Tabloid.

I tried to hide it but I just wasn’t quick enough to whip it away. Hubby caught me red-handed.
“What are you reading?”, he asked, trying to wrestle the cushion that I’d hidden it under away from me. One could be forgiven for thinking that I had something truly naughty in my clutches.
“Er, The Independent”, I replied, attempting a look of indignant insouciance.
“Yeah right. Since when have you been interested in political comment and current affairs? Come on, own up”. And without further ado, he tickled me, I immediately conceded and he thrust the Daily Mail triumphantly into the air.
“Ha, I knew it”, he said, “I can’t believe it. You know how I feel about you reading this bloody paper and its ‘opinions”.
“Look mate”, I replied, getting up and trying to swipe the paper out of his hand, “You are not my keeper, you can’t tell me what I can and can’t read”. Hubby is very tall and when he extends his arm, a pogo stick or something similar is required to reach his hand. Undeterred, I jumped off the sofa and attempted the impossible. The dog however, got very excited by my jumping up and down and decided that he too would get a piece of the action. So what with my inelegant leaping through the air, his added barks and bounds, it was hardly surprising that all four of the children came to see what the commotion was.
As they walked into the sitting room we must have looked quite a sight. The dog and I had met mid-air and crashed into each other falling unceremoniously on top of Hubby who, unsurprisingly was under the two of us, winded and covered in slobber and dog hair.
The eldest two looked faintly disgusted, as though we’d been caught out in some unspeakable act, whilst the youngest two thought it was a green light for some high jinks.
“Yay, mummy and daddy and the dog are having a rough and tumble” and without further ado, threw themselves into the melee with gay abandon, further hindering Hubby’s chances of reclaiming his breath.
It wasn’t until several minutes later that I succeeded in extricating myself from the rug and when I finally did the Daily Mail, by some miracle, was in one piece and I ran off to finish an article I was reading. Locking the bathroom door and sitting fully clothed on the lavatory seat, I at last, found five minutes peace.
The article in question was that age old debate about working mothers and I felt compelled to reply to the columnist who was writing about her experiences of being a working mother of three and how if she wasn’t, perhaps she would have more time to devote to her little darlings and maybe at least one of her children would be well on the way to being the next Vanessa Mae.
I wanted to set her mind at rest and reassure her that had she been available to her offspring from the minute they cut the umbilical cord and every minute since it would be no guarantee whatsoever that her progeny would be prodigious.
Apart from occasional forays into education and making designer coffees a couple of times a week, I have been that ‘stay at home mom’ and what thanks do I get? Actually I don’t want thanks. I want results, something to show me that my efforts have not been in vain.
My son, as we all know, is forging his own path and no amount of nagging, coaxing, tears, bribery and downright begging have had any effect whatsoever on him considering being a barrister, doctor, surgeon or any other worthy and well paid profession. The eldest daughter, the most forthright and outspoken of them all, needs, it would seem no advice from her beleaguered mother whatsoever. Even the most delicate of subjects is taught at school these days and in fact, only this week they have dedicated a whole day to the ‘relationship’ side of sex. Is there any other I asked, appalled? By the look she, her brother and his friends threw me, obviously there is not.
Why can’t my children be just a little bit biddable, the odd acquiescent “ok”, would be most welcome. But they have strong opinions which they voice loudly, emphatically and vehemently. Even my daughter at the tender age of eight, is very much her own person and, whilst I have read her stories since she was a tiny baby and she has hundreds of books filling a groaning bookshelf, she has no interest whatsoever in the written word and just wants to dance and sing and be on “cruises”.
This has left me to pin my hopes on the youngest. Perhaps she will be my Vanessa Mae? For the fourth time, I have read stories and played dressing up endlessly, I have embarked on stimulating days out followed by searching conversation and yet this last child is my biggest worry of all. Now well into her second year of schooling, the whole learning to read thing seems a mystery and we have had to make extracurricular arrangements for catch up lessons.
Had I been out there and much to Hubby’s unconfined joy, earning a crust and she was struggling, I would feel guilty because I hadn’t given her my time but, and this is why I feel I must write to the Daily Mail lady, it obviously makes not a jot of difference. So, good for her that she made the decision to strive for a rewarding career and raise three children.
Just imagine she’d forsaken it and she’d driven home one day with her youngest child only to pass a lady carrying a Yorkshire Terrier and said child was silent for a minute before inexplicably commenting, “Did you see that woman carrying a hamster?” Imagine how she’d feel? That’s why I think I’ll tell her.

Laugh and the world laughs with you; cry...

It cannot have gone unnoticed that I have been feeling rather fed up recently. I keep reminding myself of all the things I should be thankful for and how lucky I am and I am. Truly I am. But then I have the days that make me froth at the mouth because the children are too lazy, grumpy and resolutely self-centred to the extent that, the request for help with laying the table is tantamount to child labour; the depositing of dirty pants into a conveniently placed laundry basket a foot from the bed is too much effort and it is I who has to bend, retrieve and wash said pants from the floor and then there is the issue of tantrums and much door slamming when the polite reminder of homework dares rear its ugly head. There are also the days when a lovely, new pen bought that very day is secretly played with by the youngest child and left haphazardly on the sofa so that a very blonde golden retriever can masticate it to small pieces and thus distribute black ink all over his pale, furry paws and consequently my carpet.
But most of all are the days when I look out of my kitchen window and still see 24 tons of rubble on my garden. It’s still there. Just because I don’t mention it every week does not detract from the fact that, weeks later my garden and its flora and fauna is demolished by the remains of a massive wall. How come, given how much we pay in premiums, do the insurance company always find a way of absolving themselves of any involvement whatsoever? So much has happened to us in this house that every time the answer has been an emphatic ‘No’ to our claim we have upped the ante and paid for extra cover and still they wriggle out of it. Now we are left with having to remortgage our house and the horrendous hassle to find someone to take away the rubble. Surely someone could make use of it? Why anyone would need 24 tons of 200 year old wall I don’t know but stranger things have happened. What did they do with the Berlin Wall for instance? Someone must be able to advise us. I can’t even think about a re-erection. It certainly won’t be old and historical and attractive. Chain link fence comes to mind.
Hubby and I, it goes without saying are understandably cool with each other and every time money is spent a domestic dispute swiftly follows.
“We have to eat”, I argue.
“Since when has Rioja been one of our five a day?”, he retorts.
“It’s made of grapes”, I impertinently snap. I want to add that I always buy wine that is half price but my protestations are futile especially once Hubby found the ten pound holiday vouchers I’d secretly been cutting out of the local paper, knowing that a more exotic holiday would be out of the question this, or any other foreseeable summer. Hubby demanded to know ‘what I was thinking’. I was thinking of a few days escape I wanted to reply but I didn’t, I just bit my tongue and hid them somewhere else.
Avoiding each other and speaking only when essential is easy at home, I’m at the gym a few nights of the week and at a quiz on the other; Hubby likes nothing more than playing with his playlists on his computer which is in another room to the TV, so we don’t even have to squabble over the remote control. It’s hardly domestic bliss but it works for us. Occasionally, when the kids haven’t sent us into orbit or the dog isn’t in the dog house we allow ourselves a brief hug and the attempts at gracious conversation but it rarely lasts because someone, usually within five minutes, has done something either we or their sibling wholeheartedly disapproves of and, once again after the inevitable recriminations have been doled out, the impenetrable curtain of coolness and mutual blame descends upon our union.
There are times however, frequently in fact, when Hubby and I are invited to partake in polite society. We are expected to sing for our supper and be witty and good value and loquacious; entertaining dits must be spun. We must show warmth and generosity of spirit not only to our hosts and fellow guests but also to each other. Given however, that more often than not, our arrival at our destination was immediately preceded by stress and shouting and making tea for the rest of the family first and myriad other things I have to do before leaving the house, then the fact that we enter homes with smiles and kisses and enthusiastically proffer bottles of wine and boxes of chocolate, is nothing short of a miracle.
The other night was one of those nights. Even though minutes before I’d sulked, “You’re all in the Navy, that’s all you’ll talk about”, we walked in smiling broadly. We ate good food and drank excellent wine but the conversation was far from dull especially when one chap regaled us with a story of showing Margaret Thatcher around a warship. She had wanted to see all of it, including the Chinese laundry. When they got to that end of the ship, far from seeing the sailors smalls go round and round in the washing machine, there were a couple of chickens in there instead. Dead and plucked of course their wings still flapped as the drum turned them over and over. By all accounts it’s a good way of steaming them.
I was tickled pink by this little anecdote and laughed and laughed and, as anyone will attest, laughter really is the best remedy. Hubby and I left therefore holding hands and kissing. Long may it last but I’m buying a Billy Connolly DVD just to be on the safe side..

Situation Vacant.

“Bloody thing has shrunk at the dry cleaners”, grumbled Hubby the other evening whilst sorting out his mess undress uniform.
“I hate to tell you this”, I hated to tell him, “but they use chemicals at the dry cleaners, not soap and water, ergo your waistcoat hasn’t shrunk, more er, your tummy has grown”. His face dropped.
“Look on the bright side”, I added, breezily, “You are very tall and still exceedingly dashing. It’s just that you were skinny before, and now as you’re getting older, you look, well, more normal”.
“And everything was going so well then Alice. Did you have to bring my age into the equation?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Men. They’re so touchy. He’ll be asking me if his bum looks big next.
“Let it out a little bit and hold your gut in. Women have been doing it for years. I have pants in fact that do it for me. Do you want to borrow them?”
“Ew!”, said the 14 year old walking in on proceedings, “What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to lend daddy my ‘hold your tummy in, wonder knickers’. That’s all.”
She looked at me agog. “Oh great, that’s all I need, a cross dressing father”.
“And I was led to believe that you and your brother are so right on. Isn’t there a Facebook status that says, Miss Know-it-All Band has become a fan of the group ‘my dad wears my mother’s knickers and its cool with me’?”
“God mum, you are so lame” and without more ado she flounced out as quickly as she had flounced in.
“Nice one Alice. You know how to alienate your children”. Hubby was hardly in a position to criticize given that he was still tugging and twisting at his waistcoat and was getting demonstrably more agitated as the moments passed.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, unravelling him, “I was only joking, unless of course you genuinely do fancy the idea of donning my undergarments?”
He looked at me grimly.
“Anyway, why did she say, ‘that’s all I need?’ and why did you add that I know how to alienate my children? What’s going on? Please, tell me, is there something I should know?”
“Alice you’re starting to sound like Simon Le Bon. No, she just has a few teenage issues she’s dealing with, that’s all”.
What? My girl was having issues and I didn’t know anything about it yet my husband did? How come? Was it easier to talk to her father than me?
A dark cloud of doom settled above my head. I tried to analyse the past few days and pinpoint a moment where she had seemed anguished. It was usually physics and Spanish that was the main arena for despair.
I got up and went to my computer and looked at her Facebook page. My God, it come to this. I had to check what they were telling the world to know the intimate feelings of my own children?
Her status seemed innocuous enough in that she detested badminton. Nothing new there then. Whacking a shuttlecock around in my gym knickers never did it for me either.
I went and knocked on her brother’s door and asked, “What’s wrong with your sister?”
“Narrow it down a bit for me Ma, I have so many of them that there is probably a collective noun for them.” I sighed.
“I’m talking about the eldest one. Dad knows something I don’t. Should I be concerned? Is it serious? Is she being bullied?”
“No ma, she is not being bullied”.
“Oh, so there is something then and I am the last to know”. He turned once again to his computer as though in an attempt to block me out.
“What is it?” I demanded. He refused to look at me but just said, “Just let it go mum ok?” before turning the volume up.
I exited his room distracted. I have spent the last 17 years doing everything but breathe for my children and now, just as they are growing up and when I thought we might be friends where they would tell me everything, it would seem in fact, as though they view me as the inaccessible, judgemental, indifferent mothers of yore. I might as well have sent them to boarding school like several of my friends did with their darlings. They seem to cope far better with remote teenagers and are not in the slightest wounded by their offspring’s lack for need of a maternal confidant.
Hubby looked more than bewildered when I left the house 10 minutes later in my gym kit, my eyes puffy and my face blotchy.
“I’m going to Legs, Bums and Tums”, I sniffled. It was a hard workout and momentarily the pain in my glutes and hamstrings over-rode the pain in my heart but, as we stretched to some gentle exercises to cool down my thoughts once again drifted to those of my children. Luckily Mags was there and having seen my lachrymose appearance had mouthed during a Beyonce number “Want to talk?” Having been in the middle of a fast, grapevine routine however, talking had been out of the question and I’d meekly nodded.
Later, we sat in the village pub in front of a roaring log fire, cradling a diet coke each and I poured out my misgivings to her. “I might as well move out Mags”, I said, “I’ll take the babies with me but the others don’t need me. Hell you wouldn’t put up with a job where your colleagues made you feel so unvalued and there was such little job satisfaction. I may as well hand in my notice. Let’s be honest, they can pay someone to wash and cook and clean their bedrooms”. Expecting her to nudge me in a ‘come on it’s not that bad’ way, she didn’t. Instead, she listened intently and added, soberly, “Find a flat big enough and I’ll come with you”.

Driving me crazy.

The Rock Star, aka our 17 year old son, loped into my bedroom the other night. Now when I was 17 I’d been in bed for hours by midnight. These days one’s children think they can have an audience with you at any given time of day, or preferably, night.
“So, ma”, he said, sitting on my bed and switching on my bedside light. I squinted and groaned and pulled the duvet over my head.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” came my muffled response. He pulled the duvet down enough so that my face was visible.
“Hell ma, what’s happened to your skin?” I flew my hand up to my cheek and realised that, due to the cold weather, I’d taken the advice of some skincare expert and plastered on ultra thick night cream, consequently, having been asleep for an hour and then having hid my face in the bed linen, a tissue and much lint type stuff had adhered itself to the cream. I must have been quite a sight to behold. Luckily Hubby was out for the count bedside me.
“It’ll wash off”, I said, “So why aren’t you asleep? You’re not even undressed”.
“Ma, it’s only twelve”.
“Only twelve? You’ve got school tomorrow, not to mention your first driving lesson. You need to get a good night’s sleep”.
“Okay, okay, I’m a growing lad and all that”. He smirked. They think they know it all.
“Well actually you are. What the hell are you doing in there anyway?”
“Loads of my friends are on Facebook at the moment. I was chatting”.
“There is no way that what you were doing in there is any approximation of chatting. You were in fact typing”, I said, “Moreover, chatting elicits facial expression, mutual listening, a nod of the head that sort of thing. A real smile cannot be replaced by a ‘smiley’ or a nudge or a poke or whatever it is you people do to each other these days.
“These days?”, he guffawed, “Mum you have more Facebook friends than I do”. He had a point.
“I’m too tired for all this midnight badinage, what do you want?”
“You know we’ve got this gig on Friday?” I knew. What about it?
“Well I need an amp”. This meant nothing to me; the only amps I’d ever had any dealings with were of the 13 variety when the fridge fused.
“As in amplifier ma”.
“But grand-dad bought you a fab one for Christmas last year. Why can’t you use that one?”
“It’s not big enough for a pub situation Alice”. That was clever, Hubby looked dead to the world and yet here he was able to join a conversation whilst still officially asleep. Like some somnambulant ventriloquist.
“See?”, said my son, “I’m going to be totally crap if they can’t hear my bass”.
“Less of the crap love there’s a good boy. Anyway, you knew this at dinner, why didn’t you mention it then, why must we talk bands and gigs and amplifiers in the middle of the night?”
“She’s got a point son” added Hubby helpfully, “C’mon mate we’ll discuss this tomorrow. I’ve got a big, honcho VIP coming to work at o’crack sparrow. I need my beauty sleep” then crushing me in the process and squashing the living breath out of me, Hubby leaned over and extinguished the light. He then kissed our son, gave me a quick peck, mumbled something along the lines of ‘you might want to address whatever it is on your face’ and within seconds was snoring.
“Will you sort it out for me then ma?” whispered my son, “Only I’ve got a busy day tomorrow what with the driving and all”.
He gave me a hug and went back to his room, to sleep presumably. I snuggled back down into my bedding and waited for the waves of unconsciousness to envelop me. I waited, then turned, then tossed, then rearranged a pillow, then tutted at Hubby and nudged him, then lay flat on my back eyes wide open and stared in the darkness at the ceiling.
How on earth could my baby boy be learning to drive? How was that possible? How could I let him do it? Then, as is always possible but luckily not very frequent, the deep dark night of the soul grasped me and I lay there fretting, terrified of the ramifications of my gorgeous boy out there on the killer roads of Britain.
What if he got in the car with one of his friends who’d been drinking? What if he drove and drank? What if he was silly and drove too fast? What if he fell asleep at the wheel after one of his ‘gigs’? There had been mention of going to see a band in Bristol. Bristol! That’s up the motorway. The deep dark night of the soul insisted, like the ghost of Christmas Future that I watch him and his friends laughing together in the car, singing along to the music, oblivious to the truck bearing down on them....
I sat bolt upright in bed. My skin was clammy and my heart was beating like the clappers. I got up and pulled my dressing gown around me then went into the Rock Star’s room.
He had one leg in a pant and one out; earphones were glued to his lug holes. I flung my arms around him. He jumped out of his skin.
“Bloody hell Ma”. I squeezed him tight.
“I love you so much. Please be careful tomorrow won’t you? Don’t go fast. Don’t ever drink and drive. Don’t be distracted, don’t...”.
“Ma, it’s my first lesson. I’ll probably just turn on the ignition. Besides don’t you think that 17 years of being parented by you wouldn’t have rubbed off? Are you not familiar with the works of Philip Larkin? I consider every driver out there to be a potential murderer and recklessness akin to suicide.”
Excellent. I’ve done a good job.

Repeating on me.

“What goes around Alice, comes around”. I don’t think Hubby quite understood the sentiment of that statement.
“What are you talking about?”, I asked, standing at the kitchen window and looking at the devastation in the garden.
“Well,” said Hubby, pondering. “ I think it means what has happened before will happen again”.
“It doesn’t mean that at all”, I said, slapping my forehead.
“What then?” Hubby asked looking both wounded and confused.
“It’s more karmic.” That was the wrong word to use. Hubby suddenly looked utterly bewildered.
“Oh, don’t worry your pretty head about it but basically it means that if you behave in a particular way i.e kindly, then you will be repaid by kindness or conversely nastiness, if you were nasty in the first place”.
“Oh”.
“It does not mean that if you have paid thousands to repair a patch of your two hundred year old garden wall then expect the rest of it to fall, with dramatic results into your garden, months later.”
Once again I looked out of the window at the slate and rubble, ivy and God knows what that was obliterating half of my garden. My enormous and very expensive terracotta pot and its huge palm tree that I’d bought as a big treat when we’d moved in, was lying forlornly on its side, partially covered by detritus. My garden furniture, lawn, rosemary bush, rhododendrons, clematis and banana tree were wiped out by wreckage. A doll’s plastic arm poked grotesquely out of the debris. It looked like a scene of a natural disaster from the News at 10.
I kept trying a mantra of ‘It’s only a wall, it’s only a wall’ but it was no use. The spectacle of it combined with the horrific possibility that it could have fallen the other way onto the pavement and onto some poor, unsuspecting passer-by was making me feel sick and there was no alternative other than to reach for Bach’s Rescue Remedy.
“Come on darling” said Hubby gently massaging my shoulders, “We’ll get it sorted”. I dropped the liquid onto my tongue and waited for calm. It lasted a nano second. Here came the storm.
“Mum”, said the 14 year old walking into the kitchen, “I’ve just flushed the loo and it’s making a funny noise”.
Hubby and I immediately swung our heads around to look at each other just as cartoon characters do when they both think of the same thing at the same time. The scrambling music that accompanies such an action was almost audible as he and I scarpered through the kitchen, into the hall, through the dining room and up the stairs. Given what had happened with the wall, we could now foresee a torrent of water and whatnot pouring through our sitting room ceiling. As it has done in the past. Twice. Swiftly followed by the ceiling falling down.
On entering the bathroom however we were immensely relieved to find that the Saniflo loo had not overflowed but that it was indeed making a ‘funny noise’.
“Stand back”, said Hubby, heroically, “I’ve dealt with this before, I’ve got it covered”. Hubby sounded as though he were about to do battle with a particularly ferocious dragon but I was not going to argue. I find it exceptionally sexy when a man takes charge and mends things.
“Fetch me a bucket, old towels and such like”, were his instructions. It seems men require the same equipment whether they are unblocking a loo or assisting with the birth of a baby. I did as I was bid before returning to my more traditional role of kitchen maid.
Forty minutes later Hubby found me folding laundry.
“Sorted?”, I asked beaming up at him.
“Nope, I’ve wrapped my hand in. It’s a job for a specialist”.
“You’re kidding?” I said, glumly. I think I was more disappointed that my hero had not been able to address the situation than our upstairs loo was out of action and would now have to be mended by an engineer.
“Nope, it’s well and truly kaput”. Hubby rifled through the kitchen drawers.
“What are you looking for?”
“Harry maskers. I need to seal the loo seat so that no errant bum sits on it by accident and causes all sorts of unmentionable horrors”.
Retrieving a sock from the bowels of the washing machine, I then stepped down into the kitchen and once again reached for the tincture that would hopefully ‘help me cope with balancing life’s ups and downs’.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Let’s move. Let’s by a new house. One of those brand new executive things. Better still let’s rent. Let’s move to Australia. Nothing’s old there. It’s warm; we wouldn’t have to cope with this freezing weather. Our money would go further. Would the Australian Navy have you? Let’s do it. That’s it, a new decade and a new life. I’m going to Google it”.
Hubby grabbed my wrist and wrestled the rescue remedy from me.
“You’re manic Alice. How much of this have you taken?” He read the packaging.
“It says four drops onto the tongue as it ‘assists you return to a more positive outlook when you need comfort and reassurance’. A more positive outlook Alice? That means keeping things in perspective when walls come down and lavatories break. It does not suggest, even in the small print, a radical lifestyle change with the possibility of emigration to Australia. Now breathe into a paper bag and chill out.”
I have been through several paper bags since. Especially given the very negative response from both the insurance company and the rubble collector. Good to know then that, when the proverbial poop literally hits the fan, the Saniflo plumber with his optimism and bleach, a cuppa and a piece of cake was able to get my loo flushing with impunity.

Oh Boy.

“There is a surfeit of, well just about everything”, I said, not to anyone in particular as the only living creatures there to hear me were the dog and three cats and, whilst I am awfully fond of all them and appreciate their companionship enormously, it would be pushing it to say they are good conversationalists.
It was Boxing day. The rest of the family were still in bed, even the littlest girls had given up on their Plymobil pyramid and slept in. Sighing, I scraped the vestiges of Christmas Day’s dinner into yet another bulging black bin liner. The pudding had dried overnight and had adhered itself to my posh plates like cement, it was no wonder then that all our tummies felt distended and the aromas emanating from various guests’ nether regions was toxic.
The dog looked particularly eager to help with the task of clearing the food but as I had yet to locate a whole tin of barely opened Quality Street I couldn’t take the chance of feeding him anything other than his customary Large Breed Maintenance kibble, just in case. Pushing him out of the way, I replaced foil on the turkey and ham and cling film on the pudding and trifle. The cheese too needed re-wrapping. I tried to rearrange the fridge but it was an onerous task. Creams, salads and pickles vied for attention on every shelf, vegetables that hadn’t made the first cut were desperate now to be peeled and prepared but I wondered when any of us would ever again be able to look a sprout in the eye let alone of dish of pureed swede.
Even the cava, which was stuffed in the door of the fridge, was making me feel a little sweaty. Had I really needed to drink it from breakfast the previous day? I was so proud of my home-made sloe gin though, that I’d been eager to try a couple of Sloe-motion cocktails. They’d been very moreish. Yesterday.
It was all too, too much and we still had Boxing Day to get through when all that was left would be reheated and served with chips as opposed to goose fat, crispy, roast potatoes. Hubby walked in, looking I might add, a little dyspeptic.
“Morning love”, he said, with a pained expression and holding his belly and burping, “Oh sorry. Dear God, we ate a lot yesterday”. And kissing me as he walked past, he patted the dog with one hand and lifted the full bin liner with the other and carried it into the garden, to sit, jostled amongst the other five hundred.
“I slept like the dead though”, I said, putting the glass, turkey shaped dish of cranberry sauce on the bottom shelf, next to the whole St Endellion Cornish brie, that had about two millimetres cut from it.
“Which”, I added, “is probably more than can be said for my brother and his wife”. Forget the books, the scent, bath-salts and CDs which are a given on any Christmas, our greatest gift this year and joy to the world, was the birth of my baby nephew on Christmas Eve morning. Fabulous. Hope springs eternal with the birth of a new baby and he is a big and bouncing nine pounder. Having had a couple that size, I remember vividly the nourishment they need to keep their weight on a continuing upward trend on the all important percentile chart which paediatricians, midwives and health visitors obsess about. It’s a full time job that continues all morning, a lot of the afternoon, a few hours in the evening, oh and most of the night.
“Poor them”, said Hubby, opening the dishwasher stiffly, “Lovely as he is I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.”
“He’s exquisite”, I replied then, very slowly, added, “Would you consider a reversal?”
Hubby who was bent over emptying the dishwasher, jumped up as though electrocuted, a bloody great big carving knife in his hand.
“It’s ok”, I laughed, shieing away, “I was only joking”.
“Jeeze Alice, don’t do that to me, my tubes have been well and truly snipped and I can assure you that much as I look forward to cuddling my nephew, I do not, under any circumstances, want any surgeon, anywhere near, any part of my severed vas deferens”.
“Hmm” I said, “Emphatic.” We put the rest of the clean dishes away in silence and refilled the dishwasher and put another washing cycle on. By the time we’d made a couple of cups of tea, two sleepy headed little girls came into the kitchen and muttered something about poached eggs.
“Won’t a bowl of cocoa pops do darling?” I asked, “Only I really don’t want to perform the slightest culinary task before midday”.
Speaking of which, at the stroke of midday, more people turned up for lunch including a pale looking brother and his daughter. The other half of his family were finally sleeping.
Later, once everyone had gone home, I threw aside my apron, donned a new skirt and we all went by taxi round to Mag’s house for a soiree. It was bliss to sit in someone else’s house and not be responsible for what was in the oven.
Mags has a lovely house, full of interesting objets d’art and antiques hither and yon, one piece being a chamber pot that sits next to the downstairs loo. I was a little distracted however when, on pulling up my tights and looking down, seeing that the chamber pot had been, how can I put this delicately, utilised. Quietly, I found Mags and whispered my discovery before she rushed away, blushing. Minutes later she returned laughing hysterically, the chamber pot in her hand and tears pouring down her face. She could barely stand upright.
“What is it?”, I asked, laughing too.
“It’s not a poo”, she howled, “It’s a chocolate profiterole”. To which the Red-Head quipped,
“I didn’t like it and couldn’t find a bin”.

Tall tree syndrome.

Once more it was that time of year. That time when we all pretend it’s actually really great fun to go and march around a boggy field and look for the perfect tree. Tradition. Family time. Call it what you will. In reality the little ones find it too boring, Hubby too expensive and the teenagers are barely functional, having had to get up far too early. The teenage girl was this year even grumpier because she was self conscious of her ‘blokey wellies’ and so, terrified she’d see someone she knew, resolutely refused to look up, instead hiding her face in her hat and scarf so that she could barely see the trees, utterly defeating the object. This annoyed me intensely and the crosser I got with her the moodier she became. The youngest of all, who started out full of beans with Christmas joy, ran on ahead only to go flying in the sludge and thus have half a pound of wet, cold sticky mud up her cuff and sleeve. The two of them gave up at that point and withdrew to the brazier to toast marshmallows and chestnuts. It was freezing. Having left my lovely thermal socks at home in the dog’s mouth, I only had a pair of regular ones on and my tootsies were numb. None of us could agree on which tree was the one and tempers were becoming fraught. It was so dense in the middle of the forest that, to muddle a phrase, you couldn’t see the trees for the wood. The seven year old had forgotten her raison d’etre and was having more fun with the horn which was to be honked when the ideal tree was found. Once heard, a chap on a tractor would come and find you and cut down said tree.
“So, sorry, just our daughter fooling around again”, Hubby said apologetically, as the little John Dere approached us eagerly.
The driver was not impressed.
“Have you never heard of the boy who cried wolf?”, Hubby asked our daughter sharply.
“Are there wolves in these woods then?” she answered, eyes as big as saucers, “Would you leave me here to be torn limb from limb by a pack?”
Hubby rolled his eyes, “Maybe but that’s not the point I’m making here.”
“What is it then?”, she asked.
“My point is that when we find our tree, we will need to have it cut down and brought up to the car and the more you annoy these chaps by honking your horn indiscriminately, the less likely they are to come to help us when we really need them”.
“That story has nothing to do with a wolf at all dad”, she said walking away. Hubby looked at me, I just shrugged.
“Don’t get Aesop involved”, I said, “Not unless you know a fable regarding the recklessness of wearing inappropriate clothing and the consequent metamorphosis of digits to frozen chipolatas”. I hopped from foot to foot, blowing on my hands, suddenly our son hollered,
“How about this one?”
Because of the concentration of trees, it was difficult to judge if it was perfect but, as I’ve long given up on perfection and now embrace an ‘it’ll do’ attitude, I wasn’t going to argue. That said, when we all looked up to the sky, the tree in question did look particularly tall.
“It’ll be alright when it’s cut down” said Hubby optimistically.
“The one next to it looks good too”, I added.
“Are we really going to go for two trees this year Alice? They are such a pain to erect”.
“Daddy please” wailed the 7 year old, “Don’t ruin my childhood by breaking with tradition”.
Once more Hubby looked at me quizzically and once more I shrugged my shoulders,
“Blame Hannah Montana”, I said.
“Go on then”, Hubby instructed, “You can now legitimately honk your horn”. She did so and a couple of minutes later, the little John Dere came trundling, tentatively, across the track.
“It’s ok”, said Hubby smiling, “It’s legit. We’ve found our trees”. I left them to the sawing and loading and went in search of my other daughters, who I found cuddled around the brazier, the younger of the two absolutely covered in melted marshmallows. From her chin to her knees strings of it stuck to her like PVA glue.
“What on earth have you been up to?” I asked. My eldest daughter explained.
“She doesn’t like the toasted bit so she bites the end off and then dribbles it out of her mouth. It’s quite gross”. I made a futile dab at her person with a screwed up tissue I had in my pocket, but this only resulted in the tissue sticking to her face making her resemble a rather dubious Santa.
Seconds later our trees, my husband and two other children appeared. We lifted the trees from the trailer and attempted to put them on the roof of the car. This is the moment I knew that the day could only degenerate into profanity, pain and persistence.
As Hubby strapped one of the trees onto the car before coming back for the other later, one of the employees came up to him.
“Need any help? If not that’ll be £110 please”. Hubby audibly gasped before turning ashen, before glaring at me.
We drove home in silence where the rest of the day was spent attempting to find ways to get the trees not only into the house, but standing upright. Twice I’ve got up this week to find one of them on the floor, decorations scattered. After several efforts, a lot of swearing and many millions of pine needles piercing Hubby, it prompted the 7 year old to joke –
“You are like a ‘pine-cushion dad’”, it is now anchored to the radiator.
Which leaves me to breathe out a sigh of relief, raise a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream and wish you all a Merry Christmas x