A Write-off

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.