we come back in the house, oh yes, in a very specific way, every single time. An ear-splitting screech told me it was too late to backtrack – too late to simply open the door again and give the neighbours another chance to see my pyjamas.
Within seconds she was prostrate on the floor, arms and legs flailing about, snot smeared all over her face and in her hair and absolutely no chance of getting to nursery for at least another hour.
I almost didn’t hear the crash in the kitchen above the din of the tantrum. I could see Finn in his highchair so went back to see what he’d dropped on the floor. Turns out he got fed up waiting for the Weetabix to come to him and I hadn’t pushed it far enough out of reach. It was now spectacularly decorating the walls, radiator and a good section of the hand-painted units.
How is that such a seemingly small amount of food can spread so far?
I don’t know about eating, this stuff must surely have any number of practical uses. It seems to dry instantly into an impermeable mass that no amount of wiping, rubbing or scraping can remove. I chiselled away with a palette knife as Jess continued her Sylvia Young Theatre audition in the hallway and Finn smeared his Weetabix winnings further into his scalp.
Only two more meals to get through today…
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
The House Viewing Incident
It was never going to warrant a feature in ’25 Spectacular Homes’ but it was nice enough and the owners had obviously gone to some lengths to hide any obvious deal-breakers.
I turned up five minutes’ late, pausing at the front door to regain some small level of composure, having marched the double buggy up a slight incline at a pace not conducive to remaining composed. An attempt to smooth down my hair and flap a bit of cool air under my heated armpits was interrupted by a glamorous estate agent swinging open the front door. She greeted me with that estate agent smile that does little to hide the fact that you’re being sized up to see if you’re:
a) Genuinely interested in the house, or just looking for something to do with the kids that doesn’t cost money.
b) Can afford the asking price.
The flicker of disappointment that crossed her face obviously meant she felt I failed on both counts but she did her best to hide it. She even offered to help me with the buggy despite only proffering one hand. This had been manicured to within an inch of usability and I decided it might be safer to leave the buggy outside.
The viewing was being shared with a heavily pregnant Italian woman and her stony-faced mother in standard issue black smock. As a rival potential purchaser I was given the once-over and we nodded to each other as the estate agent talked though the details.
I tried very hard to ignore Jess’s pleas that she needed a wee and told her to go and have look in the kitchen. She seems to enjoy the novelty value of trying out other people’s conveniences but it would appear that she was actually in need of bladder emptying, after all. She waddled back into the living room with her trousers and pants hanging around her ankles, asking where the toilet was. The estate agent gasped and the pregnant woman glanced nervously at her mother, her pained expression silently asking for reassurance that this wasn’t normal behaviour. Mother pursed her lips and shook her head; a defiant look that said this was definitely not normal and that her daughter’s prodigious offspring wouldn’t countenance the idea of acting like this.
Mother and daughter made a swift exit and the estate agent said she was sure the owner wouldn’t mind Jess using the toilet. Her furtive glance at the freshly laid cream carpet suggested she was more concerned by the alternative scenario and didn’t relish the prospect of trying to explain the lingering aroma of urine to the bemused vendors, on their return home.
I left Finn in the living room, spinning around on his tummy on the laminate flooring like a break-dancing tortoise and I scooped Jess up and plonked her on the loo. I was just about to drag her off again when a familiar odour set alarm bells ringing. Her gleeful shout confirmed my suspicions:
‘I need a poo as well!’
Unfortunately, the limited square footage of the house meant that the exclamation was not lost to the estate agent’s ears. A day of high-quantity and less than nutritionally balanced foodstuffs resulted in some rather noxious aromas permeating the downstairs rooms.
It’s strange; the estate agent never did call back with details of the other house that they’d just taken on…
I turned up five minutes’ late, pausing at the front door to regain some small level of composure, having marched the double buggy up a slight incline at a pace not conducive to remaining composed. An attempt to smooth down my hair and flap a bit of cool air under my heated armpits was interrupted by a glamorous estate agent swinging open the front door. She greeted me with that estate agent smile that does little to hide the fact that you’re being sized up to see if you’re:
a) Genuinely interested in the house, or just looking for something to do with the kids that doesn’t cost money.
b) Can afford the asking price.
The flicker of disappointment that crossed her face obviously meant she felt I failed on both counts but she did her best to hide it. She even offered to help me with the buggy despite only proffering one hand. This had been manicured to within an inch of usability and I decided it might be safer to leave the buggy outside.
The viewing was being shared with a heavily pregnant Italian woman and her stony-faced mother in standard issue black smock. As a rival potential purchaser I was given the once-over and we nodded to each other as the estate agent talked though the details.
I tried very hard to ignore Jess’s pleas that she needed a wee and told her to go and have look in the kitchen. She seems to enjoy the novelty value of trying out other people’s conveniences but it would appear that she was actually in need of bladder emptying, after all. She waddled back into the living room with her trousers and pants hanging around her ankles, asking where the toilet was. The estate agent gasped and the pregnant woman glanced nervously at her mother, her pained expression silently asking for reassurance that this wasn’t normal behaviour. Mother pursed her lips and shook her head; a defiant look that said this was definitely not normal and that her daughter’s prodigious offspring wouldn’t countenance the idea of acting like this.
Mother and daughter made a swift exit and the estate agent said she was sure the owner wouldn’t mind Jess using the toilet. Her furtive glance at the freshly laid cream carpet suggested she was more concerned by the alternative scenario and didn’t relish the prospect of trying to explain the lingering aroma of urine to the bemused vendors, on their return home.
I left Finn in the living room, spinning around on his tummy on the laminate flooring like a break-dancing tortoise and I scooped Jess up and plonked her on the loo. I was just about to drag her off again when a familiar odour set alarm bells ringing. Her gleeful shout confirmed my suspicions:
‘I need a poo as well!’
Unfortunately, the limited square footage of the house meant that the exclamation was not lost to the estate agent’s ears. A day of high-quantity and less than nutritionally balanced foodstuffs resulted in some rather noxious aromas permeating the downstairs rooms.
It’s strange; the estate agent never did call back with details of the other house that they’d just taken on…
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