'What about that one?' asks Beth.
'No. Sorry. Too .......green.'
'Well, how about this?'
'No...it's that rolling, endless landscape. It's like a peep into eternity.'
'It's not, Mum. It's just some fields and things. You're reading too much into it.'
We're in town and I'm in search of a greetings card. Beth is currently being Perfect Child and, given her behaviour in the last episode, quite right too.
The card has got to be blank, neutral yet cheering but in a restrained sort of way.
Yet another friend has been diagnosed with some grim sounding ailment and is about to be whisked into hospital for tests, more tests, surgery and no doubt a bonus dose of MRSA if she fails to express sufficient gratitude for her treatment.
So it's card time. And there's nothing like hunting for one whose picture balances empathy with a judicious amount of optimism to throw me into a kind of shop-induced coma.
I have only to see the words 'blank inside,' on a dinky piece of folded cardboard to feel exactly the same way.
'It's those pictures,' I tell Beth. 'They're all landscapes with hills. And what do you get with hills?'
'A great view? Snow? Sore legs? I dunno.'
'Valleys,' I say, with a certain bleak triumph.
'Yeah......So?'
'The Valley of Death,' I say.
She looks as blank as one of the cards.
'So what you could read into that card is an implication that they might not get better.'
'She'll just be pleased to get a card. Nobody analyses get-well cards.'
'I do,' I say. 'Somebody sent me a picture of lillies in a vase once and it took Francis two weeks to convince me it wasn't a death threat in code.'
We gaze together at the rows of stationery.
'And that's another thing,' I say. 'Have you noticed there's never anything living in those blank cards.'
'There's trees. Flowers.'
'Yes, but there's no animals. No people. Nothing apart from endless vegetation. What does that suggest to you?'
'A bunch of crap artists who couldn't draw animals.'
'No. It suggests the solitude of death.'
Beth gives up, chooses a card for me and propels me towards the checkout. She is, sadly, bigger than me, and I am powerless to resist.
Just after we've paid, Vicky sends me a text announcing the arrival of an exciting and possibly fatal new illness in one of our previously disease- free friends.
'Is there anything I can do?' I ask.
'Shouting "God's a ******* **** might help,"' she texts back. Despite myself, I laugh out loud.
Showing posts with label Beth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Beth. Show all posts
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
Friday, 14 November 2008
Sardines and martyrs
"You can't go to work like that."
"I've got to," says Francis, struggling out of bed.
"Surely they can function without you, especially when you're being sick every 20 minutes."
"Ten minutes, now," he says. "'scuse me." He marches, rather hastily, off in the direction of the loo.
"Why does Daddy have to go to the office when he's ill?" asks Deborah.
"He's a martyr to his job," I say.
"What's a martyr?"
"Somebody who suffers greatly, often for a cause they believe in," I say.
"Do sardines count as a cause?" says Beth, who has wandered in and is now leaning against one of the kitchen units, looking on while I unpack the dishwasher.
"In Daddy's case, I think so," I say. "And WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING ME? WHY AM I DOING ALL THIS ON MY OWN AGAIN. YOU'RE NEARLY FIFTEEN!"
Such is the volume of my screaming that the cat and dog both fight to be the first to exit through the pet flap. There's the crack of glasses fracturing in the cupboards while, outside, ancient trees crash to the ground. In the distance, I think I can hear a plane's engines cut out and restart again.
"Why are you so cross?" says Beth. "You know I never notice things that need doing so if you want help you'll have to remind me. I keep telling you but you just don't listen."
She saunters over to the dishwasher and from the assorted plates, pans, crockery removes a very small teaspoon. Holding this carefully between the ends of two just nail polished fingers, she takes it over to the cutlery drawer and puts it in.
Francis, still white about the gills, reappears.
"What's all the shouting?" he says. "It's not going to help Leo's behaviour at school?"
I take a deep breath.
"IT'S BETH!" I shout just as Beth, equally loudly yells, "MUM JUST - "
"Must go," says Francis. "I'd have a nice cup of tea."
"If you're really throwing up every ten minutes I calculate it's going to take you six hours to get to work," I say.
"Better get going then," says Francis and leaves.
"I've got to," says Francis, struggling out of bed.
"Surely they can function without you, especially when you're being sick every 20 minutes."
"Ten minutes, now," he says. "'scuse me." He marches, rather hastily, off in the direction of the loo.
"Why does Daddy have to go to the office when he's ill?" asks Deborah.
"He's a martyr to his job," I say.
"What's a martyr?"
"Somebody who suffers greatly, often for a cause they believe in," I say.
"Do sardines count as a cause?" says Beth, who has wandered in and is now leaning against one of the kitchen units, looking on while I unpack the dishwasher.
"In Daddy's case, I think so," I say. "And WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING ME? WHY AM I DOING ALL THIS ON MY OWN AGAIN. YOU'RE NEARLY FIFTEEN!"
Such is the volume of my screaming that the cat and dog both fight to be the first to exit through the pet flap. There's the crack of glasses fracturing in the cupboards while, outside, ancient trees crash to the ground. In the distance, I think I can hear a plane's engines cut out and restart again.
"Why are you so cross?" says Beth. "You know I never notice things that need doing so if you want help you'll have to remind me. I keep telling you but you just don't listen."
She saunters over to the dishwasher and from the assorted plates, pans, crockery removes a very small teaspoon. Holding this carefully between the ends of two just nail polished fingers, she takes it over to the cutlery drawer and puts it in.
Francis, still white about the gills, reappears.
"What's all the shouting?" he says. "It's not going to help Leo's behaviour at school?"
I take a deep breath.
"IT'S BETH!" I shout just as Beth, equally loudly yells, "MUM JUST - "
"Must go," says Francis. "I'd have a nice cup of tea."
"If you're really throwing up every ten minutes I calculate it's going to take you six hours to get to work," I say.
"Better get going then," says Francis and leaves.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
My daughter the writer
Looking at the small spider in the sealed wineglass, I glance up at my Mum.
‘Mum, it’s an ordinary house spider, nothing dangerous about it.’
I give the glass a tap to prove my point.
My Mum has always been a worrier – to say she’s a bit overcautious is like saying that the Queen is only a bit royal. She sees danger everywhere; it would be no surprise to find her scanning the sky for asteroids on collision course with earth, and her policy is quite simply, ‘If it moves, insure it.’
So when Mum found a spider nestling in the grapes, we all laughed when she claimed it was poisonous. It was just your average spider - small, brown and shiny. But Mum insisted it had an unusual mark on its back, like a double arrow.
But Mum was not going to be persuaded. “I’m not going to kill it, that would be cruel, and I’m not going to let it go either, just in case it is poisonous.”
Instead, she got in touch with the Natural History Museum. We waited around, expecting them to give her a polite brush off, but instead, Mum informed us that they wanted to see the spider. She sent it off in an old spice bottle, padded with damp tissue paper and waited excitedly for the results.
A few days later, she got a letter back from the museum.
“I’m right!” she called as she waved the piece of paper proudly. “It’s a poisonous False Widow Spider.”
Our over cautious Mum really was right – her spider belonged was officially known as a Steatoda paykullianus, apparently regular stowaways in grapes from Southern Europe. Although their bites are not fatal, they can inflict a lot of pain and swelling.
Mum was thrilled. Although she is still over cautious, we’ve learnt that sometimes, her worries aren’t always completely over the top.
Beth. Aged 14
‘Mum, it’s an ordinary house spider, nothing dangerous about it.’
I give the glass a tap to prove my point.
My Mum has always been a worrier – to say she’s a bit overcautious is like saying that the Queen is only a bit royal. She sees danger everywhere; it would be no surprise to find her scanning the sky for asteroids on collision course with earth, and her policy is quite simply, ‘If it moves, insure it.’
So when Mum found a spider nestling in the grapes, we all laughed when she claimed it was poisonous. It was just your average spider - small, brown and shiny. But Mum insisted it had an unusual mark on its back, like a double arrow.
But Mum was not going to be persuaded. “I’m not going to kill it, that would be cruel, and I’m not going to let it go either, just in case it is poisonous.”
Instead, she got in touch with the Natural History Museum. We waited around, expecting them to give her a polite brush off, but instead, Mum informed us that they wanted to see the spider. She sent it off in an old spice bottle, padded with damp tissue paper and waited excitedly for the results.
A few days later, she got a letter back from the museum.
“I’m right!” she called as she waved the piece of paper proudly. “It’s a poisonous False Widow Spider.”
Our over cautious Mum really was right – her spider belonged was officially known as a Steatoda paykullianus, apparently regular stowaways in grapes from Southern Europe. Although their bites are not fatal, they can inflict a lot of pain and swelling.
Mum was thrilled. Although she is still over cautious, we’ve learnt that sometimes, her worries aren’t always completely over the top.
Beth. Aged 14
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
Mothers, daughters and colour coding
"This really isn't what I call a mother and daughter shopping trip," says Beth, staring round the packed shelves.
"What's wrong with it?" I say. "There's more things than you can shake a stick at. And that's what it's all about. Things. Looking at them. Trying them on. Laughing at ourselves. A rare moment of inter-generational togetherness."
"No offence," she says, "but somehow, when you said 'let's hit the shops,' I wasn't thinking Oxfam."
"You're striking a blow againsy rampant materialism," I say. "Be proud. This is the first of many sub prime shopping trips. And it's my treat. I've got two pounds in small change in my pocket, and I'm not afraid to dig deep into it."
"Too kind," says Beth. "Well, I suppose I could look at the books."
She wanders off.
Meanwhile, as I run my eyes up and down the shelves, not letting them settle for two long lest somebody sticks a price tag to the iris and tries to flog them, I can't help overhearing the conversation between two other customers.
Their conversation sounds completely normal. But it is also extraordinary because it is completely lacking in inflection; so flat, so unaccented that it is as if they have learnt their words by heart before they came out and are now acting their lines in public but without any real feeling for the words.
"Isn't that nice? It's not too tight on my bottom, is it?"
"I think we might nearly have spent our money..."
"That would look nice, wouldn't it, on a hot summer's day?"
The smaller of the two women has a neat bob of black hair surrounding the tiniest of faces, a downturned mouth. She utters her lines in a vaguely nasal voice that is lacking all conviction. I listen, avidly.
"What does this look like?"
"You could wear it in the winter...."
"It's a bit big. I'd have to put poppers on it. What do you think?"
There's no sequence, no conclusion, no continuity. I am surrounded by their words, pushing my way through them like somebody in a snowstorm when Beth, fortunately, reappears.
"Come and see the books," she hisses and drags me to the back of the shop.
The books look - odd, somehow but, like the conversation I've just overheard, it's hard to pinpoint exactly why that should be.
Then - "Do you see?" says Beth. "Look at the way they've been arranged."
I look again and see that she's right. The books haven't been arranged by topic - Crime, Fiction, Biography; nor by author, alphabetically. Instead, somebody has painstakingly organised them by colour.
There are five shelves of books with white spines. Another three or four with dark blue or black spines. Other colours take their place in a rainbow like display between them. It's magnificent. It's striking. And, unless you happen to know exactly which colour your favourite authors are published in, it's almost completely hopeless.
We admire it for a while, then leave, empty handed.
"You see," I say. "That was very good for us both. What about Princess Alice next time. I hear they do a great line in almost matching lampshades?"
"What's wrong with it?" I say. "There's more things than you can shake a stick at. And that's what it's all about. Things. Looking at them. Trying them on. Laughing at ourselves. A rare moment of inter-generational togetherness."
"No offence," she says, "but somehow, when you said 'let's hit the shops,' I wasn't thinking Oxfam."
"You're striking a blow againsy rampant materialism," I say. "Be proud. This is the first of many sub prime shopping trips. And it's my treat. I've got two pounds in small change in my pocket, and I'm not afraid to dig deep into it."
"Too kind," says Beth. "Well, I suppose I could look at the books."
She wanders off.
Meanwhile, as I run my eyes up and down the shelves, not letting them settle for two long lest somebody sticks a price tag to the iris and tries to flog them, I can't help overhearing the conversation between two other customers.
Their conversation sounds completely normal. But it is also extraordinary because it is completely lacking in inflection; so flat, so unaccented that it is as if they have learnt their words by heart before they came out and are now acting their lines in public but without any real feeling for the words.
"Isn't that nice? It's not too tight on my bottom, is it?"
"I think we might nearly have spent our money..."
"That would look nice, wouldn't it, on a hot summer's day?"
The smaller of the two women has a neat bob of black hair surrounding the tiniest of faces, a downturned mouth. She utters her lines in a vaguely nasal voice that is lacking all conviction. I listen, avidly.
"What does this look like?"
"You could wear it in the winter...."
"It's a bit big. I'd have to put poppers on it. What do you think?"
There's no sequence, no conclusion, no continuity. I am surrounded by their words, pushing my way through them like somebody in a snowstorm when Beth, fortunately, reappears.
"Come and see the books," she hisses and drags me to the back of the shop.
The books look - odd, somehow but, like the conversation I've just overheard, it's hard to pinpoint exactly why that should be.
Then - "Do you see?" says Beth. "Look at the way they've been arranged."
I look again and see that she's right. The books haven't been arranged by topic - Crime, Fiction, Biography; nor by author, alphabetically. Instead, somebody has painstakingly organised them by colour.
There are five shelves of books with white spines. Another three or four with dark blue or black spines. Other colours take their place in a rainbow like display between them. It's magnificent. It's striking. And, unless you happen to know exactly which colour your favourite authors are published in, it's almost completely hopeless.
We admire it for a while, then leave, empty handed.
"You see," I say. "That was very good for us both. What about Princess Alice next time. I hear they do a great line in almost matching lampshades?"
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
The hair straightener solution
I'm waiting to collect Beth from sports training. She's late, no doubt because she's trying to straighten her hair: currently her answer to all problems, big and small, and no doubt something that would form a cornerstone of her considered approach to global warming, food shortages and the ethics of bio-crops.
Two boys, who are about her age, saunter past, deep in conversation:
"Mine knows how much homework I've got but she's still on at me, all the time. 'Get up.' 'You need to need to help.' 'I can't do this on my own.' She just doesn't realise how tired I am after a full day at school."
"Mine does it all. No stopping her. But her timing! She waits until I've finished my homework and I'm watching something really good on TV and then it starts. BZZZZZZZZ...And if it's football, you can guarantee she'll be vacuuming right in front of the screen just when they score the vital goal. I ask her to move but of course she doesn't take any notice."
"Mothers," the boys agree, shaking their heads in disbelief. "Why do they do it to us?"
And at that moment, they have no idea how lucky they are. Because if I had access to rope, a power source and Beth's hair straightener, I can pretty much guarantee that I could really help them change their minds about mothers - permanently.
Two boys, who are about her age, saunter past, deep in conversation:
"Mine knows how much homework I've got but she's still on at me, all the time. 'Get up.' 'You need to need to help.' 'I can't do this on my own.' She just doesn't realise how tired I am after a full day at school."
"Mine does it all. No stopping her. But her timing! She waits until I've finished my homework and I'm watching something really good on TV and then it starts. BZZZZZZZZ...And if it's football, you can guarantee she'll be vacuuming right in front of the screen just when they score the vital goal. I ask her to move but of course she doesn't take any notice."
"Mothers," the boys agree, shaking their heads in disbelief. "Why do they do it to us?"
And at that moment, they have no idea how lucky they are. Because if I had access to rope, a power source and Beth's hair straightener, I can pretty much guarantee that I could really help them change their minds about mothers - permanently.
Monday, 31 March 2008
The dark side
At least Euro Disney is predictably horrible - cynical commercialism wearing a giant pair of mouse ears, down to its oft-repeated slogan: "Where dreams become reality."
It's a bitterly cold Easter Sunday - snow is forecast but not yet - and Disney, in all its corporate glory, has made the decision to keep Jesus out of Wonderland, sensibly concluding, perhaps, that a giant effigy of the Crucifixion on the side of Cinderalla's pretty pink palace might put the punters off their hot dogs.
By the time we reach the first ride - a steam train that runs round the park - we've already had a crash course in queuing; first for the shuttle bus, then for security, then for the tickets, and finally behind a man who seemed at first to be queuing for something but turns out simply to have stopped dead and is staring in disbelief at the till receipt, stunned at the cost.
That queueing practice comes in handy straight away because the first train is cancelled and for every three announcements in an American voice attempting to recreate the laid-back feeling of the Wild West we have a cool French one cutting across it and announcing with evident enjoyment that the wait time has just increased yet again.
By the time the train finally arrives, it might just as well have been promoted it as an authentic recreation of rush-hour UK commuterland, because that's exactly what it resembles and its appearance is greeted with the sort of hysterical joy you'd associate with the last chopper out of Saigon
We head back to the coast. The weather worsens the further north we travel, snow falls heavily and the drifts pile up while Deborah, to add to the fun, begins running a temperature. Simultaneously, Francis and I both remember the Calpol, sitting on the table in the kitchen, waiting patiently to be packed. We end the journey at a crawl, following two lorries that are snowploughing at one end and salting at the other.
Francis' company has recently treated him to a satnav - though given his sardine inclinations, I can't help feeling sonar would have been more appropriate, and he has selected the voice of Yoda from Star Wars as his guide.
"At the roundabout, straight across you must go," says Yoda.
"The sign says the tunnel is the other way," I say.
"Never doubt the power of a Jedi warrier," says Francis, wagging a finger at me, as we speed off in the opposite direction.
"The motorway you must join, then the first exit you must take," says Yoda.
"Why are we surrounded by lorries?" I ask.
"Ssssh," say the others, Yoda included.
Two minutes later, we're in the freight terminal with just one other car for company, which I assume is also navigating by Jedi knight that day.
I get extremely stroppy and unpleasant ("Never doubt the power of a pre-menopausal woman") and compel Francis to switch Yoda off before I trample him underfood and we finally reach the terminal using those quaint, out-moded sign posts. Though we've missed our train, we are lucky enough to be put on the next one.
"So, what did you think of Euro Disney?" I ask the children, as we leave.
"Well, I won't be taking MY children there," says Beth.
"Remind me to avoid any trains with the words 'Thunder' and 'Runaway' in them," says Deborah, recovering slightly. "But I still can't believe I've been there."
"Judging by the satnav, nor can Yoda," I say, nastily.
"Honestly, you can't expect him to be an expert on navigation when he's having to take on the Evil Empire the whole time," says Francis.
"Hah," I spit. "And where does he say we are now?"
"Tuscany," says Francis, tapping the screen like a faulty barometer.
"Dream on," I say to Yoda, as, snowflakes swirling round the car, we join the back of yet another, brand spanking new queue.
It's a bitterly cold Easter Sunday - snow is forecast but not yet - and Disney, in all its corporate glory, has made the decision to keep Jesus out of Wonderland, sensibly concluding, perhaps, that a giant effigy of the Crucifixion on the side of Cinderalla's pretty pink palace might put the punters off their hot dogs.
By the time we reach the first ride - a steam train that runs round the park - we've already had a crash course in queuing; first for the shuttle bus, then for security, then for the tickets, and finally behind a man who seemed at first to be queuing for something but turns out simply to have stopped dead and is staring in disbelief at the till receipt, stunned at the cost.
That queueing practice comes in handy straight away because the first train is cancelled and for every three announcements in an American voice attempting to recreate the laid-back feeling of the Wild West we have a cool French one cutting across it and announcing with evident enjoyment that the wait time has just increased yet again.
By the time the train finally arrives, it might just as well have been promoted it as an authentic recreation of rush-hour UK commuterland, because that's exactly what it resembles and its appearance is greeted with the sort of hysterical joy you'd associate with the last chopper out of Saigon
We head back to the coast. The weather worsens the further north we travel, snow falls heavily and the drifts pile up while Deborah, to add to the fun, begins running a temperature. Simultaneously, Francis and I both remember the Calpol, sitting on the table in the kitchen, waiting patiently to be packed. We end the journey at a crawl, following two lorries that are snowploughing at one end and salting at the other.
Francis' company has recently treated him to a satnav - though given his sardine inclinations, I can't help feeling sonar would have been more appropriate, and he has selected the voice of Yoda from Star Wars as his guide.
"At the roundabout, straight across you must go," says Yoda.
"The sign says the tunnel is the other way," I say.
"Never doubt the power of a Jedi warrier," says Francis, wagging a finger at me, as we speed off in the opposite direction.
"The motorway you must join, then the first exit you must take," says Yoda.
"Why are we surrounded by lorries?" I ask.
"Ssssh," say the others, Yoda included.
Two minutes later, we're in the freight terminal with just one other car for company, which I assume is also navigating by Jedi knight that day.
I get extremely stroppy and unpleasant ("Never doubt the power of a pre-menopausal woman") and compel Francis to switch Yoda off before I trample him underfood and we finally reach the terminal using those quaint, out-moded sign posts. Though we've missed our train, we are lucky enough to be put on the next one.
"So, what did you think of Euro Disney?" I ask the children, as we leave.
"Well, I won't be taking MY children there," says Beth.
"Remind me to avoid any trains with the words 'Thunder' and 'Runaway' in them," says Deborah, recovering slightly. "But I still can't believe I've been there."
"Judging by the satnav, nor can Yoda," I say, nastily.
"Honestly, you can't expect him to be an expert on navigation when he's having to take on the Evil Empire the whole time," says Francis.
"Hah," I spit. "And where does he say we are now?"
"Tuscany," says Francis, tapping the screen like a faulty barometer.
"Dream on," I say to Yoda, as, snowflakes swirling round the car, we join the back of yet another, brand spanking new queue.
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Under the sea
We're in Folkestone, having arrived at the bit of the holiday when, in what turns out to be a dress rehearsal for the Terminal 5 opening at Heathrow, you've just been told that your Euro Shuttle is stuck in the tunnel, they've no idea when it will be unblocked and you're checking your travel insurance documents for clauses that specify how long you have to be trapped in a car with your three fighting children to file a successful claim for mental torture.
I'm stunned, as always, by the docility of the travelling public. The numerous embarcation lanes are all jammed with cars and, by now, I'd be expecting at least some tangible signs of suppressed rage - at the very least, a few graphic *&&!!@ speech bubbles rising up into the sky, the way they do in cartoons, but there's nothing - just silence. Apart, that is from Leo and Deborah, who mop and mow fit to bust until we push them out of the door to play, quite literally, in the traffic - which for now, at least, is at a standstill.
Meanwhile, with nothing else to do, I'm reading Beth's celeb magazine and she's deep into Leo's copy of 'Match' magazine.
"I must remember to drive on the left when we get to France," says Francis.
"The right," I say.
"No, we drive on the right in the UK," says Francis
"The left," I say. "Perhaps you're getting confused with the steering wheel - that's on the right."
"A detail, I'm sure," says Francis. A detail, maybe, but one I'm very glad we've sorted out now rather than just after we've created our very own contraflow on the Autoroute.
When they finally clear the train (a process that I imagine involves a giant corkscrew and an enormous 'pop' when success is finally achieved) initial relief gives way to more frustration when Beth and Leo realise that the brief exhilaration of movement has been replaced with inactivity, at least from their perspective, as the train slides into darkness.
There are two other cars in the carriage with us. In one, an enormous man is asleep behind the wheel with a tiny terrier curled up on the summit of his vast stomach, like a decoration on a cupcake.
An 8-year old boy called Tom comes over from the other car for a chat. He, of course, has eyes only for Leo who is older and therefore, incredibly glamourous, but, to his evident discomfort he is instantly annexed by Deborah. Within seconds, she is perched next to him by one of the windows, making enormous sideways eyes at him as she combs her hair with one hand and gestures in an animated way with the other, apparently having made the decision to confide her entire life history to him during his enforced 35 minutes of captivity. I can make out only the occasional phrase but "It was SO unfair," and "And then he did it again but they blamed ME," both seem to loom large in her chat up lines.
But it is all in vain. "Where's your brother?" he asks, wistfully, as the train comes out of the tunnel, then swings down from his perch and leaves her looking mournfully after him, hairbrush still poised for action. She catches sight of me and a terrific scowl crosses her features. "Were you watching me?" she says indignantly, then bursts into tears of chagrin and rage.
Holiday romance is certainly a potent thing, even when you're only 7.
I'm stunned, as always, by the docility of the travelling public. The numerous embarcation lanes are all jammed with cars and, by now, I'd be expecting at least some tangible signs of suppressed rage - at the very least, a few graphic *&&!!@ speech bubbles rising up into the sky, the way they do in cartoons, but there's nothing - just silence. Apart, that is from Leo and Deborah, who mop and mow fit to bust until we push them out of the door to play, quite literally, in the traffic - which for now, at least, is at a standstill.
Meanwhile, with nothing else to do, I'm reading Beth's celeb magazine and she's deep into Leo's copy of 'Match' magazine.
"I must remember to drive on the left when we get to France," says Francis.
"The right," I say.
"No, we drive on the right in the UK," says Francis
"The left," I say. "Perhaps you're getting confused with the steering wheel - that's on the right."
"A detail, I'm sure," says Francis. A detail, maybe, but one I'm very glad we've sorted out now rather than just after we've created our very own contraflow on the Autoroute.
When they finally clear the train (a process that I imagine involves a giant corkscrew and an enormous 'pop' when success is finally achieved) initial relief gives way to more frustration when Beth and Leo realise that the brief exhilaration of movement has been replaced with inactivity, at least from their perspective, as the train slides into darkness.
There are two other cars in the carriage with us. In one, an enormous man is asleep behind the wheel with a tiny terrier curled up on the summit of his vast stomach, like a decoration on a cupcake.
An 8-year old boy called Tom comes over from the other car for a chat. He, of course, has eyes only for Leo who is older and therefore, incredibly glamourous, but, to his evident discomfort he is instantly annexed by Deborah. Within seconds, she is perched next to him by one of the windows, making enormous sideways eyes at him as she combs her hair with one hand and gestures in an animated way with the other, apparently having made the decision to confide her entire life history to him during his enforced 35 minutes of captivity. I can make out only the occasional phrase but "It was SO unfair," and "And then he did it again but they blamed ME," both seem to loom large in her chat up lines.
But it is all in vain. "Where's your brother?" he asks, wistfully, as the train comes out of the tunnel, then swings down from his perch and leaves her looking mournfully after him, hairbrush still poised for action. She catches sight of me and a terrific scowl crosses her features. "Were you watching me?" she says indignantly, then bursts into tears of chagrin and rage.
Holiday romance is certainly a potent thing, even when you're only 7.
Sunday, 16 March 2008
You, me and Martha the sardine
Francis has recently returned from a solo trip to Cyprus where he has delivered a stirring speech to 1,500 delegates about the virtues of sardines.
"Were they moved?" I ask.
"The delegates - definitely. There's a wealth of emotion in Omega 3 if you know how to tap it. If you mean the sardines, I think so, but it's hard to tell what their little fishy faces are expressing. Though I'm working on it. 'Read your sardine's mind,' could be a surprise Christmas best seller if I play my cards right."
Overwhelmed, as he always and touchingly is to see his lovely family again, he says, "We never go on proper holidays as a family."
"We do," I say. "Just not together, except when we're visiting your parents."
"I think it would be good for us," he says, looking as misty-eyed as a sardine with conjunctivitis (or so I imagine - the scientific research to back this up lags way behind).
"Why don't we have lunch and think about it," I say. "Deborah, can you call the others and tell them the meal is ready."
Deborah, who is in the kitchen with us, raises her head from her drawing, yells, "Beth, Leo - FOOD," at the top of her voice and then, satisfied with this tangible contribution to family communication, lowers it again and carries on writing 'Kill, kill, kill,' next to a picture of an amiable-looking farmer.
"Deborah," I say, "I can shout, too."
"Well, why make me do it, then?" she says.
"That's not the point. I need you to go out of the room, find them, tell them it's food and make sure they've heard you."
"Oh, all right," she says, disgusted, and gets up.
Ten minutes later, Leo saunters in. We are all eating. "If you're this late again," I say, "I'm going to give your food away."
"Who are you going to give it to?" he asks, interestedly.
"The poor."
"What did the poor ever do for you?" he says.
I look at Francis. "You know," he says, pouring us both a glass of wine. "What say we try and go away together, leaving the children and homicidal thoughts at home."
"What about the sardines?" I ask.
"I've met a particuarly attractive one called Martha who I thought we could just scoop up on the way but - oh, hell, no. No sardines, either."
"Oh, all right then," I say. I'd like to blush prettily at this point but, raddled old hag that I am, simply rush upstairs, apply blusher lavishly to my cheeks, the bath, the cat and a couple of residual slugs. Sporting my new Deaths Head meets Maybelline look I rush downstairs again.
Francis looks at me, then away. "Oh, Martha, my love," I think I hear him mutter, as he fetches a second helping. But there again, perhaps not.
"Were they moved?" I ask.
"The delegates - definitely. There's a wealth of emotion in Omega 3 if you know how to tap it. If you mean the sardines, I think so, but it's hard to tell what their little fishy faces are expressing. Though I'm working on it. 'Read your sardine's mind,' could be a surprise Christmas best seller if I play my cards right."
Overwhelmed, as he always and touchingly is to see his lovely family again, he says, "We never go on proper holidays as a family."
"We do," I say. "Just not together, except when we're visiting your parents."
"I think it would be good for us," he says, looking as misty-eyed as a sardine with conjunctivitis (or so I imagine - the scientific research to back this up lags way behind).
"Why don't we have lunch and think about it," I say. "Deborah, can you call the others and tell them the meal is ready."
Deborah, who is in the kitchen with us, raises her head from her drawing, yells, "Beth, Leo - FOOD," at the top of her voice and then, satisfied with this tangible contribution to family communication, lowers it again and carries on writing 'Kill, kill, kill,' next to a picture of an amiable-looking farmer.
"Deborah," I say, "I can shout, too."
"Well, why make me do it, then?" she says.
"That's not the point. I need you to go out of the room, find them, tell them it's food and make sure they've heard you."
"Oh, all right," she says, disgusted, and gets up.
Ten minutes later, Leo saunters in. We are all eating. "If you're this late again," I say, "I'm going to give your food away."
"Who are you going to give it to?" he asks, interestedly.
"The poor."
"What did the poor ever do for you?" he says.
I look at Francis. "You know," he says, pouring us both a glass of wine. "What say we try and go away together, leaving the children and homicidal thoughts at home."
"What about the sardines?" I ask.
"I've met a particuarly attractive one called Martha who I thought we could just scoop up on the way but - oh, hell, no. No sardines, either."
"Oh, all right then," I say. I'd like to blush prettily at this point but, raddled old hag that I am, simply rush upstairs, apply blusher lavishly to my cheeks, the bath, the cat and a couple of residual slugs. Sporting my new Deaths Head meets Maybelline look I rush downstairs again.
Francis looks at me, then away. "Oh, Martha, my love," I think I hear him mutter, as he fetches a second helping. But there again, perhaps not.
Monday, 3 March 2008
Beth's parenting advice. Part 1
On Friday I collect Beth from late games practice. She sits in the car, nodding in time with music that she alone can hear through her headphones. She does the same at supper.
The next day is Saturday. I collect her from some sort of inaccessible school thing with a friend, drive them both to the friend's house, wait while the friend changes, drive them home again.
On Sunday I take Beth riding, do the shopping while she does various terrifying things in a ring; collect her and drive her home.
On the way, she pulls out her headphones. "Mum," she says, "You know our problem?"
"What?" I ask.
"We don't spend enough time together," she says, with the air of someone dispensing hard won and valuable information.
But she does, unasked, help carry the shopping in, make me a cup of tea and, later, sits heavily on my lap - she's as tall as I am now - to give me a box of chocolates and my Mother's Day card decorated with hand drawn daffodils. So this time, I take it as the well intentioned advice it's undoubtedly intended to be.
The next day is Saturday. I collect her from some sort of inaccessible school thing with a friend, drive them both to the friend's house, wait while the friend changes, drive them home again.
On Sunday I take Beth riding, do the shopping while she does various terrifying things in a ring; collect her and drive her home.
On the way, she pulls out her headphones. "Mum," she says, "You know our problem?"
"What?" I ask.
"We don't spend enough time together," she says, with the air of someone dispensing hard won and valuable information.
But she does, unasked, help carry the shopping in, make me a cup of tea and, later, sits heavily on my lap - she's as tall as I am now - to give me a box of chocolates and my Mother's Day card decorated with hand drawn daffodils. So this time, I take it as the well intentioned advice it's undoubtedly intended to be.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Carbon footprints in the sand
Francis is up at 5.00 am, early but not bright, to make the journey to work by train. And so, owing to the audible nature of his misery, are the rest of us.
"Fifty miles away and it's going to take me three hours. I'd be better off using a pack horse."
"Hang on, darling," I say, "I'll nip out and see if anyone's left one out for recycling."
I get The look. Normally it's just A look - 'The' look being reserved for occasions when it is imperative to communicate, without words, how fundamentally I have failed to measure up to theoretical wifely standards - as defined by Francis, anyway - by being flippant when a mature, considered approach is called for.
"I'm not a horrible, unpleasant bitch," I say, indignantly to Vicky later.
"You're not?" she says. "Then why the bloody hell am I friends with you? You'd better shape up or they'll have you carted off to Lovely Land with the other mothers and we'll never see you again for the clouds of platitudes. Tell you what, I'll text you some insults to get you started. They're left over from a dinner party we had at the weekend. And I want to see them all used up by evening."
I'm not expecting Francis back until late and am just contemplating the prospect of cooking the children's meal with disfavour, wondering if raw chicken really is as harmful as they say it is, when there's a strange roaring noise from outside.
"Good God," I say to Deborah, who is trying to deepen the scandal of middle class drinking habits by wresting my second glass of wine from me and downing it in one while I fight her off with the bottle, "What do you think that is?"
Before she can reply, the front door opens and Francis appears.
"The good news," he says, "Is that the office have found something I can drive till we sort out another car."
"And the bad news?"
"Come and take a look."
Outside is an enormous truck. It's not so much a cross between a Jeep, Land Rover and cement mixer as an of amalgamation of all three. It has a vaguely militaristic look to it - though one that is immediately negated by the paintwork, which sports the company logo floating in a vibrant seascape, complete with mermaids, sardines and something I greatly fear is an octopus peeping coyly from from one of the wheel arches.
"Nice," I say.
"Nice?"
"Just wait," I say, and call Beth, who has been more than unusually pouty and unpleasant since she came back from school, ever since I told her we might have no way of transporting her to her next social engagement.
"You will be able to go to your disco at the weekend after all," I say. "And just look at what we'll be taking you in."
Beth stares, then a look of total, unmitigated horror crosses her face.
"No, please, no," she gasps, and runs into the house.
"Every cloud....." I say to Francis. "Fancy a beer?"
"Fifty miles away and it's going to take me three hours. I'd be better off using a pack horse."
"Hang on, darling," I say, "I'll nip out and see if anyone's left one out for recycling."
I get The look. Normally it's just A look - 'The' look being reserved for occasions when it is imperative to communicate, without words, how fundamentally I have failed to measure up to theoretical wifely standards - as defined by Francis, anyway - by being flippant when a mature, considered approach is called for.
"I'm not a horrible, unpleasant bitch," I say, indignantly to Vicky later.
"You're not?" she says. "Then why the bloody hell am I friends with you? You'd better shape up or they'll have you carted off to Lovely Land with the other mothers and we'll never see you again for the clouds of platitudes. Tell you what, I'll text you some insults to get you started. They're left over from a dinner party we had at the weekend. And I want to see them all used up by evening."
I'm not expecting Francis back until late and am just contemplating the prospect of cooking the children's meal with disfavour, wondering if raw chicken really is as harmful as they say it is, when there's a strange roaring noise from outside.
"Good God," I say to Deborah, who is trying to deepen the scandal of middle class drinking habits by wresting my second glass of wine from me and downing it in one while I fight her off with the bottle, "What do you think that is?"
Before she can reply, the front door opens and Francis appears.
"The good news," he says, "Is that the office have found something I can drive till we sort out another car."
"And the bad news?"
"Come and take a look."
Outside is an enormous truck. It's not so much a cross between a Jeep, Land Rover and cement mixer as an of amalgamation of all three. It has a vaguely militaristic look to it - though one that is immediately negated by the paintwork, which sports the company logo floating in a vibrant seascape, complete with mermaids, sardines and something I greatly fear is an octopus peeping coyly from from one of the wheel arches.
"Nice," I say.
"Nice?"
"Just wait," I say, and call Beth, who has been more than unusually pouty and unpleasant since she came back from school, ever since I told her we might have no way of transporting her to her next social engagement.
"You will be able to go to your disco at the weekend after all," I say. "And just look at what we'll be taking you in."
Beth stares, then a look of total, unmitigated horror crosses her face.
"No, please, no," she gasps, and runs into the house.
"Every cloud....." I say to Francis. "Fancy a beer?"
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
The point of it all
"You have three children?"
"Yes, that's right."
Marion, the travelling hairdresser, is having her seasonal allergic reaction to holly, ivy, crackers with miniature handbells in them (Lakeland do them, if you really want to know) and piped carols, and is taking a break from hair so she can get her whole head sorted out instead, perhaps teasing the brain stem nodes into a pleasingly assymetrical arrangement with a fringe and fixing it with a blast of hairspray.
I've resorted, instead, to the local barber's which is run by two brothers and, despite an astonishingly large pole outside (bastard offspring of one of those outsize pepper pots beloved by Italian resaurants and a range of 'Arrogant' brand hair gel (extra big tubes only) promises unisex haircuts together, though not advertised, with an interesting line in scissor-side chat.
"Your brother told me he has a daughter in Instanbul," I say, to break a silence that has now lasted several minutes.
There's a pause as the barber meets my gaze in the mirror. His expression is completely blank.
"If he told you, it must be true."
"You don't sound convinced," I say.
There's another long pause, then:
"I don't see the point of this conversation."
Point? Since when did the edict go out that conversations with your hairdresser had to have a point? On the contrary, I thought that they were an exercise in comfortable non-sequitors which would at some point include holiday destinations, rain or the lack of it, the political situation - though painted with the broadest of brush strokes to avoid offending anyone, and a celebrity or two.
The haircut is finished in silence.
The next day I bring Leo and Deborah; Beth, who has spent several hours washing, straightening and then pouting at her hair in a mirror, refuses to come.
"On holiday?" the barber asks them. They nod.
"Lucky, lucky, you," he says. "I wish I was a child again."
"Why?" I'm about to ask him, always fascinated by this sort of comment and keen to know if people really mean it and would, if given the opportunity, trade places in order to labour through their lives all over again.
But, remembering the previous day's exchange, I bite the words back.
"I hope I didn't offend you yesterday," I say later, after I've paid.
"No. I am.....a big softy," he says, looking straight at me, deadpan, eyes as dead as any I've ever seen.
If he's a big softy, I am the Queen of Rumania.
"Yes, that's right."
Marion, the travelling hairdresser, is having her seasonal allergic reaction to holly, ivy, crackers with miniature handbells in them (Lakeland do them, if you really want to know) and piped carols, and is taking a break from hair so she can get her whole head sorted out instead, perhaps teasing the brain stem nodes into a pleasingly assymetrical arrangement with a fringe and fixing it with a blast of hairspray.
I've resorted, instead, to the local barber's which is run by two brothers and, despite an astonishingly large pole outside (bastard offspring of one of those outsize pepper pots beloved by Italian resaurants and a range of 'Arrogant' brand hair gel (extra big tubes only) promises unisex haircuts together, though not advertised, with an interesting line in scissor-side chat.
"Your brother told me he has a daughter in Instanbul," I say, to break a silence that has now lasted several minutes.
There's a pause as the barber meets my gaze in the mirror. His expression is completely blank.
"If he told you, it must be true."
"You don't sound convinced," I say.
There's another long pause, then:
"I don't see the point of this conversation."
Point? Since when did the edict go out that conversations with your hairdresser had to have a point? On the contrary, I thought that they were an exercise in comfortable non-sequitors which would at some point include holiday destinations, rain or the lack of it, the political situation - though painted with the broadest of brush strokes to avoid offending anyone, and a celebrity or two.
The haircut is finished in silence.
The next day I bring Leo and Deborah; Beth, who has spent several hours washing, straightening and then pouting at her hair in a mirror, refuses to come.
"On holiday?" the barber asks them. They nod.
"Lucky, lucky, you," he says. "I wish I was a child again."
"Why?" I'm about to ask him, always fascinated by this sort of comment and keen to know if people really mean it and would, if given the opportunity, trade places in order to labour through their lives all over again.
But, remembering the previous day's exchange, I bite the words back.
"I hope I didn't offend you yesterday," I say later, after I've paid.
"No. I am.....a big softy," he says, looking straight at me, deadpan, eyes as dead as any I've ever seen.
If he's a big softy, I am the Queen of Rumania.
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
Touched....
....well, I am. And if I needed a justification for blogging, this is it. Put your problem out there and wisdom, humour and support flood in.
Thank you all so much.
As for the effect......
"Beth," I bleat, up the stairs, as viciously loud music pours downwards, taking my words with them in a slide tackle round about the seventh step. "Other bloggers have come up with really good advice."
I track her down. It doesn't take long. All I have to do is follow the trail of used facial tissues and blobs of mascara and there she is, head slightly on one side as she admires herself, Mary Poppins-like, in the bathroom mirror.
"Don't you think my hair's shiny?" she says.
"Very." I say. "Look, about this dying business. You remember all those tips I had. Well, there are more. They're really interesting. Take ageing. Did you know -"
"The thing is," she says, pencilling her eyes, a corner of the mirror and the toothpaste with eyeliner, "I'm not worried about it any more."
"You're not?"
"No. It just lifted about half way through art and disappeared. I feel fine."
She turns a radiant face towards me. "Can you book me on a riding course over Christmas, to make up for all the lessons I've missed with my broken arm."
I should, of course, be thrilled for her. And it is a relief. But would it be very, very mean of me to wish her just a small frisson of terror at around 3 a.m. - like the rest of us?
Thank you all so much.
As for the effect......
"Beth," I bleat, up the stairs, as viciously loud music pours downwards, taking my words with them in a slide tackle round about the seventh step. "Other bloggers have come up with really good advice."
I track her down. It doesn't take long. All I have to do is follow the trail of used facial tissues and blobs of mascara and there she is, head slightly on one side as she admires herself, Mary Poppins-like, in the bathroom mirror.
"Don't you think my hair's shiny?" she says.
"Very." I say. "Look, about this dying business. You remember all those tips I had. Well, there are more. They're really interesting. Take ageing. Did you know -"
"The thing is," she says, pencilling her eyes, a corner of the mirror and the toothpaste with eyeliner, "I'm not worried about it any more."
"You're not?"
"No. It just lifted about half way through art and disappeared. I feel fine."
She turns a radiant face towards me. "Can you book me on a riding course over Christmas, to make up for all the lessons I've missed with my broken arm."
I should, of course, be thrilled for her. And it is a relief. But would it be very, very mean of me to wish her just a small frisson of terror at around 3 a.m. - like the rest of us?
Monday, 26 November 2007
That'll teach me
It's 11.00 pm on Sunday evening and Francis and I are cosily apart in separate rooms: he, to lip sync the dialogue to 'Goldfinger' - again; me to do almost anything else.
Then there's the sound of sobbing and Beth appears at the top of the stairs, tears pouring down her cheeks, apparently heart-broken.
"Which one of the others is dead?" I say - never one to over-react. "Leo?" She shakes her head. "Deborah? I knew I should have put arnica on that bruised knee - she's got blood poisoning. No? You're pregant? Addicted to cocaine? Vodka? Fags? Problem pages? Quiz games with yes/no answers? JUST TELL ME!!"
"It's.......death."
"Whose death?"
"Just death. One day.....I'm going to die." She breaks into renewed paroxysms of weeping.
This is a new one on me. At least to begin with. But, searching back, I remember my shocked realisation that, despite my firm conviction that I was in some way indispensible to humankind and thus exempt from death, the universe was not planning to make any exceptions in my case and would one day decide that I was surplus to requirements and delete me.
Most of Beth's problems up till now have come with some sort of solution - albeit one that takes a little teasing out.
But short of compromising all my beliefs and urging that she embrace the notion of life after death, courtesy of one of the major religions, it's hard to know what to say. We're both too old for platitudes, me to deliver them, her to receive them, but somehow I have to make the truth less naked, even if it's only by drawing a joke moustache on it.
"The thing is," I try, fumbling for words, "That you're at the stage in life when you're realising just what it has to offer. And then, just as you start to think that there are no horizons, that the possibilities stretch on for ever, you suddenly also see that it must also come to an end. And it seems terribly unfair."
Am I sounding too much like a well-meaning vicar?
The dog is licking Beth's toes.
"Look at the dog," I continue, drawing inspiration, though pitifully little, from this. "She has no fear of death and that's the result. You could argue that it's only our understanding of mortality that makes us truly human. We accomplish because we're conscious that we have a limited time to achieve things. Without that consciousness, we'd all lie around licking toes."
Ancient memories of the Duchess of York surface, and I hurry on.
"I know it doesn't make it any easier, but everyone feels like this - we all have 3 a.m. moments. It's just very intense at your age. And.....you have got an awful lot of your life left," I finish, with a platitude - despite myself. "Do you feel better?" She nods.
The following morning she seems fine. But then, as I'm driving round and round the major arterial roads to collect and deposit children like a postvan, she calls me.
"Mum. I'm at school. It's death again."
What do I say to her? All advice welcome.
Then there's the sound of sobbing and Beth appears at the top of the stairs, tears pouring down her cheeks, apparently heart-broken.
"Which one of the others is dead?" I say - never one to over-react. "Leo?" She shakes her head. "Deborah? I knew I should have put arnica on that bruised knee - she's got blood poisoning. No? You're pregant? Addicted to cocaine? Vodka? Fags? Problem pages? Quiz games with yes/no answers? JUST TELL ME!!"
"It's.......death."
"Whose death?"
"Just death. One day.....I'm going to die." She breaks into renewed paroxysms of weeping.
This is a new one on me. At least to begin with. But, searching back, I remember my shocked realisation that, despite my firm conviction that I was in some way indispensible to humankind and thus exempt from death, the universe was not planning to make any exceptions in my case and would one day decide that I was surplus to requirements and delete me.
Most of Beth's problems up till now have come with some sort of solution - albeit one that takes a little teasing out.
But short of compromising all my beliefs and urging that she embrace the notion of life after death, courtesy of one of the major religions, it's hard to know what to say. We're both too old for platitudes, me to deliver them, her to receive them, but somehow I have to make the truth less naked, even if it's only by drawing a joke moustache on it.
"The thing is," I try, fumbling for words, "That you're at the stage in life when you're realising just what it has to offer. And then, just as you start to think that there are no horizons, that the possibilities stretch on for ever, you suddenly also see that it must also come to an end. And it seems terribly unfair."
Am I sounding too much like a well-meaning vicar?
The dog is licking Beth's toes.
"Look at the dog," I continue, drawing inspiration, though pitifully little, from this. "She has no fear of death and that's the result. You could argue that it's only our understanding of mortality that makes us truly human. We accomplish because we're conscious that we have a limited time to achieve things. Without that consciousness, we'd all lie around licking toes."
Ancient memories of the Duchess of York surface, and I hurry on.
"I know it doesn't make it any easier, but everyone feels like this - we all have 3 a.m. moments. It's just very intense at your age. And.....you have got an awful lot of your life left," I finish, with a platitude - despite myself. "Do you feel better?" She nods.
The following morning she seems fine. But then, as I'm driving round and round the major arterial roads to collect and deposit children like a postvan, she calls me.
"Mum. I'm at school. It's death again."
What do I say to her? All advice welcome.
Friday, 12 October 2007
Together at last
"There are times," says Francis, gloomily contemplating the last of his fish and chips, "when I wonder whether it's all worth it."
We've not got the weekend off to a particularly good start.
Beth is banned from riding after calling Leo a 'hyperactive bastard,' at the top of her voice just outside the front door, watched by a small, but interested crowd of locals, including two of my pupils.
"I was calling it through the letterbox," she says, indignantly, as though shrieked insults were some new and long-awaited improvement to the postal service.
Leo is banned from seeing his friend, for having returned from the local park an hour and a half later than promised.
"But I just forgot," he says, outraged, as I attempt to explain that forgetting is the nub of the problem and the reason we were scouring the area looking for him.
Deborah is banned from the TV for being generally small and stroppy and wilfully perching on top of the sofa so she can accidentally-on-purpose roll off it on to other people's newspapers, glasses of wine and homework and then claim that it was an accident.
"Nobody knows how hard it is to be a seven-year old," she wails at us, before departing upstairs with two dolls and the kitchen timer to play some fierce, muttered game no doubt involving forced confessions and electric shock torture.
"I'm working my guts out," continues Francis, "and nobody seems to care."
I study his guts - or, at least, his gut. There's definitely rather more of it than there used to be. I bite back the thought that working a bit more of his guts out might not necessarily be such a bad thing.
"At least it's Friday," I say.
"When's the plumber coming to fix the cistern? It's still not filling properly."
"He thinks he'll be able to make it first thing on Saturday. About eight."
"The one morning I don't have to get up early and now this," says Francis, as though he's the victim of a family-inspired attempt to deprive him of sleep and sanity. "If I were a dog, I bet the RSPCA would re-home me."
"They might," I say, "But don't forget they'd neuter you first."
We've not got the weekend off to a particularly good start.
Beth is banned from riding after calling Leo a 'hyperactive bastard,' at the top of her voice just outside the front door, watched by a small, but interested crowd of locals, including two of my pupils.
"I was calling it through the letterbox," she says, indignantly, as though shrieked insults were some new and long-awaited improvement to the postal service.
Leo is banned from seeing his friend, for having returned from the local park an hour and a half later than promised.
"But I just forgot," he says, outraged, as I attempt to explain that forgetting is the nub of the problem and the reason we were scouring the area looking for him.
Deborah is banned from the TV for being generally small and stroppy and wilfully perching on top of the sofa so she can accidentally-on-purpose roll off it on to other people's newspapers, glasses of wine and homework and then claim that it was an accident.
"Nobody knows how hard it is to be a seven-year old," she wails at us, before departing upstairs with two dolls and the kitchen timer to play some fierce, muttered game no doubt involving forced confessions and electric shock torture.
"I'm working my guts out," continues Francis, "and nobody seems to care."
I study his guts - or, at least, his gut. There's definitely rather more of it than there used to be. I bite back the thought that working a bit more of his guts out might not necessarily be such a bad thing.
"At least it's Friday," I say.
"When's the plumber coming to fix the cistern? It's still not filling properly."
"He thinks he'll be able to make it first thing on Saturday. About eight."
"The one morning I don't have to get up early and now this," says Francis, as though he's the victim of a family-inspired attempt to deprive him of sleep and sanity. "If I were a dog, I bet the RSPCA would re-home me."
"They might," I say, "But don't forget they'd neuter you first."
Friday, 5 October 2007
Meanwhile, back at home........
Beth:
"Those growths," Beth says, pointing with a trembling finger at a small outcrop of five, almost invisible blond strands on one ankle, "are ruining My Life."
I am Good Mother. I agree to wax her legs.
"All my other friends' mothers pay for them to go to a salon."
"How do you know?" I ask, giving a possibly over-sharp tug to the wax that's clinging to her left kneecap like a barnacle, while making a mental pledge to track down the offending mothers and rake their credit cards with machine gun fire, thus putting a temporary halt to their runaway spending power.
"Because - ouch - they've all got photographs of the first time they went."
I add selective mortar attacks on salon cameras to my To do list.
I am not Good Mother, but Bad Mother. And Cheapskate Mother, too, because of my reluctance, mainly financial, to put her almost negligable body hair into the hands of experts.
"Look on the sunny side," I say. "At least you don't have a moustache. But if you do, don't worry. Mum'll fix it." I grin, horribly, and Beth disappears to her room with a muffled shriek.
Francis....
is not happy with his lot, and has taken to wearing socks with a cheery skull motif to get the message across. "How's the job?" I ask him.
"The job? Oh, I don't think about the job," he replies. "It's just an interlude between the two-hour journeys to and from work. And it's costing a fortune. If fuel prices go up again, I'll only be earning just enough to cover my travel expenses."
It's lateish, the children have conversed in screams, kicks and blows for two solid hours and I'm torn between presenting him with a perfectly cooked lasagne, teamed with a green salad and glass of rough, yet delicious red wine or raking him with machine gun fire, too. Decisions, decisions. It's so deliciously difficult to choose.
"My life feels like a series of issues loosely bound together with blood ties," I tell him.
He looks at me thoughtfully for a minute. "No it isn't," he says, finally. "It's a series of wisecracks, loosely bound together by events."
He could be right. There are times when I think adopting the Marx Brothers as role models (wrong sex, but who's checking the pants?) has done me few favours. Laugh at your own punchlines, these days, and you laugh alone. Cry and there's a reality tv show out there just waiting to flood to the rafters with sympathetic tears. I bet yesterday's warm up men are being tastefully renovated as weep up men, proudly getting audiences in a suitably dismal mood before the first of the heart-wrenching confessionals comes on.
I serve him his food and go off to watch 'A night at the Opera' for the umpteenth time, on my own, while the sound of muffled fighting persists overhead.
"Those growths," Beth says, pointing with a trembling finger at a small outcrop of five, almost invisible blond strands on one ankle, "are ruining My Life."
I am Good Mother. I agree to wax her legs.
"All my other friends' mothers pay for them to go to a salon."
"How do you know?" I ask, giving a possibly over-sharp tug to the wax that's clinging to her left kneecap like a barnacle, while making a mental pledge to track down the offending mothers and rake their credit cards with machine gun fire, thus putting a temporary halt to their runaway spending power.
"Because - ouch - they've all got photographs of the first time they went."
I add selective mortar attacks on salon cameras to my To do list.
I am not Good Mother, but Bad Mother. And Cheapskate Mother, too, because of my reluctance, mainly financial, to put her almost negligable body hair into the hands of experts.
"Look on the sunny side," I say. "At least you don't have a moustache. But if you do, don't worry. Mum'll fix it." I grin, horribly, and Beth disappears to her room with a muffled shriek.
Francis....
is not happy with his lot, and has taken to wearing socks with a cheery skull motif to get the message across. "How's the job?" I ask him.
"The job? Oh, I don't think about the job," he replies. "It's just an interlude between the two-hour journeys to and from work. And it's costing a fortune. If fuel prices go up again, I'll only be earning just enough to cover my travel expenses."
It's lateish, the children have conversed in screams, kicks and blows for two solid hours and I'm torn between presenting him with a perfectly cooked lasagne, teamed with a green salad and glass of rough, yet delicious red wine or raking him with machine gun fire, too. Decisions, decisions. It's so deliciously difficult to choose.
"My life feels like a series of issues loosely bound together with blood ties," I tell him.
He looks at me thoughtfully for a minute. "No it isn't," he says, finally. "It's a series of wisecracks, loosely bound together by events."
He could be right. There are times when I think adopting the Marx Brothers as role models (wrong sex, but who's checking the pants?) has done me few favours. Laugh at your own punchlines, these days, and you laugh alone. Cry and there's a reality tv show out there just waiting to flood to the rafters with sympathetic tears. I bet yesterday's warm up men are being tastefully renovated as weep up men, proudly getting audiences in a suitably dismal mood before the first of the heart-wrenching confessionals comes on.
I serve him his food and go off to watch 'A night at the Opera' for the umpteenth time, on my own, while the sound of muffled fighting persists overhead.
Sunday, 30 September 2007
Beth speaks.
Beth is talking to me again.
It's not been an easy couple of weeks. She refers to the stables, rather insultingly, to my mind, as 'home'. She has written me three notes, sent me 4 multi-page e-mails and posted a video on U-Tube, consisting of a very ugly horse failing to clear some small jumps while James Blunt plays in the background.
I avoid watching the video. "You haven't watched it yet," she scrawls on bit of paper. "I have," I say. "You haven't. I can monitor it," she says, in a distinctly scary way that reminds me of the Hitler Youth
But, though I have glumly watched the video, sound turned to 'minimum', I have also stood my ground. Her riding holiday is not happening. She accepts this.
First class parenting in action? Unfortunately not. Naturally my superb maternal instincts played a not inconsiderable part - notably my decision to refrain from pinning her against a wall and beating her to death with one of her own riding boots, something I felt was deserving of some small prize. The truth, though, is that the friend she was going to ride with may be on holiday with her own family.
"We're not sure yet," says her mother.
"Take it from me," I say. "You need a holiday. Go. Please, go."
"We may not be able to," she says. "I don't know if there are any flights left."
"There will be flights," I say. "And I'm prepared to sell my soul to Satan and clinch the deal with a goat sacrifice a night, even if 1001 Dry Foam doesn't do a ritual killing stain removal product. That's how desperate I am."
"It may be too expensive," she warns. "Then lie, woman, lie." I say. "Keep the decision to yourself until it's too late to book the riding holiday. Then I'm in the clear and there's no argument to have."
She agrees. For once in my life, I seem to have ended a stand off with a win win conclusion. Is this possible? Can it last? And am I dreaming?
It's not been an easy couple of weeks. She refers to the stables, rather insultingly, to my mind, as 'home'. She has written me three notes, sent me 4 multi-page e-mails and posted a video on U-Tube, consisting of a very ugly horse failing to clear some small jumps while James Blunt plays in the background.
I avoid watching the video. "You haven't watched it yet," she scrawls on bit of paper. "I have," I say. "You haven't. I can monitor it," she says, in a distinctly scary way that reminds me of the Hitler Youth
But, though I have glumly watched the video, sound turned to 'minimum', I have also stood my ground. Her riding holiday is not happening. She accepts this.
First class parenting in action? Unfortunately not. Naturally my superb maternal instincts played a not inconsiderable part - notably my decision to refrain from pinning her against a wall and beating her to death with one of her own riding boots, something I felt was deserving of some small prize. The truth, though, is that the friend she was going to ride with may be on holiday with her own family.
"We're not sure yet," says her mother.
"Take it from me," I say. "You need a holiday. Go. Please, go."
"We may not be able to," she says. "I don't know if there are any flights left."
"There will be flights," I say. "And I'm prepared to sell my soul to Satan and clinch the deal with a goat sacrifice a night, even if 1001 Dry Foam doesn't do a ritual killing stain removal product. That's how desperate I am."
"It may be too expensive," she warns. "Then lie, woman, lie." I say. "Keep the decision to yourself until it's too late to book the riding holiday. Then I'm in the clear and there's no argument to have."
She agrees. For once in my life, I seem to have ended a stand off with a win win conclusion. Is this possible? Can it last? And am I dreaming?
Friday, 21 September 2007
Notes from the edge
"Mum, you can't do this to me. I want to break something. I have to go, Mum.
"I can't cope anymore. Right now, I'm not just depressed, I feel worse. I'm aggravated, distressed and I'm in a complete state of anxiety .....there's so much anger and sadness and I can't stop.
"Do you actually know what it feels like to watch the clock, count every day, second, moment, not care if you go to school and everyone spreads a rumour about some horribly embarrassing thing, and you don't care.
"I felt sick yesterday because I was so distraught.
"So now, I beg you, acknowledge you've read this through and I will beg you. I will plead with you.
"I feel I am entering hell."
What have I done to my almost fourteen year old daughter? I'll tell you what I've done. When, at 7.30 a.m, pre-school run and teaching job, we had what you could call a bit of a barney over a missing bit of PE kit, I did the 'If you don't stop screaming at me by the time I've counted three .....' business and then cancelled -
- a riding weekend which will be reinstated next year. No more, no less.
At her age, I was no nicer, but we were poorer. And it was a real struggle for my parents to buy me my first full size violin. How did we get from hardship to hysterics over a riding weekend in one generation?
Is it just hormones or inflated expectations? And hormones, is it hers or mine? If inflated expectations, do I prick them or puff in more hot air?
All advice welcomed.
PS She wants to be a writer. Does it show?
"I can't cope anymore. Right now, I'm not just depressed, I feel worse. I'm aggravated, distressed and I'm in a complete state of anxiety .....there's so much anger and sadness and I can't stop.
"Do you actually know what it feels like to watch the clock, count every day, second, moment, not care if you go to school and everyone spreads a rumour about some horribly embarrassing thing, and you don't care.
"I felt sick yesterday because I was so distraught.
"So now, I beg you, acknowledge you've read this through and I will beg you. I will plead with you.
"I feel I am entering hell."
What have I done to my almost fourteen year old daughter? I'll tell you what I've done. When, at 7.30 a.m, pre-school run and teaching job, we had what you could call a bit of a barney over a missing bit of PE kit, I did the 'If you don't stop screaming at me by the time I've counted three .....' business and then cancelled -
- a riding weekend which will be reinstated next year. No more, no less.
At her age, I was no nicer, but we were poorer. And it was a real struggle for my parents to buy me my first full size violin. How did we get from hardship to hysterics over a riding weekend in one generation?
Is it just hormones or inflated expectations? And hormones, is it hers or mine? If inflated expectations, do I prick them or puff in more hot air?
All advice welcomed.
PS She wants to be a writer. Does it show?
Sunday, 1 July 2007
Moderate support
So far, Francis has met fifteen headhunters and ten prospective employers. In adddition to Mr Tosser, he's been turned down by two companies for being over-qualified; one vinyl flooring company for being under-excited, and by Posh Headhunter for not having enough hair - at least, in the right places.
This week, he's going back to see the merging companies which are now so involved with each other that they're almost ready to consummate the relationship with a candlelit announcement for two and a short but moving exchange of ringtones by the chairmen. But, like dippy lovers everywhere, the sheer excitement of the thing - should the new logo feature both the bride and groom's names? - is making them horribly indecisive, especially about the sort of employee they should be hiring together. Senior....or not? Experienced ..... or not? Oooh, it's so difficult to choose, they giggle.
While they mull over the candidates like a box of assorted chocolates, Francis' nerves are a little strained. I try to keep my questions light but supportive, wondering just when it was that a sports bra became the best role model available to me.
"So, what's the toughest question you've been asked so far?" I say.
"This one," says Francis.
Forget sports bras. I think we may be talking hernia trusses.
I know how to please my man. In a matter of seconds, I have transformed myself into a miracle of erotic desire and he has forgotten all his troubles, at least during the sultry half hour we spend together.
As if. This is mid-afternoon weekend reality with three children and two pets, all of whom see the remotest sign of tenderness as a challenge to their attention-seeking abilities that must not go unanswered. And the only way I'm going to achieve transformation into an erotic anything is with a blowtorch and a large crate of miracle filler.
Instead, the phone rings with a litany of things we've forgotten. In seconds, I've knocked back a few Dylithium crystals and am preparing to cross the universe via an intricate network of wormholes so that Leo can be delivered on time to the football training session that started half an hour ago; Beth can be at the other end of the galaxy to listen to a friend charming the locals with her wind band and Deborah can open channels of communication with alien lifeforms by cross-universe screaming.
Having triumphantly negotiated the time/space continuum, thanks to graduating with distinction in module three of the Government's enlightened new training scheme for mothers, "Your child remains government property and must be surrendered upon demand," I am a few miles from home when smoke begins to pour out from underneath the dashboard.
We're passing a government building at the time. Because of the bomb fun of the last few days, police are everywhere, checking cars and noting numberplates. Mindful of Vicky's recent car-burning exploits, I pull in, wondering if the car has Al-Quaeda sympathies. Either that, or it resents the new ban on smoking and has taken to consuming 40 a day in public places just to get its point across.
I get out and am completely ignored. I call Francis who arrives, opens the bonnet, checks the wiring and re-starts the engine, looking both weary and slightly disbelieving. This is the point when I want the car to belch one more tiny, but conclusive blob of smoke from under the dashboard so I can yell, 'Exhibit A'. Nothing happens. Fortunately, the smell of old burning remains.
"Hmmm," says Francis. "It's got a plastic aroma, with undertones of rubber." He sounds like a wine taster. "I think it's simply something that got caught on the manifold."
He sounds so authoritative that that some weak, feeble heroine of yesteryear, all I can do is simper up at him like a girlie weed.
Vicky replies to an earlier text.
"Is ure car ablaze? Honestly, that's sooo last wk! And its my job. Get a disaster of your own, u tight bitch."
I show it to Francis and he laughs as he drives us home. It's clear that the whole incident has made him feel a lot better, if only for the fact that I still have no clue exactly what a manifold is.
This week, he's going back to see the merging companies which are now so involved with each other that they're almost ready to consummate the relationship with a candlelit announcement for two and a short but moving exchange of ringtones by the chairmen. But, like dippy lovers everywhere, the sheer excitement of the thing - should the new logo feature both the bride and groom's names? - is making them horribly indecisive, especially about the sort of employee they should be hiring together. Senior....or not? Experienced ..... or not? Oooh, it's so difficult to choose, they giggle.
While they mull over the candidates like a box of assorted chocolates, Francis' nerves are a little strained. I try to keep my questions light but supportive, wondering just when it was that a sports bra became the best role model available to me.
"So, what's the toughest question you've been asked so far?" I say.
"This one," says Francis.
Forget sports bras. I think we may be talking hernia trusses.
I know how to please my man. In a matter of seconds, I have transformed myself into a miracle of erotic desire and he has forgotten all his troubles, at least during the sultry half hour we spend together.
As if. This is mid-afternoon weekend reality with three children and two pets, all of whom see the remotest sign of tenderness as a challenge to their attention-seeking abilities that must not go unanswered. And the only way I'm going to achieve transformation into an erotic anything is with a blowtorch and a large crate of miracle filler.
Instead, the phone rings with a litany of things we've forgotten. In seconds, I've knocked back a few Dylithium crystals and am preparing to cross the universe via an intricate network of wormholes so that Leo can be delivered on time to the football training session that started half an hour ago; Beth can be at the other end of the galaxy to listen to a friend charming the locals with her wind band and Deborah can open channels of communication with alien lifeforms by cross-universe screaming.
Having triumphantly negotiated the time/space continuum, thanks to graduating with distinction in module three of the Government's enlightened new training scheme for mothers, "Your child remains government property and must be surrendered upon demand," I am a few miles from home when smoke begins to pour out from underneath the dashboard.
We're passing a government building at the time. Because of the bomb fun of the last few days, police are everywhere, checking cars and noting numberplates. Mindful of Vicky's recent car-burning exploits, I pull in, wondering if the car has Al-Quaeda sympathies. Either that, or it resents the new ban on smoking and has taken to consuming 40 a day in public places just to get its point across.
I get out and am completely ignored. I call Francis who arrives, opens the bonnet, checks the wiring and re-starts the engine, looking both weary and slightly disbelieving. This is the point when I want the car to belch one more tiny, but conclusive blob of smoke from under the dashboard so I can yell, 'Exhibit A'. Nothing happens. Fortunately, the smell of old burning remains.
"Hmmm," says Francis. "It's got a plastic aroma, with undertones of rubber." He sounds like a wine taster. "I think it's simply something that got caught on the manifold."
He sounds so authoritative that that some weak, feeble heroine of yesteryear, all I can do is simper up at him like a girlie weed.
Vicky replies to an earlier text.
"Is ure car ablaze? Honestly, that's sooo last wk! And its my job. Get a disaster of your own, u tight bitch."
I show it to Francis and he laughs as he drives us home. It's clear that the whole incident has made him feel a lot better, if only for the fact that I still have no clue exactly what a manifold is.
Sunday, 24 June 2007
Springwatch
A blue tit starts visiting the bird feeder. Maybe as the result of one encounter too many with over-enthusiastic nature programme presenters, it has lost all its head feathers but retains its distinctive, darkly piratical markings on the skin underneath. This, together with the contrasting pinky-white baldness elsewhere on its scalp, haunted dark eyes and suddenly prehistoric-looking beak, contrast with its fully-feathered body and give it an unnerving resemblance to an avian zombie escapee from Shaun of the Dead. For two days it eats with a slightly desperate relish, then disappears for good.
Butterflies that became extinct decades ago breeze back from the grave, and Eagle Owls, attracted by the hike in woodland prices, take up residence in prime greenbelt locations, sending bulk prices for small, bite-sized dogs soaring to record highs.
Bad Lindy, bored during a quiet afternoon at the vet's, slathers on the Motherpucker Lip Gloss and feels the familiar tingling as her lips inflate 'up to ten times their normal volume'. She stands by the window, making faces, and watching for potential customers. Another tit, flying past, catches sight of a particularly vicious grimace and flies into a window.
The local paper reports a surefire way to spot criminals. 'Bike thief had dodgy eyebrows that met in the middle,' it says.
Francis gets a helpful list of hints and tips from a recruitment company: "If you're not sure what to wear, pay a visit to the company's office one lunchtime and see what the people who work there are wearing. Dress a notch or two above them." He bemoans the fact that the advice arrived too late for his spa bath interview. "If only I'd had the nous to turn up in full bishop's regalia, I'm sure things would have been different," he says.
In the supermarket, Beth is spotted by a woman who claims to be from a top model agency. She takes Francis's mobile phone number and promises to call him 'so you can see I'm the real thing.' She never rings back.
Woman with troubled marriage gets closer to the edge. "Told husband how I felt, then wept like I was vomiting. Look like pig and feel like shit."
Spring. What are you watching?
Butterflies that became extinct decades ago breeze back from the grave, and Eagle Owls, attracted by the hike in woodland prices, take up residence in prime greenbelt locations, sending bulk prices for small, bite-sized dogs soaring to record highs.
Bad Lindy, bored during a quiet afternoon at the vet's, slathers on the Motherpucker Lip Gloss and feels the familiar tingling as her lips inflate 'up to ten times their normal volume'. She stands by the window, making faces, and watching for potential customers. Another tit, flying past, catches sight of a particularly vicious grimace and flies into a window.
The local paper reports a surefire way to spot criminals. 'Bike thief had dodgy eyebrows that met in the middle,' it says.
Francis gets a helpful list of hints and tips from a recruitment company: "If you're not sure what to wear, pay a visit to the company's office one lunchtime and see what the people who work there are wearing. Dress a notch or two above them." He bemoans the fact that the advice arrived too late for his spa bath interview. "If only I'd had the nous to turn up in full bishop's regalia, I'm sure things would have been different," he says.
In the supermarket, Beth is spotted by a woman who claims to be from a top model agency. She takes Francis's mobile phone number and promises to call him 'so you can see I'm the real thing.' She never rings back.
Woman with troubled marriage gets closer to the edge. "Told husband how I felt, then wept like I was vomiting. Look like pig and feel like shit."
Spring. What are you watching?
Saturday, 9 June 2007
My mouse loves me
I have a new mouse for my computer. It has a little lozenge of a light on the top, inset into a silver-framed casing. At the softest of touches, the light, which is the shape of a just-formed 'oh' of surprise, blushes with surprise. Clasp it tighter and it positively glows bright red with excitement.
What possible need can there be for an emoting mouse that acts pleased to see me? Are we so deficient in everyday emotion that we need machines to give us a top up?
There's really no rhyme or reason to it. But it's strangely addictive, and I find myself stroking the mouse from time to time, just to see it react with apparent pleasure. "You're sad," says Beth, when she catches me at it.
I'm not so sure. Perhaps it would do us good for all our fixtures and fittings to show how much they care? A chair, say, that groans with pleasure when I sit down. A bed that gives me a hug. And a table that snorts with delight when I rub it down with a wet cloth after a particularly vicious meal.
After all, if we really are all going to hell in a handcart, we might just as well make the trip there a little bit more fun.
But here's the rub. I know full well that even if L'Escoffier comes back from the dead and designs a fully emoting cooker for me, all it will ever do is shriek with laughter if I so much as wave an onion in its direction.
Back to the drawing board. Even that, I reckon, has just started to snigger.
What possible need can there be for an emoting mouse that acts pleased to see me? Are we so deficient in everyday emotion that we need machines to give us a top up?
There's really no rhyme or reason to it. But it's strangely addictive, and I find myself stroking the mouse from time to time, just to see it react with apparent pleasure. "You're sad," says Beth, when she catches me at it.
I'm not so sure. Perhaps it would do us good for all our fixtures and fittings to show how much they care? A chair, say, that groans with pleasure when I sit down. A bed that gives me a hug. And a table that snorts with delight when I rub it down with a wet cloth after a particularly vicious meal.
After all, if we really are all going to hell in a handcart, we might just as well make the trip there a little bit more fun.
But here's the rub. I know full well that even if L'Escoffier comes back from the dead and designs a fully emoting cooker for me, all it will ever do is shriek with laughter if I so much as wave an onion in its direction.
Back to the drawing board. Even that, I reckon, has just started to snigger.
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