Our bedtime routine is not a routine of choice, but a routine forced upon us by children, forgetfulness, exhaustion and conflict avoidance.
1. I Decide I want to go to bed.
2. I then decide I'm too tired and/or comfortable to get off my backside.
3. Have a mental argument with myself featuring going to bed vs staying where I am for the rest of the night.
4. Make a coffee whilst arguing with myself (casually disregarding the fact I have now actually got up and therefore really should go to bed.
5. Fanny around on Facebook several minutes more and play a game of spider solitaire whilst smoking a fag and finishing coffee.
6. Take cup and any other random dirty crockery to the kitchen, rinse and put in dishwasher. Check milk supplies for the inevitable twice nightly visit to Charlie.
7. Make Sam's dinner for the following school day and check all homework and schoolbooks are in correct kids bags for school.
8. Check heating timer is on and switch lights off.
9. In bedroom, check that I have glass of water, mobile phone, TV and Sky remotes in an accessible location.
10. Get into bed with appropriate girly viewing on and lamp off.
11. Finally decide that I should actually go to sleep, around 1-2am, and switch off TV.
12. Realise I need pee.
13. After some deliberation use the bathroom, Get back into bed and begin reheating process.
14. Just begin to fall asleep when Charlie starts crying.
15. Visit and pacify Charlie promising anything from a trip to the zoo to a puppy in order to get him to go back to sleep.
16. Get back into bed and hope that I can fall asleep before Stig comes in and starts snoring.
17. I'm finally asleep. Sam comes in and stands by the edge of the bed staring at me until I wake up, at which point his face is 1.5cms away from mine and I wake to the vision of a giant eyeball.
18. Shit myself and bump heads with Sam, who now forgets his original issue as his head hurts.
19. Grunt instructions to Stig, who is watching equally crap man telly in the adjoining room, to take Sam back to bed.
20. Get into bed, fall asleep for approximately three minutes before Stig enters the bedroom and begins crashing around, switching lights on and off, swearing and bumping into furniture.
21. Threaten him with violence if he doesn't quit demolishing the bedroom, before finally settling down to sleep.
21. Wake half way through a Johnny Depp dream to the sound of Charlie screaming again.
When Stig comes to bed, it's the same every night. It's not the routine he should have, but the one he's settled into because he can't remember a damn thing.
1. Enters bedroom, fully clothed, and sits on bed.
2. Takes shoes off before remembering that I will kill him if I trip over them again.
3. Exits bedroom with shoes to deposit them in the hallway.
4. Returns to bedroom and removes trousers.
5. Exit bedroom, minus pants, to get the glass of water he forgot.
6. Returns with water then takes existing empty water glass from last night back to the kitchen.
7. Enters bathroom for around 5 minutes before returning, naked with an armful of clothes to deposit on the ever growing wash pile in the corner of the bedroom (there isn't enough room in our en suite to wipe your arse, let alone get undressed, I think he was wonderwoman in a former life).
8. Gets into bed and shuffles around whilst gradually confiscating my half of the covers, which are already warm.
9. Two minutes blissful silence before he abruptly yells out into the darkness "OH SHITE-IN-HELL!", untangles himself from his self-made sausage roll and gets out of bed to take his pills.
10. Gets back into bed to find that I have reclaimed my half of the duvet.
11. Sidles over to me in search of warmth and puts his freezing cold feet over mine
12. Returns, disgruntled, to his own side of the bed after some expletive-filled verbal abuse and the odd death threat.
Beautiful Blogger Award
Thanks to l'Aussie for my Beautiful Blogger award
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Mothers, Knickers and Phones.
Women and telephones are like peas and carrots, as Forrest would say. Not me though, the telephone is my arch nemesis when it comes to providing opportunities to make a prat of myself.
My parents lived abroad some years ago and it became apparent that the quality of ladies' undergarments was not quite up to my mother's usual high standards. This resulted in my having to stand in the middle of Wilkinson's, holding aloft large pairs of knickers whilst trying to describe them to my Mother on my mobile phone, which was wedged between my ear and shoulder.
The mild embarrassment of questioning looks from shoppers was topped only by Stig, who had endured enough knicker scrutinising for one afternoon. He snatched the phone from my already precarious grasp and announced to my mother "I've got a tow-rope in the back of the car, I'll make you a g-string". There followed several crackling expletives from my mother who, after threatening to murder her then future son-in-law, thankfully saw the funny side.
My mother has featured more than once in my phone humiliation. I was particularly drunk one night and had ordered a pizza. Stig had given up all hope of the takeaway arriving and taken himself off to bed. Ever the optimist when it comes to food though, an hour later I was still waiting... Still no pizza. I decided to phone the pizza place and enquire if my food was ever going to arrive. Being drunk and unable to remember which takeaway we ordered from, I picked up the phone and hit redial. It was 3am by now.
"Hello..."
"Hello, I ordered pizza a bloody hour ago and it still hasn't come"
Silence.
"Hello?" I was beginning to get that sinking feeling.
"Clare?"
"Mum?"
"You're drunk. Go to bed"
"Oh. OK. Sorry."
I had redialed on the wrong handset. She very considerately phoned me back at 8am to check if my pizza had arrived.
Then of course there was the time that I phoned my friend who seemed very confused to hear from me...
"Hi, sorry were you sleeping?"
"Clare; I'm in the Dominican Republic. It's 4am here"
"Shit, sorry."
I have to have reached a certain point in a relationship with anyone before I consider giving them my phone number. They are usually warned in advance by a sniggering Stig about what they can expect.
Having become accustomed to embarrassing phone conversations, we now have a game in Hayes House; whoever answers the phone in our house is given a word by the other people in the room that they must integrate into the conversation with the person at the other end of the phone. This is most effective when that person is a stranger such as telesales people or someone from the electric company.
Tis most hilarious getting my own back on Stig, listening to him say "shiver-me-timbers!" to the nice man from Asda home shopping, who had only phoned to tell us that he would be delivering our weekly shop in about 10 minutes. I'm amazed he actually turned up that week.
My parents lived abroad some years ago and it became apparent that the quality of ladies' undergarments was not quite up to my mother's usual high standards. This resulted in my having to stand in the middle of Wilkinson's, holding aloft large pairs of knickers whilst trying to describe them to my Mother on my mobile phone, which was wedged between my ear and shoulder.
The mild embarrassment of questioning looks from shoppers was topped only by Stig, who had endured enough knicker scrutinising for one afternoon. He snatched the phone from my already precarious grasp and announced to my mother "I've got a tow-rope in the back of the car, I'll make you a g-string". There followed several crackling expletives from my mother who, after threatening to murder her then future son-in-law, thankfully saw the funny side.
My mother has featured more than once in my phone humiliation. I was particularly drunk one night and had ordered a pizza. Stig had given up all hope of the takeaway arriving and taken himself off to bed. Ever the optimist when it comes to food though, an hour later I was still waiting... Still no pizza. I decided to phone the pizza place and enquire if my food was ever going to arrive. Being drunk and unable to remember which takeaway we ordered from, I picked up the phone and hit redial. It was 3am by now.
"Hello..."
"Hello, I ordered pizza a bloody hour ago and it still hasn't come"
Silence.
"Hello?" I was beginning to get that sinking feeling.
"Clare?"
"Mum?"
"You're drunk. Go to bed"
"Oh. OK. Sorry."
I had redialed on the wrong handset. She very considerately phoned me back at 8am to check if my pizza had arrived.
Then of course there was the time that I phoned my friend who seemed very confused to hear from me...
"Hi, sorry were you sleeping?"
"Clare; I'm in the Dominican Republic. It's 4am here"
"Shit, sorry."
I have to have reached a certain point in a relationship with anyone before I consider giving them my phone number. They are usually warned in advance by a sniggering Stig about what they can expect.
Having become accustomed to embarrassing phone conversations, we now have a game in Hayes House; whoever answers the phone in our house is given a word by the other people in the room that they must integrate into the conversation with the person at the other end of the phone. This is most effective when that person is a stranger such as telesales people or someone from the electric company.
Tis most hilarious getting my own back on Stig, listening to him say "shiver-me-timbers!" to the nice man from Asda home shopping, who had only phoned to tell us that he would be delivering our weekly shop in about 10 minutes. I'm amazed he actually turned up that week.
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
The Language Barrier
What is it with kids? When you say "No!" They rarely come up with a more convincing protest than "Aaawwwww!"
This phenomenon seems to last about 6 years, give or take. When Jamie first entered into the "Aaawwww!" phase (around two-and-a-half years old), I was just grateful that the throwing-herself-onto-the-floor-and-bashing-her-head-against-the-door-frame phase seemed to be over.
A year later though I was completely aghast that she was still doing it. It had never got her anywhere. Never once after her pleading "Aaaaaaww!" did I ever proclaim: "Well; now that you've made that very attractive sound, Go ahead, Be my guest!"
I don't even want to contemplate the impending years when it becomes "I hate you!" or "You're ruining my life!" and other such intelligent arguments. The under-breath mutterings have already begun.
Because of course, we don't understand. We were never kids ourselves. Never once felt miffed that our mother's wouldn't let us go to the best party of the year, or leave the house wearing skirts that were barely visible and badly applied make-up that was visible from two streets away.
Raising them is problematic enough but I am convinced that Hayes House has some mysterious communication scrambling device. None of us seem to glean the same meanings from anything that is said in our house.
"STOP-IT-RIGHT-NOW!", for example, is usually heard by the kids as "Don't mind me my little cherubs, you just carry on recreating the Apocalypse in the living room, that's absolutely tickety-bloody-boo".
When Stig says "I'll be home in an hour" I know that the secret formula is to double it and add half an hour for a realistic ETA.
When I yell "Girls, is your room tidy?" in the general direction of the stairs,
and they reply "Nearly"...
That means "Nope, we've been sat on our arses making more mess for the past two hours."
And when Sam is acting suspicious, and I ask him what he's done, and he says "Can't remember" whilst looking at his feet with his hands clasped behind his back, you know you're going to discover ground zero somewhere in the house.
This phenomenon seems to last about 6 years, give or take. When Jamie first entered into the "Aaawwww!" phase (around two-and-a-half years old), I was just grateful that the throwing-herself-onto-the-floor-and-bashing-her-head-against-the-door-frame phase seemed to be over.
A year later though I was completely aghast that she was still doing it. It had never got her anywhere. Never once after her pleading "Aaaaaaww!" did I ever proclaim: "Well; now that you've made that very attractive sound, Go ahead, Be my guest!"
I don't even want to contemplate the impending years when it becomes "I hate you!" or "You're ruining my life!" and other such intelligent arguments. The under-breath mutterings have already begun.
Because of course, we don't understand. We were never kids ourselves. Never once felt miffed that our mother's wouldn't let us go to the best party of the year, or leave the house wearing skirts that were barely visible and badly applied make-up that was visible from two streets away.
Raising them is problematic enough but I am convinced that Hayes House has some mysterious communication scrambling device. None of us seem to glean the same meanings from anything that is said in our house.
"STOP-IT-RIGHT-NOW!", for example, is usually heard by the kids as "Don't mind me my little cherubs, you just carry on recreating the Apocalypse in the living room, that's absolutely tickety-bloody-boo".
When Stig says "I'll be home in an hour" I know that the secret formula is to double it and add half an hour for a realistic ETA.
When I yell "Girls, is your room tidy?" in the general direction of the stairs,
and they reply "Nearly"...
That means "Nope, we've been sat on our arses making more mess for the past two hours."
And when Sam is acting suspicious, and I ask him what he's done, and he says "Can't remember" whilst looking at his feet with his hands clasped behind his back, you know you're going to discover ground zero somewhere in the house.
Sunday, 8 August 2010
Little Houdini
Charlie is a boy on a mission. That mission is to escape Hayes House at any cost. Maybe he was an inmate at Alcatraz in a past life, who knows? I can see the reasoning, there are days when I'd cheerfully escape from here, never to return.
We have safety gates, guards, and one of those playpens that opens up to form a long barrier of metal bars around the TV/Wii/Sky box etc. The front door and garden gate have to be kept locked at all times or he's off. Our home already resembles a high security prison.
First Charlie learnt how to open the safety gates. The solution to this was to cable-tie them shut. This means that everyone who enters Hayes House through the front door has to perform some kind of acrobatic display to get into the living room. It's OK for us but not so good when elderly relatives visit.
Then Charlie learnt to climb over the gates, hence the demise of the AV button and the regular disappearance of the Sky viewing card, along with Wii games used as Frisbees.
But the main problem with this is that Charlie can now get upstairs and into the bathroom and bedrooms. We've had Shampoo Art on the landing carpet, a recreation of a biblical flood in the bathroom, and a three-year-old in heavy drag make-up complete with hat and scarf after his latest expedition into the girls' bedrooms.
Not only this, he has figured out how to open the garden gate. Yesterday we only just caught him cycling off up the street on his little bike. When intercepted, he informed us that he was going to Johnny's Fun Factory.
After two escape attempts, a near miss with a disposable razor, and my threatening to buy a Charlie-sized cage, Stig finally decided a new approach was needed. Have you ever seen the film Labyrinth? That weird room near the end with the upside down staircases where all perspective is seriously messed up? This is fast becoming our home.
The only solution Stig could come up with so that Charlie can't escape, but the other kids can still get in and out of the living room, was to put a door handle at the top of the door. It couldn't be in the corner of the door as Charlie could stand on the windowsill and reach it so we have a brass (a-la-AV button) door handle smack bang in the middle of the top of our living room door...
Unfortunately Nicki can't reach this handle so a piece of plastic tubing now hangs from it on some very attractive orange cord. It looks like an emergency parachute toggle. It hangs down at just the right height for Nicki to reach, she merely has to yank down on it and the door will magically open.
The garden gate has had a similar treatment with more brass handles. Our house is beginning to resemble a retirement home from a parallel universe. You never know, maybe one day soon we'll have enough weird buttons and toggles that our house will rival Johnny's Fun Factory for amusement value and the little sod will choose to stay here voluntarily!
We have safety gates, guards, and one of those playpens that opens up to form a long barrier of metal bars around the TV/Wii/Sky box etc. The front door and garden gate have to be kept locked at all times or he's off. Our home already resembles a high security prison.
First Charlie learnt how to open the safety gates. The solution to this was to cable-tie them shut. This means that everyone who enters Hayes House through the front door has to perform some kind of acrobatic display to get into the living room. It's OK for us but not so good when elderly relatives visit.
Then Charlie learnt to climb over the gates, hence the demise of the AV button and the regular disappearance of the Sky viewing card, along with Wii games used as Frisbees.
But the main problem with this is that Charlie can now get upstairs and into the bathroom and bedrooms. We've had Shampoo Art on the landing carpet, a recreation of a biblical flood in the bathroom, and a three-year-old in heavy drag make-up complete with hat and scarf after his latest expedition into the girls' bedrooms.
Not only this, he has figured out how to open the garden gate. Yesterday we only just caught him cycling off up the street on his little bike. When intercepted, he informed us that he was going to Johnny's Fun Factory.
After two escape attempts, a near miss with a disposable razor, and my threatening to buy a Charlie-sized cage, Stig finally decided a new approach was needed. Have you ever seen the film Labyrinth? That weird room near the end with the upside down staircases where all perspective is seriously messed up? This is fast becoming our home.
The only solution Stig could come up with so that Charlie can't escape, but the other kids can still get in and out of the living room, was to put a door handle at the top of the door. It couldn't be in the corner of the door as Charlie could stand on the windowsill and reach it so we have a brass (a-la-AV button) door handle smack bang in the middle of the top of our living room door...
Unfortunately Nicki can't reach this handle so a piece of plastic tubing now hangs from it on some very attractive orange cord. It looks like an emergency parachute toggle. It hangs down at just the right height for Nicki to reach, she merely has to yank down on it and the door will magically open.
The garden gate has had a similar treatment with more brass handles. Our house is beginning to resemble a retirement home from a parallel universe. You never know, maybe one day soon we'll have enough weird buttons and toggles that our house will rival Johnny's Fun Factory for amusement value and the little sod will choose to stay here voluntarily!
Give Me Strength!
It's no wonder that the summer holidays are peak season for parental nervous breakdowns. Picture the scene:
Sam and Nicki are sat in their imaginary car in our living room. They're going for a drive, presumably somewhere in America because they are talking to each other in that fake whiny American accent that only British kids of a certain age can produce.
Nicki: "Sam, I'm driving"
Sam: (whilst wrenching the non-existent steering wheel over to his side of the non-existent vehicle) "No, I'm driving"
The same line was repeated back and forth whilst I watched in disbelief at the wrangling over the steering wheel. Despite myself I am being dragged into this fantasy and am visualising the steering wheel being pulled from side to side as they fight over it.
Sam could argue forever whereas huffiness always gets the better of Nicki...
"Fine then, I'll walk!" She slams the car door (by now I can actually see the imaginary car) and then reaches through the car window with a grabbing motion towards Sam.
Nicki: "And that twenty bucks is mine!"
Sam: "No, give it back, it's mine!"
Nicki: No it's mine, you want it, you'll have to catch me"
Nicki runs off waving her twenty bucks aloft as if this will prevent Sam from reclaiming it. Sam hurriedly gets back into the car, fastens his seat belt and "Drives" after her whilst wailing about the twenty bucks.
It's not often that I am lost for words. My usual course of action would be to confiscate whatever it is they are arguing over (hence the reason there is a growing pile of random children's crap in my bedroom) but how does one even begin to settle an argument over an imaginary twenty bucks or give a lecture on why it is wrong to run your sister over in your imaginary car?
I'm thinking maybe a travelling circus might take them as trainee mime artists?
Sam and Nicki are sat in their imaginary car in our living room. They're going for a drive, presumably somewhere in America because they are talking to each other in that fake whiny American accent that only British kids of a certain age can produce.
Nicki: "Sam, I'm driving"
Sam: (whilst wrenching the non-existent steering wheel over to his side of the non-existent vehicle) "No, I'm driving"
The same line was repeated back and forth whilst I watched in disbelief at the wrangling over the steering wheel. Despite myself I am being dragged into this fantasy and am visualising the steering wheel being pulled from side to side as they fight over it.
Sam could argue forever whereas huffiness always gets the better of Nicki...
"Fine then, I'll walk!" She slams the car door (by now I can actually see the imaginary car) and then reaches through the car window with a grabbing motion towards Sam.
Nicki: "And that twenty bucks is mine!"
Sam: "No, give it back, it's mine!"
Nicki: No it's mine, you want it, you'll have to catch me"
Nicki runs off waving her twenty bucks aloft as if this will prevent Sam from reclaiming it. Sam hurriedly gets back into the car, fastens his seat belt and "Drives" after her whilst wailing about the twenty bucks.
It's not often that I am lost for words. My usual course of action would be to confiscate whatever it is they are arguing over (hence the reason there is a growing pile of random children's crap in my bedroom) but how does one even begin to settle an argument over an imaginary twenty bucks or give a lecture on why it is wrong to run your sister over in your imaginary car?
I'm thinking maybe a travelling circus might take them as trainee mime artists?
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Going Underground
There was a death in Hayes House last summer. We had two guinea pigs; Holly and Willow, and unfortunately Willow fell victim to some mysterious guinea pig illness. She was poorly for a day or so when she very suddenly deteriorated. I was pretty sure that she would have to be put down so we sat the girls down and explained that we didn't think Willow was going to get better and that we thought the vet would probably have to put her to sleep. We explained to two very tearful girls that it was the kindest thing to do as Willow was very sick.
They each held her wrapped in her towel and said their goodbyes. There's nothing worse than seeing your children hurting like this and feeling powerless to take the pain away, but when I gently took Willow from them and placed her in a box the girls they threw their arms around each other in the most dramatic fashion and wailed like a pair of bereft animals. A split-second enquiring glance passed between Stig and I.
Stig took Willow to the vet and as expected he came back with her little body in her cardboard box, which caused even more trauma to the already emotional girls. Again they wanted to stroke Willow in the box and say goodbye. By this point Willow was starting to feel a little firm as rigor set in. Another look passed between Stig and I and I knew that despite myself my initial wave of sympathy at the girl's distress was beginning to be tinged with amusement, which I did my best to ignore. Have you ever been in a situation where the most inappropriate thing to do is laugh, but it only makes the urge to do it worse?
Despite the trauma Willow's death was rather timely as we were just about to lay some flags in the garden. The girls made a cross with messages of love and "Rest in Peace" written on it. Stig and I dutifully oversaw proceedings with the required sombriety. Stig dug a hole and both of the girls wanted to lay Willow to rest so they decided to lower her into the ground together.
Except they weren't exactly in sync and they dropped a now rock-solid Willow, who obligingly landed face down, ass up in the bottom of the hole. At which point the flinging of arms and wailing commenced once more, and it was all I could do to stifle a laugh-snort. I was barely holding it together when I made the mistake of looking at Stig, he had turned his back and I could see definite shaking of the shoulders as he made a deliberate coughing noise.
We struggled through the next ten minutes or so of the girls taking turns to step to the "graveside" to throw in a handful of earth over poor Willow's presented arse. Further sporadic wailing followed as stig filled the hole in and placed the cross at the "head" of the hole in the ground. There followed a further period of graveside reflection during which Stig and I struggled not to succumb to the giggles.
Funerals are not an occasion of mirth but to have the most serious of proceedings for a guinea pig who will forever rest with her little furry butt in the air was too much to take seriously. When it was finally all over I had to spend a good ten minutes in my room with my face firmly wedged in a pillow to absorb the sound of my laughter before I could compose myself.
I can only conclude that we'd be no good in a pet cemetery, probably be banned for life in fact.
They each held her wrapped in her towel and said their goodbyes. There's nothing worse than seeing your children hurting like this and feeling powerless to take the pain away, but when I gently took Willow from them and placed her in a box the girls they threw their arms around each other in the most dramatic fashion and wailed like a pair of bereft animals. A split-second enquiring glance passed between Stig and I.
Stig took Willow to the vet and as expected he came back with her little body in her cardboard box, which caused even more trauma to the already emotional girls. Again they wanted to stroke Willow in the box and say goodbye. By this point Willow was starting to feel a little firm as rigor set in. Another look passed between Stig and I and I knew that despite myself my initial wave of sympathy at the girl's distress was beginning to be tinged with amusement, which I did my best to ignore. Have you ever been in a situation where the most inappropriate thing to do is laugh, but it only makes the urge to do it worse?
Despite the trauma Willow's death was rather timely as we were just about to lay some flags in the garden. The girls made a cross with messages of love and "Rest in Peace" written on it. Stig and I dutifully oversaw proceedings with the required sombriety. Stig dug a hole and both of the girls wanted to lay Willow to rest so they decided to lower her into the ground together.
Except they weren't exactly in sync and they dropped a now rock-solid Willow, who obligingly landed face down, ass up in the bottom of the hole. At which point the flinging of arms and wailing commenced once more, and it was all I could do to stifle a laugh-snort. I was barely holding it together when I made the mistake of looking at Stig, he had turned his back and I could see definite shaking of the shoulders as he made a deliberate coughing noise.
We struggled through the next ten minutes or so of the girls taking turns to step to the "graveside" to throw in a handful of earth over poor Willow's presented arse. Further sporadic wailing followed as stig filled the hole in and placed the cross at the "head" of the hole in the ground. There followed a further period of graveside reflection during which Stig and I struggled not to succumb to the giggles.
Funerals are not an occasion of mirth but to have the most serious of proceedings for a guinea pig who will forever rest with her little furry butt in the air was too much to take seriously. When it was finally all over I had to spend a good ten minutes in my room with my face firmly wedged in a pillow to absorb the sound of my laughter before I could compose myself.
I can only conclude that we'd be no good in a pet cemetery, probably be banned for life in fact.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Does My Bum Look Big In This?
I may have mentioned before that I have a total lack of sense when it comes to fashion. It is like a foreign language to me. When I was a small child, about that age when you think anything is possible, before the harsh realities of life and one's own shortcomings are realised, I had delusions of becoming a fashion designer extraordinaire.
One day in the summer holidays when my parents were at work I found an old pillowcase that had been thrown to one side for my dad to use as rags (Why do all men need oily rags? Even the ones that aren't conversant with car engines or large machinery. Why does looking at the washing machine whilst scratching your arse and pretending you know what the problem is require an oily rag?).
Anyway I decided that my Dad had enough oily rags to supply a Formula One pit crew so I commandeered the threadbare pillowcase and my mother's sewing box. What I came up with was a crop top affair and matching skirt made from pink flannelet. I couldn't sew so there was no attempt at hemming, I just roughly hacked it into shape with a pair of blunt scissors, cut holes in the "top" for my arms and head and tied the "skirt" at the side over my hip. Remember the cave women in the Lynx adverts a few years ago? Imagine the urchin child of one such women and you'd be pretty close to what I looked like.
Pleased with my attempt at fashion design, off I went out to find my mates. After an afternoon of farting about in the park, I returned home to find my fire-breathing mother, who was already miffed that I'd "borrowed" the sewing box. This, however, was soon put into perspective when the vision of me in all my frayed, pastel glory finally registered.
"Please tell me you haven't been out wearing THAT!"
My memory of the events that followed is merely a blur. I suspect my subconscious has repressed the whole business from my mind as it would be too traumatic to recall. I do remember that I was watched closely when given clean sheets to change my bed, and pillowcases were counted in and out of my room much like a surgeon's instruments during an operation.
Jamie has now taken to asking for the sewing kit. I recently found an old pair of her stripey punk socks that she had attempted to turn into fingerless gloves. I have hidden the sewing box and begun taking a weekly inventory of the bedding.
One day in the summer holidays when my parents were at work I found an old pillowcase that had been thrown to one side for my dad to use as rags (Why do all men need oily rags? Even the ones that aren't conversant with car engines or large machinery. Why does looking at the washing machine whilst scratching your arse and pretending you know what the problem is require an oily rag?).
Anyway I decided that my Dad had enough oily rags to supply a Formula One pit crew so I commandeered the threadbare pillowcase and my mother's sewing box. What I came up with was a crop top affair and matching skirt made from pink flannelet. I couldn't sew so there was no attempt at hemming, I just roughly hacked it into shape with a pair of blunt scissors, cut holes in the "top" for my arms and head and tied the "skirt" at the side over my hip. Remember the cave women in the Lynx adverts a few years ago? Imagine the urchin child of one such women and you'd be pretty close to what I looked like.
Pleased with my attempt at fashion design, off I went out to find my mates. After an afternoon of farting about in the park, I returned home to find my fire-breathing mother, who was already miffed that I'd "borrowed" the sewing box. This, however, was soon put into perspective when the vision of me in all my frayed, pastel glory finally registered.
"Please tell me you haven't been out wearing THAT!"
My memory of the events that followed is merely a blur. I suspect my subconscious has repressed the whole business from my mind as it would be too traumatic to recall. I do remember that I was watched closely when given clean sheets to change my bed, and pillowcases were counted in and out of my room much like a surgeon's instruments during an operation.
Jamie has now taken to asking for the sewing kit. I recently found an old pair of her stripey punk socks that she had attempted to turn into fingerless gloves. I have hidden the sewing box and begun taking a weekly inventory of the bedding.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Stig'll Fix It
Over the years we have lived in many dilapidated houses. During Stig's years as a student we rented houses that were in need of a lot of TLC in return for reduced rent.
Stig fancies himself as a bit of DIY whizz. He can turn his hand to anything; electrics, plumbing, wallpapering, shelving etc. He's a bit of a Jack-of-all-trades; knows a little about everything but an expert on nothing, except maybe farting, fixing aeroplanes, and making scrambled egg in the microwave.
When my friend arrived for her annual summer visit, dragging behind her the biggest suitcase I've ever seen - complete with broken wheel - Stig was called to action. He briefly pondered the wheel conundrum before inspiration struck and he dragged the offending suitcase off down our cellar. When he reappeared the suitcase had a shiny, new wooden wheel, yes that's right; a wheel made from a piece of wood.
Now my poor friend has to drag it around on her travels, drawing attention to herself and her freaky suitcase because it makes such a terrible racket as the wooden wheel rumbles along, creaking under the weight of the suitcase and its contents. My friend, despite the embarrassment, is quite chuffed with her suitcase and it apparently now has miles left in it.
The thing is, however bizarre Stig's methods are, he won't be beaten and he usually wins in the end. Hence the reason that our house may look like a DIY disaster zone, but everything works. Stig is always very quick to point this out when I bemoan the state of the curtain hooks made from key rings or the baby monitors that now look like they were used to bring Frankenstein to life. What he considers to be creative genius, the rest of us find bordering on the insane.
The kids broke the AV button on our TV recently. Not a problem to Stig, he carted the huge TV into the garage, dismantled it and commenced an intricate gluing masterclass. Unfortunately the glue was no match for Charlie's stabbing little fingers and it lasted all of five minutes before the AV button retreated into the innards of the vast TV once again.
Ever defiant at the prospect of defeat, Stig dragged the TV back to the garage. He coaxed the terrorised AV button out from hiding, and again glued it into place. It was left for several hours to set properly before being reintroduced the hell that is Hayes House living room. One shriek from Charlie and the AV button promptly cacked itself and fell off.
It was me who had to deliver the news to Stig. Expecting spontaneous combustion, I had the Argos catalogue to hand and had picked out a stonking new flat screen in preparation.
Of course the threat of my parting with a significant amount of cash horrified Stig even more than the demise of the AV button, and he left the house with an Arnie-like "I'll be back" (roughly translated as "Don't spend any bloody money while I'm gone").
I knew better than to expect him to return with a new telly, or any telly, but what he came back with was quite perplexing...
A brass doorbell.
Our living room TV is now in full working order. When you switch on the TV, you merely need to ring the doorbell that is fitted to the side of it, and presto, we're on the AV channel. I'm NOT kidding!
Stig fancies himself as a bit of DIY whizz. He can turn his hand to anything; electrics, plumbing, wallpapering, shelving etc. He's a bit of a Jack-of-all-trades; knows a little about everything but an expert on nothing, except maybe farting, fixing aeroplanes, and making scrambled egg in the microwave.
When my friend arrived for her annual summer visit, dragging behind her the biggest suitcase I've ever seen - complete with broken wheel - Stig was called to action. He briefly pondered the wheel conundrum before inspiration struck and he dragged the offending suitcase off down our cellar. When he reappeared the suitcase had a shiny, new wooden wheel, yes that's right; a wheel made from a piece of wood.
Now my poor friend has to drag it around on her travels, drawing attention to herself and her freaky suitcase because it makes such a terrible racket as the wooden wheel rumbles along, creaking under the weight of the suitcase and its contents. My friend, despite the embarrassment, is quite chuffed with her suitcase and it apparently now has miles left in it.
The thing is, however bizarre Stig's methods are, he won't be beaten and he usually wins in the end. Hence the reason that our house may look like a DIY disaster zone, but everything works. Stig is always very quick to point this out when I bemoan the state of the curtain hooks made from key rings or the baby monitors that now look like they were used to bring Frankenstein to life. What he considers to be creative genius, the rest of us find bordering on the insane.
The kids broke the AV button on our TV recently. Not a problem to Stig, he carted the huge TV into the garage, dismantled it and commenced an intricate gluing masterclass. Unfortunately the glue was no match for Charlie's stabbing little fingers and it lasted all of five minutes before the AV button retreated into the innards of the vast TV once again.
Ever defiant at the prospect of defeat, Stig dragged the TV back to the garage. He coaxed the terrorised AV button out from hiding, and again glued it into place. It was left for several hours to set properly before being reintroduced the hell that is Hayes House living room. One shriek from Charlie and the AV button promptly cacked itself and fell off.
It was me who had to deliver the news to Stig. Expecting spontaneous combustion, I had the Argos catalogue to hand and had picked out a stonking new flat screen in preparation.
Of course the threat of my parting with a significant amount of cash horrified Stig even more than the demise of the AV button, and he left the house with an Arnie-like "I'll be back" (roughly translated as "Don't spend any bloody money while I'm gone").
I knew better than to expect him to return with a new telly, or any telly, but what he came back with was quite perplexing...
A brass doorbell.
Our living room TV is now in full working order. When you switch on the TV, you merely need to ring the doorbell that is fitted to the side of it, and presto, we're on the AV channel. I'm NOT kidding!
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Woohooooo!
I can't beleive it! I wrote "Where I Write" (below) for a competition and it's received a comendation and will appear in Leaf Books writing magazine. It's not a winner but a mention will do me. Sooooooooo chuffed!
__________________________________________________
If you want to write you need a writing desk, right?
My desk is coffee stained, filled with stuff (a-la-offspring) that has nothing to do with me or my writing, and is slightly compressed around the edges where I regularly cling to it in desperation, praying for sanity to restore itself just long enough to finish this next paragraph.
It was "donated" to me by a seven-year-old Nicki when she and Jamie first embarked on room-sharing and had to sacrifice one of their respective desks. Hence my desk is from the Argos plywood-in-drag range; beech-effect with pink panels on the drawer fronts.
I write in Hayes’ House, and my desk is the eye of the storm. The storm being five children and a child-like husband. The chaos theory rules here. One of the children can fart at the bottom of the garden and consequently another, who is sat on the toilet, will fall off it.
When Sam enters my writing domain for the eighth time in as many minutes to request that I put the wings back on his dragon, I resist the urge to beat him to death with it and I write about it instead. Surely someone somewhere can relate to this misery?
Writing should not be an exercise in multi-tasking and yet somewhere between cooking a roast, applying plasters to injured knees, and drinking myself into oblivion there is that blissful ten minute window of just me and a blank screen. Here I get to vent, paint my family in a particularly unfavourable light, and feel satisfied that I’ve wreaked my revenge in doing so.
I’d love to say that I write in a haven of serenity where I can hear the birds sing on spring mornings and sunlight streams in through French windows. But in reality I have the living, breathing inspiration of family life, without which my writing would be meaningless. Having said that; whoever said that we should suffer for our art needs a plastic dragon shoving where the proverbial sun doesn’t shine.
__________________________________________________
If you want to write you need a writing desk, right?
My desk is coffee stained, filled with stuff (a-la-offspring) that has nothing to do with me or my writing, and is slightly compressed around the edges where I regularly cling to it in desperation, praying for sanity to restore itself just long enough to finish this next paragraph.
It was "donated" to me by a seven-year-old Nicki when she and Jamie first embarked on room-sharing and had to sacrifice one of their respective desks. Hence my desk is from the Argos plywood-in-drag range; beech-effect with pink panels on the drawer fronts.
I write in Hayes’ House, and my desk is the eye of the storm. The storm being five children and a child-like husband. The chaos theory rules here. One of the children can fart at the bottom of the garden and consequently another, who is sat on the toilet, will fall off it.
When Sam enters my writing domain for the eighth time in as many minutes to request that I put the wings back on his dragon, I resist the urge to beat him to death with it and I write about it instead. Surely someone somewhere can relate to this misery?
Writing should not be an exercise in multi-tasking and yet somewhere between cooking a roast, applying plasters to injured knees, and drinking myself into oblivion there is that blissful ten minute window of just me and a blank screen. Here I get to vent, paint my family in a particularly unfavourable light, and feel satisfied that I’ve wreaked my revenge in doing so.
I’d love to say that I write in a haven of serenity where I can hear the birds sing on spring mornings and sunlight streams in through French windows. But in reality I have the living, breathing inspiration of family life, without which my writing would be meaningless. Having said that; whoever said that we should suffer for our art needs a plastic dragon shoving where the proverbial sun doesn’t shine.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
This Shepards Pie is Bollocks!
When I was pregnant with Sam, I spent the majority of my time hanging around the bathroom waiting for the next session of sporadic vomiting. The smell of absolutely anything would set me off, hence cooking was a problem.
Stig gallantly came to my rescue and offered to cook. The idea filled me with dread but having established that I couldn't enter the kitchen without wretching, I agreed. I painfully explained Hayes House Shepards Pie proceedure to Stig in step-by-step detail. I thought I had done quite well in my instructions but I double checked with a question and answer session at the end. Stig passed with flying colours and so I had little choice but to let him proceed.
However what I said, and what Stig heard were clearly two very different narratives...
1. Boil giant pan of spuds to death
2. Boil mince in nothing but water for 5 minutes and decide that this will be sufficient.
3. Pour drained mince into oven dish, who needs gravy? We don't.
4. Don't bother draining the spuds (Stig didn't) as they have absorbed most of the water anyway.
5. Mash spuds into a pulp with the consistency of wallpaper paste and "pour" the spuds over the mince.
6. Realise that you have forgotten to add onion so sprinkle some chopped onion over the top of the mixture and poke it in with a fork.
7. Put Shepard's Pie in oven.
8. Switch oven on.
9. Remove Shepard's pie from oven and add cheese, replace in oven.
10. Serve with a ladle.
I felt a wave of grief wash over me when I glimpsed it on my plate for the first time. The resulting Shepard's Pie was a pasty looking pile of slop.
I knew that I'd at least have to taste it before I could berate his efforts. It was when I encountered the first unidentifiable brown chewy bits in it that vomiting ensued.
This was followed by a tirade of abuse from me and abject disbelief at Stig, who was heartily tucking into his Shepard's Pie in order to re-enforce his point that it "wasn't that bad".
Stig gallantly came to my rescue and offered to cook. The idea filled me with dread but having established that I couldn't enter the kitchen without wretching, I agreed. I painfully explained Hayes House Shepards Pie proceedure to Stig in step-by-step detail. I thought I had done quite well in my instructions but I double checked with a question and answer session at the end. Stig passed with flying colours and so I had little choice but to let him proceed.
However what I said, and what Stig heard were clearly two very different narratives...
1. Boil giant pan of spuds to death
2. Boil mince in nothing but water for 5 minutes and decide that this will be sufficient.
3. Pour drained mince into oven dish, who needs gravy? We don't.
4. Don't bother draining the spuds (Stig didn't) as they have absorbed most of the water anyway.
5. Mash spuds into a pulp with the consistency of wallpaper paste and "pour" the spuds over the mince.
6. Realise that you have forgotten to add onion so sprinkle some chopped onion over the top of the mixture and poke it in with a fork.
7. Put Shepard's Pie in oven.
8. Switch oven on.
9. Remove Shepard's pie from oven and add cheese, replace in oven.
10. Serve with a ladle.
I felt a wave of grief wash over me when I glimpsed it on my plate for the first time. The resulting Shepard's Pie was a pasty looking pile of slop.
I knew that I'd at least have to taste it before I could berate his efforts. It was when I encountered the first unidentifiable brown chewy bits in it that vomiting ensued.
This was followed by a tirade of abuse from me and abject disbelief at Stig, who was heartily tucking into his Shepard's Pie in order to re-enforce his point that it "wasn't that bad".
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