It's still Christmas? You sure?

Seriously. We had Christmas last Sunday - the whole nine yards. PiLs, SiLs, and cousins by the bushel, turkey, crackers, presents, the Hat Game, church. Then everyone went home, and we breathed a sigh of relief - a whole other year until the next one.

BUT NO. Turns out that was just us - the rest of the world is still waiting, and shopping, and wrapping, and shopping some more, and we have to go through it all again, on the distaff side, tomorrow. On the other hand, I didn't cook last Sunday, Jeremy did (Wow. And Yum.) and I'm not cooking tomorrow, Julia is, so maybe Christmas isn't so bad after all.

Being as how I am fairly sure none of my children read this, I feel it is safe(ish) to tell you that Jeremy drank the whiskey, ate half the carrot and somehow disposed of the Cadbury's Flake that the children left for Santa Claus, along with their pillow cases. He also carefully created a foot- and a hoof-print from the ash in the hearth. (The hoofprint looks as if the reindeer is shod, and I think actually reindeer have cloven hooves - here's hoping the kids won't spot that one.)

But now I too still have a little wrapping to do, so I will bid you all a Merry Christmas. Have a lovely day.

Dja miss me? Didja? Didja?

Life with a busted modem proved to be strangely restful. No blogging (for this was the week I resolved to post EVERY DAY. And I couldn't. Tcha.) No email, no Amazon or eBay (for those people to whom we are giving windscreen wipers, a bag of charcoal briquettes or a car air freshener shaped like a Christmas tree, blame O2, not me) and absolutely no idea of the responsibilities I'd undertaken, or any requests made of me, because my life is contained by my Hotmail account, meant that all I could do was read my book. (Turns out I can ignore screaming children with my nose in a book just as well as I can with my nose superglued to a screen. Go me.)

And it only took three hours and the barest minimum of seasonal swearing to wrestle the new one into place.

And in spite of all my delaying tactics, Christmas is, once again, almost upon us. Term ended - Kit scampered through this final week unscathed by rampant bugs, Beri had to be shovelled, over his loudest protestations, into school, and Sid blithely attended her VERY LAST DAY of Nursery, totally unaware of the end of a blissful era. Jeremy can't quite decide whether to be ill or not (I'm holding my thumbs for Not - he's OC Christmas Lunch tomorrow) and I am On The Up. Jeremy's parents are already here, and hs sisters and families arrive tomorrow - only 16 for lunch. We'll be fine.

These showbiz parties . . .

I don't know that there was much overlap between the two camps - the 'showbiz types' and the 'villagers'. Or, as Elizabeth Hurley so memorably put it, 'soldiers' and 'civilians'. By and large, one stuck with what one knew. I was quietly surprised that Baby-Faced Comedian was REALLY TALL, appalled at what Influential Comedy Writer And Performer had done to his hair (think Brian May on a bad day) and a bit disappointed that, as Actor Of Whose Work I Am Particularly Fond was sporting a straggly beard and heavy hornrims, he was discouraging panting fans by donning an unappealing disguise. Yup, it was Rachael and Arm's Christmas Party, and there were PLENTY of lovely new (not showbiz) people to meet. Not that the showbizzies weren't lovely. I imagine.

Talking of showbiz, the season of school christmas plays has come and gone, with the littlies acquitting themselves nobly. Beri delivered his line with aplomb, and Sid, for her rendition of 'a star', appears to be channeling Brunnhilde.

And I have my voice back, to the children's chagrin. All it took was to make an appointment with the doctor. Not actually to see him, you understand, just to make the appointment. Within five minutes I was chatting away fit to break my children's hearts. Jeremy has now been handed the baton, and is drooping for two. Still, only an extremely busy day tomorrow - our guests for the day will still be on Singapore time and therefore wanting to start the day early.

Hors de Combat

I bin poorly - poor li'l me. Gah. Poorly enough to do ABSOLUTELY BUGGER ALL except the barest necessities - kids to and from school, fed and put to bed. The rest of the time I spent cuddled in a fleecy blanket, rocking back and forth and moaning softly to myself. And now the kitchen table is so covered with paperwork I can't find it, not for ready money. Even though I know roughly where it's supposed to be.

Lapsed memberships and insurance policies, and un-accepted invitations to parties, and BILLS, and uncatalogued catalogues I can bear, but not applying for tickets to school Christmas plays?* (Right about now I need to know how to spell that noise that happens when you suck air in between tightly clenched teeth. Is that the one commonly rendered as 'Tsk'? Actually I want something with more of an air of life-or-death about it. Bit more doomy. (When I told Beri that Sid was going to be a star, he said 'No. She's going to be a TOILET. The Toilet of DOOOM.') Anyway.)

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Luckily, as I started this post DAYS ago, I am now in a position to tell you that not only did we get tickets, we got excellent tickets. For the first time I will actuall SEE a child of mine on stage, rather than having to guess their whereabouts. Ah, what the heck, it will be coming out on DVD soon anyway.

And now I have forgotten the point of this post - I'm signing off. Kit and two of his friends are sitting at the dining room table doing everything EXCEPT their homework, supper needs to be a'cookin', and I really REALLY need to finish my book (Space. Really REALLY dense. Next up - The Shack. I really REALLY hate reading books that I know I am obliged to find good thing to say about. I so often can't, and discussing the book then becomes a game of finding stuff to say that SOUNDS as if I liked it, but that's not actually a big fat lie. Morally VERY shaky ground there.)

O hang on, there was a lovely evening where Jeremy discovered that our AA membership did not, in fact, cover Home Start. The plan had been for me to call the AA in the morning, and get them to change the recently bought and extremely flat tyre, so I could drive to the garage and spend the day arguing the toss with the tyre sales department. So, at 11:30 PEE EM, he and I piled out onto the forecourt, him to do the manly changing of the tyre and me to do the Dance of the Seven Parkas on the forecourt, to keep the motion sensor light on. That was fun.

Also also, while we are on the subject of the AA, I heard tell that American Airlines was founded, and was run for ages, by a very devoutly Christian family - Millenialists of some description, believing that at the Second Coming the faithful would be bodily taken up into Heaven. Now - of the two pilots in the cockpit, one would always be of a similar religious persuasion, natch, but the other had to be a non-believer. This was in case the Rapture occured during a flight - the believer would disappear out of the cockpit, but the infidel would still be able to land the plane safely. How caring is that?

133. Phew.

Another 6:20?

I awoke yesterday morning, unfeasibly early, to the sound of Kit throwing up. No, let my rephrase that. To my shame, I was awoken (yesterday morning, unfeasibly early) by the sound of Beri, yelling at me, 'MUM! KIT'S THROWING UP!' Urggh - what a way to start the day.

As there has already been judging (you know who you are!) I may as well hang for a sheep - my first thought was, '6:20am! Haven't seen one of those in a while, and yes, it's still horrible' and my second was, 'If Kit stays home all day, how the heck do I sneak in my afternoon nap?'. 'Poor Kit' came a very late third.

But hang on, thought I, The Boy is part-owner of a strictly-reserved-for-weekends Nintendo DS Lite Gameboy. If I give him that, then he won't notice me sparked out on the sofa. He wouldn't notice if the sky fell on his head. An earthquake? The lights going out all over Europe? The four horsemen of the Apocalypse? Nah. His battery running out? Hell yeah. But that's what chargers are for. I napped, he stepped closer to RSI and permanently damaged thumb muscles, and we were both happy.

He's better now, and I bought him a book - Louis Sachar's Small Steps. I am a great admirer of Holes, and Kit really enjoys the Wayside School books. He's been reading it for about 20 minutes, and so far he's asked me what 'marijuana', 'cerebral palsy' and 'leukaemia' mean.

Urghh.

I'd Have Made the Effort, But I Couldn't Be Bothered

You know the fuss everyone makes every year about how early the shops put up their Christmas decorations, how it's all just an exercise in crass commercialism, it's still October* for Pete's sake, yadda yadda yadda? Well today I was in a meeting about how much to charge for Shrove Tuesday pancakes. That's the 24th of FEBRUARY. For Pete's sake.

Christmas is in half swing at John Lewis. They aren't piping Christmas carols over the PA, and they don't yet have a real live reindeer parked outside the entrance (like last year. I kid you not.) but the Christmas Crap is piled in glitteringly inviting heaps all over the shop. Mind, I did rather like the chocolate Christmas trees, and the gingerbread forts. Well, houses are so last year. I'll take pictures next time I'm there. (It's John Lewis. Of course it won't be long.) This time, the excuse for a visit was a clapped out breadmaker, and now I have a shiny new one. I have to put the ingredients in upside down, it can't be opened fully while standing on a work surface because it's so tall, and the Automatic Yummy Bits Dispenser operates with a sound like a small pistol shot, but I STILL LOVE IT. Sorry, some inadvertent Caps Lock onnage there, but its true. I DO.

And a lurrvly new Salter 1051. It's so black, light just falls into it.

*I know. Really I do. But they were up in October, yes they were.

Vesper is the new Smurf

Ah yes, Germany. My abiding memories? Giraffes and tigers in Munich Zoo, the omnipresent scent of Kaffee mit Kuchen, the comfortable elegance of our lovely old hotel, sunset over the Starnbergersee, catching up with lovely family and the children's four-hourly meltdowns over mealtimes. Gah. Food that was close enough, but not close enough. Sausages? Pizza? Even, heaven help us, fish fingers in a Greek restaurant? Not like we have at home, so instead of eating I'll just scream, thanks all the same.

Home again, and the loveliness of visitors and excursions and NO LUNCHBOXES brought to a brutally abrupt end by the re-start of term. Gah again.

Beri's had an intermittently ghastly couple of days. Wednesday suppertime was supposed to include Jonathon and Cole. Cole, new to the country as well as to the school, I invited in spite of B's STRENUOUS objections, because I felt it was neighbourly. This pill was only sweetened by the proposed presence of Jonathon, one of B's best mates. Well, Best Mate's ma cancelled late Tuesday, and I chose to tell my poor son in the microsecond between his BIG head-on collision with Oliver (MAJOR ouchies), and the school bell ringing, that Jonathon couldn't come, but Cole still would. (In the event, it all went kind of OK - Cole spent a lot of time playing with Sid, who kept calling him 'Coral'.) And then today I forgot him in the playground, and was halfway home before I realised he wasn't there. Actually, someone else had to point this out to me. Cue hasty retrace of footsteps and a big hug for a small boy rather whiter and shakier than I found comfortable. (And a big slap on the wrist for writing about this before telling Jeremy.)

And tonight we enjoyed Quantum of Solace - not much dialogue, crazily inventive shoot-'em-ups, and an afterthought of a plot. Luckily Jeremy summed it all up with pinpoint accuracy.

'So, Vesper is the new Smurf, then.'

A Social Whirl

(Always makes me wonder just what an anti-social whirl would look like. Would it involve - I dunno, axes, maybe?

Anyhoo.)

Everyone got back from their weekend away safe and sound, thank you for asking, and VERY happy to be reunited. Kit in particular - these days he is being so affectionate, and I know it's the last hurrah of his boyhood, before my very dear first-born son disappears in a maelstrom of hormones. *sniff*. (When it's Beri's turn, will I even notice? Hmm . . .)

Jeremy and I thoroughly enjoyed Beaconsfield Operatic Society's production of Calamity Jane, highlights of which included the evanescent American accents (now you heard them, now you didn't . . .), the kissing (mucho kissing. What is it about AmDram kissing? It starts so very suddenly, both parties remain utterly immobile throughout, and it stops like both sets of lips were of the same magnetic pole. Why can't they just think of England? Or Brendan Fraser? (Click the link. It's so-ooo-o worth it.)) , and our bass-baritone, dragged-up friend Martin's newly shaved chest and falsetto song. (He had to kiss someone too, while his wife watched from the audience. Elaine, whose lovely husband just now won the lead role in - oh bugger, I've forgotten what - some Alan Ayckbourn anyway - has expressly forbidden him to kiss ANYONE under ANY circumstances. EVER. (Anyone else. Other than her. I'm almost sure.) All the times I've seen Jeremy perform - and he's kissed more sopranos than I've had hot dinners - it's never once occurred to me. Mind you, thinking back to the last time I saw him sing, (and I was great with his child, oh the irony) the kissing was the least of it. But then it never occurred to me to forbid writhing around on a table-top with a half-naked soprano either. Tcha.

ANYWAY. (Is there a point to this post? Oh yes . . .) last night the opera, tonight Burn After Reading. (Very nice looking site, but takes a bit of time to load.) Clooney did his Oh-Brother-Where-Art-Thou schtick again (still amusing though), Frances McDormand was reliably brilliant, and Brad Pitt was HILARIOUS. And that chair - oh my . . .

And tomorrow Sid has a friend to visit. I'm a bit anxious about this, as not only is little Malene new in the school, she's new in the country, and I don't know how well she speaka da Eeengleesh. Anyone venture the Norwegian for 'I want my mummy'? Or 'Grated cheese? Call this lunch??'

We are off to Germany first thing Saturday, just for the weekend, and the fun continues all the way though a packed half term. I'm already looking forward to school starting up again.

Quickly, somebody drop a pin . . .

You know that gentle rustling noise it makes, as it disturbs the air molecules, then that teeny tiny clatter it makes as it hits the floor? You don't?

Well, I do.

This whole weekend, that is what I am going to be listening to. My lovely husband has taken my lovely children to his parents. (Spare a thought for my poor MiL, who fell over in a pub (hmm) and cut the webbing around her thumb badly enough to require thirteen stitches. Thirteen. Oh, and it's her right thumb. (Beri, to my slight stupefaction, wondered what Grandma was doing in a pub. 'She can't go in one, she's a woman.' I need to go to the pub more. A LOT more. To set a good example.) But Jeremy assures me an infestation of grandchildren is just what she needs.)

So I am off to Elaine's happy place, then I thought I might swing by Seven Dials because its lovely, and back home for a concert of mediaeval music in the church. (Ooh, church on my own tomorrow! This may well be a first.) And Sunday lunch in the Blue Elephant.

(Here's a thing. I'm fairly sure the expression, 'on my own', rendered in french, is occasionaly used in english conversation. Y'know, like en famille or au fond or amour propre. I wanted to use it to describe my forthcoming Blue Elephant experience, but couldn't remember what it was. I hopped over to a translation site (it gave me sur ma propre. I'm damn sure that's not right.) and it listed the most popular searches. They are

• i love you
• i miss you
• beautiful
• go to hell
• my love
• goodbye
• thank you so much
• love
• do you have nuclear warheads
• hello world
• faith
• i dont want to die alone
• I love my wife
• evil

How fabulous is that!)


Blimey, look at the time. What am I still DOING here!

Now we wait.

Until the 21st November, when the results comeout. (and you will please excuse theoccasional burst of PROFANITY on account of I recently cleaned the keyboard - I say recently, it's a bit like the Forth Bridge, I get to the other end and start from the beginning again - and it was the turn of the Space Bar. Now, the thing about my memory, you will recall (I jest. Why the heck would youremember this kind ofcrap. I would, but not you.DAMNthisspace bar!), is that I only remember stuffthat isn't useful. I can remember that Mark Rothko is an early influence on Roy Speltz, and who the Princes in the Tower were, but not howmy friend Davidgotrid of his eczema, or that when I put the newly cleaned space bar back onto the keyboard, it spends ages NOT WORKING. Or only working when I hit it really reallyhard. So, £&(%)"£(&%. And )(£&%.

There.)

In other news, I remembered at 3:15, walking in to the school playground, that I should have picked up four little'uns from Forest School 15 minutes before. Groan. The heinousness of forgetting one's own child palesin comparison with forgetting other people's. Much running, yelling and reckless driving later, allthe sprogs were reunited withtheir parents, having had a ball playing in the forest. And the grownups I had discommoded were hideously forgiving. It was horrible, I tell you, horrible.

Ohand andand, we had a lovely day aboard the SB Hydrogen, celebrating Jeremy's folks' 50th wedding anniversary.

On the left, a bunch of barges, with partygoers. On the right, the congratulations cards for their grandparents. Octopuses. Of course.

And in more picture news, in my sidebar you can see the progress on Sid's jumper. Hilariously, I discovered on starting the second sleeve, that I had misread the pattern, and had knitted the first sleeve 50stitches wide, when it should have been 62. There isn't even any point in unravelling and re-using the wool, as it's in such tiny bits,none of them long enough for abigger sleeve. But asitspure wool, I getto put it in the food recycle. Yay.

And Jeremy wants me to tell you about me drying a pair of Sid's knickers in the microwave, and scorching them past rescuing, but I'm not going to. Too embarrassing.

Hurry up and Wait

Life has gone all peculiar on us - Kit's forthcoming 11+ sits there like a black hole, bending all our existences around its event horizon. You daren't look straight at it - it's like staring into your blind spot, or trying to imagine octarine, only not nearly as much fun. Our days and hours are constructed around practice schedules, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself issuing punishments for the most minor infractions, the punishment always being '. . . so go to your room RIGHT NOW and read your book for half an hour!' (Vocab., of course. Major component of all 11+ exams.)

Even Jeremy, who is in the middle of n performances of Don Giovanni, has to stop what he's doing and come home early, because not only do we have the strain of this exam, we also have the round of secondary school open evenings. Our first one tonight, to Kit's second choice, was cracking. The Head, the staff and the pupils we spoke to were all enthusiastic, articulate, well-mannered and tidy. A tiny bit Stepford, but in a good way. His first choice, tomorrow evening, has a tough act to follow.

A list, a two-syllable-word-beginning-with-L and a very loud bang.

Ok, pay attention, because there is going to be a quiz after this.

This was my list of absolutely-MUST-dos for yesterday -

• Guitar practice, and lots of it
  
• Knitting (Sid is going to need a new jumper very soon)
  
• Tidying up that obscure but extremely ancient mess on top of the drawers

Question: Whose cleaner called to say she couldn't come in?

*sigh* In other news, we recently purchased a set of ten Global knives at a staggeringly good price. Kept most, gave some away, got rid of the random collection of still-perfectly-serviceable knives we've used for years (gave them to my Ma. What? What?). They are a joy to use, being famously sharp and pointy. Being loth to damage the pointy ends when washing them, I put them in the rack to dry handle down. The fun bit is that 'sharp and pointy' also means 'vanishigly thin' ha ha, so putting further cutlery in the rack with very little in the way of visual clue that an extremely sharp, pointy knife is already in the rack, blade pointing upwards, has become a rather risky business. Particularly as I will have already forgotten that I put it there not three microseconds before. I'm staggered I still have all my fingers.

And the very loud bang? Me bursting with pride at the news that the elder of my sons is now House Captain of Milton House.




Ok, ok, the 'two-syllable-word-beginning-with-L '. What kept me from posting yesterday was the lack of one, ideally one to do with purchasing knives or cutting fingers off - it would have made a euphonious title. That, my friends, is the sole reason I didn't post - I couldn't think of a good title. But the 'Sinckapace Galliard' is coming along a treat.

More Cake

See? Only these were slightly different - because Jeremy took the children out for a couple of hours while I made them, they have remarkably little infant spit in them. (The dotty one was MINE, destined to bear LARGE quantities of candles, the chocolate one for the other birthdays yesterday. They got one candle each.)

But to begin at the beginning - on Garden Party Day, waking to the pitter-patter of not-so-tiny raindrops meant much clutching of heads, frantic searching for possible alternative venues, and eventual erection of two gazebos. The food was delivered looking and smelling GREAT (from Chalfont Classic Cuisine. Use These People - They Are Fab!) and I cheered up Quite A Lot. And with the first guests, a break in the weather. It never got great, but we didn't get wet either. Which was fine.)

My beautiful eldest god-daughter brought her boyfriend, who turned out to breath fire! He gave us a demo in the garden (not his usual type of venue, but the audience was appreciative) and some of the younger members of the party wondered whether maybe his grandma had been a Real True Life dragon. (To my horror, I found him browsing my DVD collection. But he stumbled upon my Anime and Yay! I'm cool! (Or whatever the adjective is these days. Bad? Sweet? Oh - no - being 50 and all, COOL has probably swung right back into fashion. Erk.))

And I got presents too - mostly books, plants and chocolate. I really am that transparent.

So this morning was all about The Great School Shoe Run (yawn) but as the boys had just spent a bit more money on some more bloody Gogos, they kept themselves (and half the waiting customers (the younger half)) amused during the inTERminable wait. I meanwhile was in a slight (only slight) tizz, having left the house, closed the door and discovered that the keys I was holding were not my usual house keys, but the keys to the garage. It took me two and a half hours and three frenzied but ultimately bootless telephone calls to key-holders to realise that, if I could lock the garage doors with my un-usual keys, I could also unlock them . . .

Spot the Difference

On the left, Beri's birthday cake. On the right, the Supreme Dalek. Uncanny, isn't it?

A bunch of little boys, an indoor play frame, lunch and a cake, and I have a six-year-old. Who, in the event, doesn't appear to be all that miffed with the idea after all.

Then Jeremy and I took ourselves off to see the new Batman, which was astoundingly good. Pretty much made up for last week's excursion to see the Mummy 3, which was atrocious. Absolutely horrible.

I miss the Romans

And there they were, yesterday, at the Open Air Museum. Ideal opportunity to say thank you, after all. Or 'gratias tibi', should your latin (or your memory) stretch that far. But no, I couldn't go, BECAUSE I HAD A BAD BACK. Jeremy took the kids, while I stayed home and whimpered softly to myself. First coupla hours child free in FIVE WEEKS and everything just hurt too much. Still, some exercises and Ibuprofen later, things are looking, if not actually rosy, at least not so ouchy.

And tonight I have to be able to stand long enough to make Beri's birthday cake for tomorrow. He's decided he really, really doesn't want to be six. Not even a promised pocket money raise is changing his mind. Dunno how we are going to resolve this one. (I got so annoyed with the children's high-pitched shrieking, that I am now fining them a week's worth of money for every shriek. Sid tells me she is glad not to be old enough to get pocket money, as this means she can shriek as much as she wants. Oh frabjous day.)

Oh, and in the event, Jeremy said there were about four Romans. In total.

Spot the Difference

On the left, a picture of the Supreme Dalek. On the right, Kit's birthday cake.

He was ten years old today (blimey where did the time go etc etc) and wild with excitement about his new Nintendo DS. The wodges of cash he received left him not entirely unmoved either.

A couple of sessions at Quasar Elite with his mates, an Indian take-away and Back to the Future II (which it turned out I had never seen before. How on earth did that happen?) left us with an exhausted ten-year-old and, on account of the wodges of cash, not all that much tidying up to do.

Beri notches up another year on Wednesday, and earnestly requests a chocolate cake with a picture of the Supreme Dalek on it, and Back to the Future III, which is going to make next Wednesday's post extremely easy indeed.

We're Back

It's raining.



Nobody say anything.

Je Reviens

WE CAN'T DO THIS ANY MORE! It's too rainy and miserable! Apart from this afternoon of course, as directly we had remade our ferry booking for tomorrow night (rather than next Friday) the weather cleared, we had a lovely bike ride and a couple of hours on the beach. Never mind - hardly had we bought our post-prandial ice-creams and started our walk back to the campsite, when it started raining. Again.

Kit is distraught, Beri never thinks more than five minutes ahead anyway, and Sid is her usual cheerful self. We have promised them that even though we are at home, we will be On Holiday - trips to swimming pools, days out, and NO TELLY unless its raining really hard. (Jeremy pointed out that this also applies to us. I think he thinks he's going to get his own back on the Scrabble board. Fat chance.*)

So tomorrow, after five hours on the road, about six on a ferry, and then another couple of hours driving, God willing, burning buses permitting, we should be home,

*A couple of weeks ago, I chose the day before J's long weekend away to go on one of my (incredibly rare) I-really-can't-see-the-point-of-this-Groundhog Day-parenting-slash-homemaking-existence-one-more-minute-so-can-it-please-STOP jags. Once all three little darlings were in bed, J asked me, if I could do ANYTHING I wanted, what I would like to do. (The answer to this question is always Watch a Movie, or Read, or Play a Game.) Poor man took one look at my face and answered his own question 'You'd get in the car and just drive away, wouldn't you? How about a game of Scrabble instead?' Dear sweet man let me beat the c**p out of him. Twice.

A gland, a pony and a burned-out bus

BC, oh how exasperated we got with, and superior we felt to, friends with children. The ones who turned up at our meeting place half-an-hour, an hour or even two, late, wearing half-apologetic, half defiant and totally exhausted looks, as their children burst, yelling, from the car to vanish, in several directions, who-knows-where. 'That'll never be us', we thought.

Yes, well.

Beri spiked a MONSTROUS temperature at 3:30 am of the morning we were due to leave, and his throat looked like he was having difficulty swallowing a golfball. So off he and I went for another emergency doctor's appointment, while Jeremy did what packing he could. Sid's contribution, when asked to get some clothes ready, was to spend her time looking for Pony Flakonie (her name) to the exclusion of all other activities. It's to Jeremy's credit, and infinite patience, that we left only and hour and a bit later than he wanted. Never mind - still time to see Portchester Castle, even if supper at a pizzeria was going to be a little more rushed than we wanted.

Yeah well and ha ha, that was without the burned-out bus, which brought the entire M3 to a shuddering halt. Ever sent your kids to play on a motorway? Well I have. But after over TWO HOURS of this the novelty had rather worn thin, and we were all relieved to get moving again. We skidded into line at the ferry terminal, ten minutes before we boarded. (And EVEN MORE credit to my husband for never once pointing out that, if we had left when he wanted us to, we would probably have been in Portsmouth before the bus even ignited.)

The children really enjoyed sleeping like little logs in our cabins. Jeremy and I - not so much. Woke up every time we turned over, figuring that we could stand it for one night. Again, ha ha - this was before we met the beds in our caravan. Oi veh.

Still and all, the weather is sunny, the swimming pool great fun, and the surrounding caravans populated by children of similar ages.

And Beri has been really cheerful all day.

I can't think of a title for this post

We were quite convinced Beri had mumps (in spite of the MMR) but it turns out to be a viral infection. Nothing that Calpol and early nights won't cure. Oh, and a lot of moaning and fussing, a dash of recalcitrance and a soupçon of really foul temper. He's such a little man.

Gratuitous, I know.

But really - three days before we are off on our hols, and I have no idea how contagious he is. Are the others going to get it? Are we going to get it? Is Jeremy going to get it, and I'll have to drive? Argh.

*sigh* - I guess what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. And the poor little love can't even move his head because it hurts. But his capacity to annoy the crap out of Sid remains undiminished, thank the good Lord.

I'm going to catch up with what everyone else has been doing. I may be some time.

Here we go again . . .

1. Two weeks to scour the interwebthingy for all occurrences of the email address I don't want any more. All those registrations that require a blimmin' email address as a logon. (Marinestore Yacht Chandlers? Why the HECK did I sign up to their site?) And go through the rigmarole of changing it to my new one - sylviavalentine AT hotmail DOT co DOT uk.

2. One week to negotiate / beg / plead with old ISP to be allowed to join new ISP, frantically attempt to sort out over 2,000 emails in old mail service before realising that, for the paltry sum of £20 they will let me keep it on for a year so I don't have to do anything for another 11 months, three weeks and four days, miss the delivery of the new modem TWICE, then by dint of following the admirably clear instructions on the setup CD, successfully install the new gear.

3. Five minutes to remove bloody McAfee because after a day and a half of UNBELIEVABLY slow surfing, the kids not being able access their games sites, and me not even being able to get to my new hotmail account, I realise what the problem is.

4. One week to have the most fantastic holiday. Don't worry - I shall bore you with that in future posts.

5. Three days to attempt to fix broken new modem, get sent a new one, spend at least four hours on the phone getting it installed properly, realise I have installed bloody McAfee AGAIN, remove it, and sort out the 120 emails arising from item 4.

In other words, I'M BACK . . .

Business as Usual

Golly. It's like he's never been away. The yelling at his siblings, the demands for food, the wrangles over whether he gets computer time, the lamentable lack in his life of an 'Alvin and the Chipmunks' DVD . . . I am SO HAPPY he's home. (I think he is too.)

The Goat Centre was just wonderful. It's a family-run affair, small and slightly frayed at the edges, but lumme - goats were the least of it. Lambs and llamas, pigs* and peacocks, a potoroo and a wallaby and a rhea, a cane toad and a caiman, tree frogs and trampolines, and a Holy Cow.** We met up with friends, and the children ran amuck for more than five hours. By the end of the day it took remarkably little to bathe, brush and bed them.

We also have seen remarkably little of Jeremy this week. (The week I start having milk delivered, two MAJOR consumers are not at home. I am currently Very Long on Milk.) On his way home from Germany, Mr. I'm-too-cool-to-carry-a-mobile-phone watched as all the other passengers on the cancelled-after-a-VERY-LONG-WAIT-on-board flight called their travel agents and got tickets for the next flight. Still, I'm sure the hotel was very comfortable. And now - it's like he's never been away. The yelling at the children, the demands for food, the wrangles over whether he gets sit-down time, the lamentable lack in his life of a beer . . . I am SO HAPPY he's home. (I think he is too.)

*Yesterday there was one EXTREMLY pregnant pig, and now, apparently, there is one exhausted pig and eight sausages-in-waiting.

** It is an escapee from a Welsh Buddhist community!

Man, it's quiet.

I do not know where the noise has gone. Oh wait - yes I do. It's gone to Norfolk.

WHY SO FAR AWAY! Why Norfolk? Why not just down the road? I could have had them right here! Sixty kids? No problem! Activities? Race down to the village and get my newspaper! First one back gets a fun-sized Mars Bar! Meals? Pot Noodles! YAY! Games? Let's play Tidy-up! First one round with the hoover gets an old Doctor Who magazine!

*sigh* Perhaps not. I do leap for the phone though, every time it rings. You know, just in case. Given that I never answer the phone EVER if I can help it, at least I'm getting a tad more exercise. It's more than slightly irritating that Jeremy, who is a pathological phone-answerer, is more than usually away this week.

And tomorrow we get the day off. Our teachers are striking (ha ha ha) and we are off to the Goat Centre. Don't tell Kit.

The Lost Last Weekend

No, not Ray Milland on a four-day bender, but the end of the school hols. Weather not so great, but on the days we didn't find ourselves some company, we found that a Kellogg's Variety Pack did just as well.

A passell (passel? passle? pastle?) of children spent a cold afternoon hurling themselves around the maze at Chenies, with me firmly outside flapping my hands and bleating ineffectually, begging them not to lose themselves.They dis- and re-appeared at will, showing absolutely NO fear of being lost, finding no way out, the tall yew gradually closing in, all sound muffling as the light leaches from the sky.

Or maybe that's just me.

Today's Country Show at the Open Air Museum diverted us with terrier racing, falconry, and folk in mediaeval armour having at each other with socking great mediaeval swords. We were joined by Jeremy's ma and three of her other grandchildren, and I was tickled when all three children, on a day which included a golden eagle, some flambards and lots of ice-cream, voted, as the best thing of the day, 'Cousins'.

Kit has been hopping with excitement because, instead of a classroom, five days at an activity centre in Norfolk await. This evening has been all about packing and checking and labelling and unpacking and packing again. I think he's finally ready - I'm not sure I am.

Red Nose Day, or: The Biter Bit

Last Red Nose Day, a year ago last March, a troubled diva had the idea of collecting blog posts, publishing them and giving the proceeds to said Day. He invited submissions, got a lot, whittled them down to some, and Shaggy Blog Stories sold extremely well. Being something of a blogeuse myself, of course I bought a copy. Haven't read it yet, mind. I'm familiar enough with the blog-o-verse, I read some of the blogs included in the book, so I've felt no immediate rush to acquaint myself more - shall we say, intimately with the contents. I know what these blogs are like - funny, wry, angry, foul-mouthed, profound, intellectual, frothy-light - - - - - - - -

Foul-mouthed.

Oh yeah.

This morning, I awoke to the voice of my five-year-old son, a precocious reader, who was sitting next to my head, searching out The Rude Words and reading them to me.

There was a SHOCKINGLY small gap in between each lovingly enunciated word, and I am slightly appalled by the suspicion that he may not actually have learned anything new.

Nothing Doing

I haven't posted for a few days, and you might be forgiven for thinking that's because we haven't done anything. Au contraire, the days have been just PACKED with incident.

After the last post, I decided that indoors was all very well, but actually outdoors should have its attractions too. (Like green beans. You keep putting them on your kids' plates, in the hope that one day, having exhausted all the dropping-them-on-the-floor, hiding-them-under-the-gravy, feigning-their-own-death possibilities, they might actually eat one.) So I yelled, WE'RE GOING FOR A WALK! One yelled NO!, another gave me a pitying look, and the third ignored me.

*sigh* They were right - who was I fooling? Luckily the lovely Oliver commented that, provided I brought the wine, we were welcome at their place any time. So that afternoon off we went - the kids to join in the scrum, and me to enjoy some adult conversation. Within half an hour I was gently smashed, and the rest of the visit passed in a very pleasant haze. Luckily the car pretty much knows its own way home, and by the time Jeremy arrived homeI had at least a nodding acquaintance with sobriety.

This afternoon, we told the babes that we were going on a surprise trip. Jeremy had booked tickets for the Doctor Who exhibition, and yes, they were ALL thrilled when they realised where they were. No touching the exhibits, of course, so my looked-forward-to pictures of my little treasures stepping out of the Tardis are going to have to wait until I have a better acquiantance with Photoshop, so all I have is a bunch of pix of them looking gormless in front of K9 and the Face of Boe, of interest only to themselves and their parents. No Empty Children, thank goodness, but Beri scurried past a stone angel while hugging Daddy's leg very tightly, and a display of daleks which came to life VERY SUDDENLY startled the wossname out of all of us.

Topped off with an Indian take-away, it was a pretty Grand Day Out.

And the evening and the morning was the first day

The school holidays have begun, and yesterday was the first day when no-body had to do ANYTHING. (Apart from poor Jeremy who had to go to work. Never mind - he would have HATED how we spent the day.) So - no school, no lunchboxes, no commitments of any sort. The only thing we kinda had to do was whizz down to the bakery for some bread.

I've always felt slightly - disappointed? Nah - far too strong. Put out, maybe. No, that's wrong too - maybe just been conscious of my own failure As A Mother to raise outdoorsy children. (Which isn't to say they won't ever go outside! It does make me grateful for all our lovely friends with outdoors children who entice mine out with them.)

The fact remains that, compared with practically every other child I know, I'm surprised mine aren't extremely tall and thin and pale and weedy, they prefer indoors so much. But they aren't - they are robust and apple-cheeked and sound of limb. And even though the only outdoors we had was the trip to the baker, they are also three children who get on extremely well together, and they spent the whole day playing arcane and rococo games in various combinations.

Today is shopping and our usual suppertime at Grandma Rose's, and tomorrow we hie ourselves into town to meet friends at the British Museum for lunch. I'm going to have to come up with more stuff to do, otherwise blogging is going to be thin on the ground.

Where's the saucepan? THERE'S the saucepan!

I'm really trying hard not to get concerned that we may already have had summer. You know, last week? That Sunday afternoon that was so lovely? I've been sowing seeds in the cold half-dark (it says MARCH on the packet. Right there) and planting tubers in the snow, and having to stash everything in the greenhouse, (I say greenhouse, I mean framework of plastic-coated metal, with three shelves, and a zip-close plastic cover. Bleurgh. Not only is it DEEPLY unsightly, the zip won't even close. I want a proper little greenhouse, and I don't have a birthday for AGES. Bah.) and bringing them out again when the weather gets lovely, and putting them back in again when it goes horrible AGAIN. The poor little planties don't know whether it's lunchtime or midnight in Moscow.

To while away the dark hours, the kids made brownies. After the measuring, the mixing, the greasing, and the licking clean, and then the face-wiping, Sid felt a bit of bling was called for. And I LIED TO HER. I asked if I could take a picture of her with her lovely alice band on, when what I wanted to do was to capture her (temporary) resemblance to the Laughing Cavalier.



And the saucepan? I have no idea how often I was in and out of the house this last week, lugging green stuff back and forth, before I saw the saucepan I had been missing all week.
And it still had the burnt-on chicken carcass inside, from when I forgot the stock.

It's a boy thing

All this collecting, this putting into order, this uncanny ability to spot which of about 300 Pokemon cards is the one that was left behind by a careless guest. I blame Aristotle. (I'm not suggesting for one New York minute that girls don't - I remember a certain box full of die-cut pictures of kittens and ponies and cherubs, all flowered and bespangled, with impossibly large eyes, over which, at the age of about eight, I obssessed. There. Happy now?)

Nevertheless, I did feel a certain tension when Kit announced that he had put all the Mums he knew - about 30, I guess - in order of excellence.

*ahem*. Drum-roll please - AND IN FIRST PLACE, I BRING YOU

Mrs English!
Mrs English is the mother of one of Kit's good friends, and also Beri's teacher. Also one of my favourite all-time top mums - she says her children were quite scared of her until they were about seven. She definitely gets my vote.

AND IN SECOND PLACE,

Me!
And I was delighted and relieved to get second place, I can tell you.

AND IN THIRD PLACE,

Anisa
Who, when she brought her lot to tea at ours, came bearing such quantities of pudding, vast in variety and amount, that Kit still dreams of that day.

In other news, to the left we have a picture of Beri eating his lunch. That sandwich looks delicious, no? Well, what's not to love about grated mature cheddar on top of chocolate spread?

And to the right - I told you the box was beautiful, didn't I?

If it's better to give

than to receive, who on earth do the givers give to? This week, me, that's who. I'll gladly imperil my immortal soul if it means PRESENTS.

First up, some beautiful flowers from Anisa. One of my favourite things in the WHOLE WORLD is watching flowers unfurl, and these were spectacular - a miracle on my mantlepiece. And then, as soon as they reached wide-open perfection, Jeremy asked, sobbing, if we could throw them out.


Hay fever. Bah.

Rachael says to snip the stamens off, and I will try that next time I'm lucky enough to have lilies, but It Will Not Be The Same.

Then my Ma came back from two months in South Africa bearing, among other things, a box of shells, hand-picked by her from a Cape beach. (I don't know why I haven't taken a picture of the box, as it's star-shaped, coloured crackly antique gold, and the lid is BEJEWELLLED.)

Technically speaking, Ma brought the shells for Sid, and to get the shells off her I did have to prise her, finger by finger, from the box, and then tie her up to the oven to stop her retrieving them and then listen to her SCREAMING HER HEAD OFF some nonsense about them being HER shells.

No, not really.


And then Rachael, who is an Autumn, but occasionally by accident buys Spring stuff, and then gives it to me, gave me a bee-yooo-tiful scarf.

I'm dreaming of a white . . .

. . . Easter?

Well, it made a change, I s'pose. And worth it for having to defend the continuing existence of the Easter Bunny, in the face of incontrovertible evidence that he does not.

So, each egg is hidden at the end of a line of large shoe prints? Well, yes, of course the Easter Bunny wears size eleven trainers - his feet would get cold in the snow if he just lolloped about on his big ol' naked furries.

Here's the garden on Easter morning, with two boys and a sled. The walk to church was one long snow-ball fight, and I rather suspect that the majority of the prayers offered up by the junior members of the congregation that Easter morning was for more snow please.

But it was not to be - as a very wise priest once said to me, Of course God answers every prayer. Most of the time, the answer is No.

So, hail and sleet and a visit from Grandma and Grandpa V. took us through to the end of our Easter weekend.

I was amused by two of Elaine's children weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth at the prospect of eating food that actually tasted of something - Kit's latest thing is Sweet Chilli Sauce. With everything. At least this is instead of, instead of as well as, tomato ketchup. But he did rather go off on one when we suggested that he sould eschew said sauce as Aunt Julia's Easter lamb stew looked quite delicious enough.

This was my contribution to the day (over and above the tantrumming child. Well, you do what you can, don't you? And it was Easter, after all.) and very interesting it was too.

Party party party

. . . apart from Beri who makes it his life's business to turn invitations down. Honestly, that boy - and he gets quite a lot of invitations too. Maybe he just oozes cool, but with my ancient POV I can't see it.

Jeremy and I have been poring over menus for our garden party, on Sunday 31st August, from noon. As well as being our usual pre-new-school-year bash, we will also be celebrating my half-century. If you make a comment, consider yourself invited. Unless you are trying to sell me Portuguese sunglasses, in which case BOG OFF.

It's being catered hooray! By Robert Burdett hooray! So, having eaten his stuff before, poring over menus is actually a complete waste of time. We may as well choose by sticking pins, because its always FAB.

Minor Crisis

Kit was faced with what, in my opinion, was quite a tough call. Two events were scheduled for the same night, both important and enjoyable. In no particular order, they were

1. Music and Arts Evening at school, where he was one of MANY scheduled to play his guitar in the Massed Guitar Event.
2. Presentation of his Orange Belt at Karate.

I left the decision up to him and while he started out favouring the musical event, he eventually decided on Karate. And do you know how he reached his final decision? He asked the opinion of his mates.

Isn't that a bit - you know, well - girly?

Opportunities, missed and otherwise

It's been a week. I could tell you I had actually fallen off the face of the earth, but it would be a LIE. (Blimey. Not swearing for Lent has been hard impossible, but it just occurred to me that not lying . . .




Sorry. Must have blacked out there for a bit. Where was I? Oh yes . . .

It's all been about Kit this week. Jeremy too, and Beri, but mostly Kit. He represented his school twice this week, once at a swimming gala where he acquitted himself honourably, and once at a French Verse speaking competition. Seven schools, and he carried off Third Prize. His french teacher was so excited she rang me to tell me. So that was nice.

And today he and Beri won their Orange belts at their Karate grading. I was worried about Beri - I think he has my abililty to distinguish between left and right, poor thing, and when told to do a oyizuki to the left with a blocking muigeri on the right, is apt to cross his eyes and fall over. Nevertheless, to my relief, he triumphed. (Actually, it's because the Orange belts go into a different class. A small boy sodden with disappointed tears I can cope with, but sitting in a sports hall for ninety minutes every week while first one boy and then the next attends dojo, keeping Sid happy at the same time, would be more than my frame can stand.)

And Jeremy? It was his birthday on Tuesday. I bought rib-eye steaks, mushrooms, new potatoes, green beans and cream. He arrived home that evening, and before I knew what was what, he had dived headfirst into an ENORMOUS bowl of cereal, and was disinclined to eat anything more that evening.

www. . .

A Week Without a Washing machine

Yesterday saw an emergency dash to John Lewis as (did I really just type that? 'Emergency Dash to John Lewis'? How horribly middle-class. ) our washing machine finally collapsed. Our painstakingly-researched (or possibly, 'Here's the first one in the row. WE'LL TAKE IT!) selected model won't be delivered until Friday. In the mean time, as we were due at Jeremy's folks today to celebrate various birthdays, we packed up all the washing, both sopping wet from the busted machine, and fresh (HAH!) from the laundry basket, and ruthlessly exploited the in-lawful, and fully functional, washing machine. Twice.

All worth it to hear his mother muttering, 'Forty six years old and still brings his washing home. . .')

The Cavalry

Since Christmas and Sid's birthday, when a set of fairy wings had been singularly unforthcoming, I had been wondering how on earth to justify the £15 or so I'd need to spend to rectify this significant omission, but more importantly how to justify to the boys such a random present. Or not to justify it, but buy them something too, in which case I am looking at an unnecessary £45 (which would buy a lot of goodies from Amazon. Shh).

Thank goodness for godmothers. True, Rachel missed the birthday date by weeks, and then only found the wings because she was clearing out her entire house, but look - aren't they lovely! I'd say they earn her a promotion to Fairy Godmother.


p.s. Sid is absolutely completely totally recovered. The limp was barely there the next day, and is now a distant memory.

As days go . . .

. . . it started really nicely. Sid and I cuddling in bed, because Jeremy was at home and could see both boys off to school. Started going slightly awry when he came upstairs to roust us out, and Sid asked to be carried downstairs because it hurt too much to walk.


What?

It really did. Sitting in her chair for breakfast she was her usual chirpy self, but wouldn't walk. Because it hurt too much. When I dressed her, and had to manage her into her trousers and socks and shoes, and blimey, I couldn't move her leg without her yelling out, we were down at the doctor's pretty sharpish I can tell you.

And he said, 'Well, she's got Irritable Hip.'


What?

These doctors have diagnoses for pretty much everything these days. Irritable Hip, I ask you. Tcha. But, while 95% of these cases turn out to be Transient Synovitis, 5% of them don't, and turn out to be Septic Arthritis. I had to get her to A&E NOW.

And after that? Six hours of pure unalloyed Boring shot through with flashes of either Horrible or Scary. And with nothing to eat. They poked and prodded, Sid yelped. They smeared anaesthetic cream on the backs of her hands and in the crooks of her elbows, covered it over with plaster, and told her not to bend her arms. You try it for two hours. They X-rayed her, they took blood (when my opinion of that anaesthetic cream positively plummeted) and told us to wait. And wait. And wait some more.

And, six hours later, the winner was . . . Transient Synovitis! Ya-aa-a-ay!

And fifteen minutes after we got home, Sid halfway through a bowl of cereal, Friday being my shopping day so there was nothing else in the house, when Jeremy raced Kit to - yup, you guessed it - A&E. He'd fallen badly at a friend's house and cracked his head on a brick. He was woozy, felt ill and kept scrunching his eyes up against the light.

Came back rather past his bed-time, gagging for something to eat, and indignant that the doctor had forbidden his reading until he was better. Twenty minutes later he declared himself fully recovered.

These doctors know a thing or two about healing the sick.

A distant dream

Half term? What half term?

Oh, that one. But it was ages ago!

Well, it was lovely. We went to Centre Parcs in Wiltshire (unexpectedly hilly for those riding bikes. For those of me who had to travel on the little train because little daughter chose that week to refuse to sit in the carrier on the back of Mummy's bike, hills? What hills?) mostly for the lovely swimming pool. The playgrounds are wonderfully inventive, the games facilities comprehensive and the hot chocolate absolutely vile. And, them being only a few miles away, we spent our coming-home-day with friends who were Very Happy.

But hey-ho, three days into the new term and life is right back at full throttle. I noticed with horror that this week, it's my turn to host all three play-date groups that Sid belongs to. On the upside, it should mean that for the whole of next week I will not have to set eyes on any children whatsoever.

And I'm supposed to be updating the church website with the Easter events, but I keep getting too drunk. Ah - that sounds bad, doesn't it? I mean that, having been out the last couple of nights and taking alcoholic advantage of not having to drive home, I've put in an hour's work on the site, only to have to delete and re-write most of it, because that extra glass of wine has blunted me to the difference between A Serious Church Website and my own blog. My, but anyone happening across www.chalfontstgileschurch.org.uk would have thought us the most extraordinarily relaxed of churches. Chattery bordering on the indiscreet. Revealing much beside, but vanishingly little to, the point.

All using perfect grammar, though.

At tonight's book club we talked about Peter Hobbs' The Short Day Dying. A young 19th century methodist lay preacher wrestling with faith, unacknowleged love and grinding poverty. Surprisingly engaging. As a companion piece, our next one is Iain Banks' Whit, about
a young 20th century messiah wrestling with faith, unacknowleged love and grasping betrayal. I've read it before, and am so looking forward to reading it again. The only book I've ever only read one short chapter at a time, because I was enjoying it so much I didn't want it to end.

Hooray for Half Term

Everyone goes on about the little buggers beggars darlings really needing Half Term, it's been a busy time, they are tired, poor poppets, but What About Me? I'm bloody blimmin' jolly tired too, let me tell you. It's the lunch boxes that do my head in. I actually timed myself one morning to see how much of my life was swirling down the drain while I prepared another collation that stood but a small chance of actually being eaten and was horrified to find out that it - well, both - took about six minutes. Together, not each. Why on earth does it seem to take so much longer?

Took a leaf out of my friend Elizabeth's book - after school, she will only give a child of hers something to eat if it's lunchbox is empty. It's a win-win for her.

While Sid went for a sleep-over at her Aunt Julia's, Jeremy took the boys to see a film they told me was called The Warthog Wars. I thought that was a fantastic title for a film.

I was going to write at greater length but having removed some of the filthier keys on my keyboard to clean them, I've somehow buggered fouled up the spacebar, and now it will only work if I strike it a) VERY HARD and b) repeatedly. Any longer and I will wake the household.

Moral Inferiority

Blimey - how often do I go on at the kids about the importance of SHARING? Often and often. LOTS. After all, it's only stuff, and stuff stays pretty much stuff (until it's comprehensively totalled by your two-year-old, which is why you don't share your laptop with him.) But you know what I mean - kids have to learn, and I am secure in the knowledge that as a GROWN-UP I have outgrown the petty tyranny of childhood possesiveness, and risen above paltry enslavement to mere Things.

Oh yes I have.

*groan* Oh no I haven't.

That beautiful Nano I salivated about a while back was bought, on my suggestion, as a way of moving forward with our record collection - a way of storing and carrying and playing our CDs which didn't rely on the somewhat second-rate qualities of the PC. Notice the plural of the pronoun. 'Our'. My birthday might have been the excuse, but it was intended as a joint household item. On my suggestion.

BUT I DON'T WANT TO SHARE! I want it to be mine! I love it I love it I love it and every time we do some music dubbing and sorting out playlists and syncing the iPod, I have to bite the inside of my lip until it bleeds in an effort to stay a grown-up.

And just now I took delivery of my new chair and all the kids want to do is play with it and I REALLY REALLY don't want them to.

Because its MINE.

When Gadgets Fail . . .

Never mind the stuff I know nothing about - the 95% of the iceberg I can't see - the technostuff right here in my home has not ceased to amaze me. My Nano continues to make me salivate, the possibilities of the Interwebthingy keeps me enthralled, dammit there are days when turning on a tap and having clean water pour out is enough to make me go weak at the knees.

So how many different kinds of bugger is it that the new USB turntable is proving the pain it is - and I haven't even used it. It's not the turntable itself, its the software that comes with it. IT'S NOT CLEVER ENOUGH TO RECOGNIZE A TRACK BREAK. I had imagined setting off a record, and coming back half an hour later to flip sides, and then label all the tracks, But No. You have to sit right there, and at the end of every track you have to click a button. Which is kind of OK when its a symphony, and each track is 15 minutes long - you can sensibly pay attention to your book in that time. But practically everything else has tracks of about three minutes long, which is not long enough to do ANYTHING useful - you have to sit there, hoping like heck you remember the music well enough to know when the track has ended (remember Pink Floyd? Where a track actually ends is anyone's guess) and THEN click the button (and cross your fingers AT THE SAME TIME). If you fail to click the button you have to start the track ALL OVER AGAIN.

Well. Now we find out just how keen I am to get re-acquainted with the music of my youth, eh?

The upside this week? Hmm. Oh yes - Sid can now do her own seatbelt up.

Hey! That's a BIG DEAL!

And this is my extraordinarily beautiful new fruit bowl. The last thing I want to do is put fruit into it - I want to leave it where it will catch the light and cast shadows and do the things it is clearly best at.




What a shouty post.

Lipsum

It's not to be Bourne

Bourne Again

It was Bourne upon me

Bourne Free (Bourne Three?)

I dunno - there may be something there, but I can't get it. (Captain Jack, on the other hand (Aubrey, not Harkness! What sort of a girl do you think I am!) would smoke it. I'm just not in his league.) Did Ludlum choose the name for its possibilities? Hmmm . . .

Sorry. Not paying attention there. J and I have just watched all three Bournes on three successive evenings, and we are drained - drained, I tell you. (And while J went to bed I caught up with Torchwood. Sometimes I don't know where I find the strength.)

Actually I wanted to tell you about the eventual (its been years coming. Years.) purchase of a USB turntable. I'm rather hoping that J and I can get together in the library (with the lead pipe. And Colonel Plum. STOP IT.) tomorrow night and set the little beauty up, and finally start translating our lovely lovely vinyl collection into tidy sets of noughts and ones, ready for actually listening to. I can't tell you how much (well I can, obv., but then I really really can't tell you just how bored you'd be) I've missed Jack Buchanan, The Comedian Harmonists, Al Bowlly, the Christopher Hogwood Messiah, and Simon and Garfunkel. To name but a few.

But that news, hold-the-front-page as it is, pales in comparison with an even later addition to the household. Folks, I am in love again. Truly, madly and deeply. I read an SF story once about a sculptor who worked out how to measure beauty. Objectively measure the stuff. The major measurement was weight. Didn't matter what he was sculpting, as long as it was getting lighter than its mass, it was getting more beautiful. Well, by that criterion, my new iPod Nano is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, held, sniffed (and licked. No, just kidding). The docking station arrives on Saturday.(well, it arrived today, in the one hour I was out. Now there's a surprise.) so we get to hear it. (Mind you, at this point in our relationship I don't actually care what it sounds like, as long as I can look at it. Feel it. Excuse me a moment . . .





Phew.

And the picture of my extraordinarily lovely new fruit bowl is going to have to wait until I can find my camera.

Too many birthdays

. . . or should that be too many birthday celebrations. On second thoughts, maybe not. Can't have too many celebrations, even though it seems that birthday season has lasted about three weeks.

Sid's party went very well, but it pains me to say that, on balance, I think boys' toys are better than girls. Not that I have anything against pink sparkles, of course, the more the better, but . . . Geomag? Lego? Brio?

*sigh*

On Friday night Julia bundled me into her car, without telling me where we were going, and to my delight I found myself back in Chiswick dining at one of our favourite indian restaurants, with our ex-next-door-neighbour, who is still, after all these years, stopping traffic. And not only beautiful, but funny and outrageous and mad and kind. Past boyfriends have included Des Lynham and Norman Lamont, and she is currently seeing Anthony Holden, journalist, biographer, classical music critic of the Observer, and professional poker player. Ber-limey.

Saturday night we ate with old friends at our local Thai, and today Julia cooked, so I think I've pretty much done eating for the next week. (After this bowl of Weetos, of course.)

And a birthday present -

On one side, Polish composer and subject of a truly awful pun, and on the other, Rufus Sewell playing Thomas Clarkson in "Amazing Grace". Same passion, same vision, same dreadful hairstyle. But which is which? And are they related?

Birthday

You understand, I'm having to hold that Weldschmerz at bay with both arms locked. All she did was go and turn four, fer pity's sake. Four! What sort of age is that for a baby, I ask you? She did have a truly exciting day though - the postman, and random visitors, all bearing gifts (Sid opens parcels and envelopes one teeny tiny shred at a time. Who needs snow when Sid has envelopes to open) and school in the afternoon, and our lovely Sarah in the evening. The day punctuated by having to explain the difference between her birthday and her birthday party, AGAIN, and getting nowhere. Maybe I'll just declare that Sid has a birthday that lasts five days.

(Gosh. I finally found a reason to get annoyed with Picasa. I thought 'What the hell' and clicked on 'Blog This!' with the cards photo selected. Up came a nasty little box with a cut-down version of the Create Post box, which let me put a title, that one photo, and some text. I had to log all the way out, then log all the way back in to Blogger properly, and edit the post. And was it worth the effort? DON'T ANSWER THAT!)

Result

Go me. I found it - the one sure-fire way guaranteed to get your children playing happily all together.

Yell at them to tidy up. Give them specific tasks - one tidies the board games, another picks up the jigsaws, and the third PICKS UP HER DOLLS AND PUTS THEM AWAY OTHERWISE I'LL GIVE THEM TO SOMEONE WHO WILL LOVE THEM. NOW!


And bingo - three children, not whining, not fighting, not complaining, but involved in some huge project and up to their elbows in Duplo.




Now who's going to tidy up all this soddin' DUPLO!

Editorial Policy

(I made a typo in the heading, and put an 'e' at the end instead of a 'y'. Verrrry interesting . . .)

I've seen these about in the blogosphere, and every time wondered if I should have one. Instances include

• No blogging about blogging
• Stick to the point
• Wander as far from the point as incredulity will stretch
• No blogging while drunk
• No blogging while sad
• Stay anonymous
• Stay real
• No children or dogs
• Blog while pretending to be a dog

So pretty much anything goes. Some I like, some are irrelevant (I mean, the whole 'dog' thing. C'mon.) I've wandered about the interwebthingy while spannered past belief on margaritas, writing movie reviews (the one I remember was 'Outbreak'. JOM, is there any other way to review that movie? I Don't Think So). And I guess I leave the blog alone if I'm down in the mouth.

Anyway.

Sid had her induction day at nursery yesterday. Uniform, bookbag, the whole nine yards. She was thrilled to bits. It was only the new children of which there seven, most of whom she knew anyway. A lovely, gentle intro into a new regime. (Slightly marred, in my own uninformed view, by not starting properly for another week. I'm sure there are sound teacherly reasons for the delay, but right now she has NOTHING on her agenda for days and DAYS.)

I expected to feel sad, which I did, a bit, but more proud, really, of her, that she is so clearly looking forward to this huge leap, and she will manage really well. (On a side note, she is two weeks older than Kit was when I realised that he could read. Ber-limey.) Also mightily relieved that we have got this far - it's days like this I find myself wishing, for a pico-second, that I could skip to the future, a good long time away, and know that all my children are safely grown, and happy and productive citizens. Days like this when I find myself terrified of what can happen, and knowing how powerless I am to guarantee the future of my children.

Note To Self: Consider not blogging while in the grip of Weltschmerz.

Also spent today buying 11+ practice books for Kit. It's nine months away. His current plan is to study maths or chemistry at Cambridge. Always nice to have a plan. (And Beri, the youngest in his year, is, according to his teacher, the best reader in his class. I am so proud of him I am in danger of imperilling my immortal soul.)

At last, the Fat Lady. . .

. . . has given it her all. She opened her mouth, she sang, and it's ALL OVER. We can go back to being normal again. (Do you need to know I'm typing this practically in the dark? Something is wrong with the fuse for the kitchen lights, and they haven't been on all day. Cooking is chancy, washing up is very sub-standard and blogging is totally out of the question.) We are enjoying the last few days of the Christmas decorations before they go back into the attic. Here's our tree, which the children HATED - Jeremy put me in charge, so we got tasteful gold. The year he puts The Brood in charge of the tree, they can do whatever they like.

Beri spent last night being sick, poor fellow, but he has now got to an age where it will wake him up BEFORE he sicks up over himself, all his bedding, the wall and the carpet. At least twice. So he and I had a very quiet day inside, while Jeremy was at work (poor man) and K and S went off with friends, and we waited for a delivery of firewood that I was finally told was being delivered tomorrow. BORRR-RING!.

And we have been badly infected by the Racing Demon bug. The Landaus spent New Year's Eve with us, and we were up 'til 2:30 playing. Jeremy and I taught Kit, and now we keep him up WAY past his bedtime for 'just one more game'. PLEASE don't tell Social Services.