Memo to Angelic Arthur

Lovely B (cousin of Mr B) is to become a Grandma: her daughter is expecting her first baby. Mr B and I are very relieved, we thought we had put R and her hubs off children.  After all, they have had the opportunity to observe Boys 1 and 2 at close quarters, and it ain't pretty.

It turns out R and hubs have ordered a Perfect Baby, so it won't go in for any  Boy 1 and 2 shenanigans.

Boys 1 and 2 are not impressed by Angelic Arthur (as they call him).   They have decided he needs some pointers for when he hits town, so he does not bring disgrace to the League of Boys.  They have only just forgiven Faux Fuchsia's boy for being such an adorable baby: luckily he has redeemed himself in their eyes with all the cushion action.*

Top Tips for Angelic Arthur

Food should be worn, ditto food containers.

Clear those bookshelves; if you can't reach, stand on the pushalong Thomas your parents will regret buying you (less a toy, more a tactical assault vehicle).  Also clear out inside of drawers until your parents tie up the drawers (that's fine, you can then focus more on the bookshelves).  Also attempt to pull the TV on top of yourself, so your parents end up putting a small portable above toddler level.

 

 

 

Wear a really bad toupe so you look like a 1950s TV host.

 

 

 

 

 

Put EVERYTHING in your mouth, the more unhygienic the better.  Remember, nothing exists until you have clamped your jaws round it.  Ensure that Type A perfectionist mothers never ask you round for a playdate again.. those type of mothers just don't like another kid's drool on their kids' toys...

 

 

Wait till Mum not looking and then pull out about 300 nappy sacks.

 

As Mum wails, look at her sweetly, like this.  Remember, it's good to mess with her mind.

 

 

Fit yourself into unfeasibly small spaces: give Mum a lovely surprise by popping out of the laundry basket like a demented jack-in-the-box...

 

 

Or try ramming something on your head.  But careful, when mothers panic they get creative with olive oil.

 

 

Towards the end of the day, after Mum has cleared up, take it up a notch and empty your toy boxes into the kitchen.  How Mum will laugh...

 

 

 

 

 

 

*But Le Child FF needs to spice things up a bit, how about Nutella on the cushions?  Or a least show Mummy how you can get the top off your sippy cup..go on, you can do it!

Blighty's Winter of Discontent and Shovelgate

Dahlings, how are we all? No, calm down, that one ready made lasagne you had back in 2010 probably wasn't 100% horse...and almost certainly wasn't Shergar, he can't still be doing the rounds, he wasn't that fat...now back away from the Linda McCartney cookbook right now..*

I am (sobs) suffering a Winter of Discontent.  By which I mean I am bl**dy grumpy:  It has snowed again, Mr B is work stresssed, Boy 2 has lost his school trousers, his fountain pen and his rugby socks, Boy 1 has lost his rugby top and a mobile phone and left his entire games kit in the back of the car, Boy 2 has developed something nasty on his nose (impetigo?), Boy 1 smells of sausages and refuses to have his hair cut even though he is starting to look feral, and I can't even begin to understand how to do Boy 2's Maths homework, also I am being stalked by a man from Subaru as Mr B once looked at their website...meanwhile Boy 1 tells me I don't work hard like Mr B, I just stay at home and look at my iPad.  Cutting.  And untrue.  I've been spending a lot of time putting cream on Boy 2's nose and avoiding phone calls and emails from Jim at Subaru, for example. It's hard work I can tell you.  No matter, I am not taking Boy 1's accusation seriously as it was prompted by me "encouraging" him to put some plates in the dishwasher.  After taking him through 21st century socio-economic factors and the shared earning power of men and women,  I ended up shouting that if he did not load the dishwasher when he was grown up HIS WIFE WOULD LEAVE HIM.

I think it was Richard III that went on about this Winter of Discontent in the old Shakespeare play?  That just makes me even more grumpy about my recent parking ticket incident:  the other day they dug up old Dicky in a car park in Leicester.  And did he get a parking ticket? Even though he'd been there since 1485 and the Battle of Bosworth, which MUST mean he exceeded his parking ticket time? No.  See, it's one rule for the Royals and another rule for plebs like me....

And today we had Shovelgate:   the drive was covered in snow this morning so I decided to clear it before driving on it.  Where are the snow shovels? (Boy 2 bless him was keen to "help" which involved standing in the way and building a snowman). No sign. Not in the garage.  Not at the side of the house.  I check and double check and do a lot of muttering.  There may have been some bad words involved.  I become convinced that our shovels have been stolen, dark conspiracy theories swirl around.  Eventually I ring up Mr B.   Who has craftily  made an early exit to work this morning on foot.  "Oh " says he, " I put them in the shed, they were getting in the way..."

I tramp through deep snow in the back garden to retrieve shovels from shed.

Dahlings, I cleared that drive in record time, such was the head of steam I had built up...snow and gravel were flung aside without mercy...

It is only now I realise the utter brilliance of Mr B's ruse....
hide shovels
enrage wife
drive cleared....



Feeling a bit better now.

 

 

 

 

And don't worry, Mr B won't escape unscathed: why do we have a broken printer popped on top of here??? Is it to become an interior design accent Mr B or are you expecting  a flood and feel it important to preserve defunct electricals?  Please explain....otherwise you will get the socio-economic dishwasher talk too...and you won't like the ending at all....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* I ate horse in France as a kid. They told me it was steak.  Sorry Dobbin.

Free the Car Park Two and the Price of Celebrity Accessories

Dahlings, how are we all? Eye lash extensions? Really? Me? Nope, but I do have a new vacuum cleaner...yes, I know I have already mentioned it but I have to get maximum mileage of it, what can I say, things are quiet round here.. No, the vacuum cleaner does not have eyelash extensions either.

But the vacuum cleaner is causing me worry. It works fine but it's the name: Sebo.  It's like one of those sleb (celebrity) names like J-Lo, or Lilo or that singing woman Suebo or ScarJo (Scarlett Johansson, apparently).  I am just waiting for Sebo to be arrested after a fight in a nightclub, or some misunderstanding about some jewellery, or for some tapes to turn up on the internet with Sebo engaging in some hardcore, I mean, hard floor, action.  Plus I am in real trouble if it develops a little sleb style substance abuse problem - with the suction on that thing, it's capable of snorting up the entire narcotics output of Colombia in a couple of days...on the plus side it will probably be literally flying so I can ride it to Tescos..

Meanwhile Grandma Whacker and I have become victims of an outrageous Miscarriage of Justice:  we got a parking ticket at the Happy Valleys Shopping Centre car park.  La Whacker has a special parking card (something to do with shrapnel injuries sustained during WW2, the invasion of Poland, I think.  No, I am joking.  It was on the Russian Front).

Anyway, card has faded due to sun and we got slapped with one of those nasty black and yellow stripey numbers.

But don't worry, we are taking our case right to the very top: we have chained ourselves to the 7th floor of the car park and are not leaving under any circumstances* until the ticket has been rescinded.

In other news I have read this.  It is a thriller, set in Newcastle where Lovely B lives and it even mentions Eldon Square, B's shopping centre de choix.



I watched this, it's ridiculous, over the top and I loved it: gun-toting vigilante middle class housewives...just like me and my other mummy friends..

Took my Midlife Crisis Converse to the supermarket today, where they behaved very badly: they refused to go to the minced beef aisle to get the necessary for a lovely cottage pie.  Instead they shot off to the alcohol section and leered at the vodka, before staggering to Frozen Foods in the hope of picking up vulnerable men buying Ready Meals for one...next time I am wearing my Clarks comfort shoes..

Must go, Grandma W wants me to undo her padlock.


*except for comfort breaks and refreshments - they do a rather nice egg and cress sandwich and pot of tea at Marks & Spencers.