Chaotic and random post

A revived Blighty, in H&M leopardskin scarf arrangement and "vintage" bling from Crooks and Nannies

Only week 2 of boy hols and already I feel out of control. Not helped by my recent malaise (posh way of saying feeling pukesville). But you can't keep a Blighty down! (Actually there is nothing more I would like than to lie languidly in crisp white sheets and recover my strength, but first, my sheets aren't up to it and secondly, I am a Woman, which we all know means getting on with it, Come What May. I am reminded of that Monty Python sketch where a stiff upper lip soldier is attacked in his tent overnight by a tiger. In the morning one of his legs is missing, eaten by the tiger. But he stoically insists it's just a mosquito bite or scratch. I feel women all over the world take the same line daily, I have heard of mothers going to school Nativity plays whilst suffering from pneumonia, for example).

The whole holiday thing seems to be turning into an exercise in Advanced Logistics. I feel I need a campaign room with green table, map and miniature figures as in old WW2 films:

0900 hours Boy 1 and friend to Sailing Course; Boy 2 to Legoland

1600 hours Boy 1 and friend to swimming pool, Boy 2 still in Legoland and refusing to leave

1800 hours Boy 1 and friend home for tea, Boy 2 still refusing to leave Legoland

1900 hours father of Boy 1 friend arrives to collect son

1900 hours +1, Boy 2 arrives home from Legoland

1900+2 Wardrobes R US executive arrives to measure up for wardrobes in boys' rooms; I insist on calling him Cliff though actually his name is Steve

2100 Exhausted Boy 2 gets in bed while Cliff/Steve still measuring up in his room

2100+30 Catch Boy 1 creeping into kitchen and shout him back to bed

2200 Cliff/Steve finally departs having told me his wife doesn't like camping (is this the outdoorsy version of "my wife doesn't understand me"?)

2200+1 I water garden and side gate slams locking me out

2200+ 2 I cunningly remove flipflop and use this to lever open latch

2200+15 Boy 1 tries out Sailing Pre Capsize Exercise Anxiety but is bustled back to bed, again

2200+ 30 Mr B arrives home from work, he looks wistfully towards fridge and I shout at him that the kitchen is now closed..

Gratuitous picture of rose and er, other thing, S, if you are reading this is the rose you and S gave me, it's lovely, thank you!

And all round me are signs that things are Out of Control.

The evil pile of mending, sneering at me

I pulled myself together and resolved to deal with things.

I decided a visit to the stationery shop to source files was needed, yes, my life will be filed, ordered, tidied, under control! I bought this very swish file.

And these files, for boys' holiday work (Ha! I have outlined an ambitious programme of maths exercises, the extent of my fantasy world is awe-inspiring).

But after the stationery shop those wretched aliens intervened once again ( the same ones that kidnap me and force me to go shopping when the Mountain of Ironing needs to be scaled).

I found myself in a little junk shop I know called Nooks and Crannies, which I have now renamed Crooks and Nannies (crooks, well we won't go there; nannies, as there was a really nice young American nanny/au pair in there doing a great job of keeping her charges under control and entertained whilst herself having a life saving break from park/finger painting/potty training etc).

Tray of brooches at Crooks and Nannies, delish!

Above, miniature tea set from Crooks and Nannies, used to keep Schmutter ClutterBelow, ginger jar from C and N, v FF me thinks!

When I got home the aliens brainwashed me and told me to ignore the washing, mending, underpants crisis, shirt button deficit, kitchen bin surplus, etc. No, I needed first to deal with a recent, serious problem I have run into.

I was going to call it Varnish Duplication but the acronym is rather unfortunate (always felt sorry at school for Victoria Dunlop who had no middle name). So I will call it the Compulsively Lavish Acquisition of Polish instead, much better.

Yes, doing swatches of nail colour! The checkout lady at the supermarket the other morning who was wearing some very nice OPI (she couldn't remember the name) (nail varnish, bringing people together!) told me she does this as she is big varnish fan and takes her chart with her when shopping to avoid duplication. Brilliant! An excellent housework avoidance strategy too!

Right, must go, 1100 hours, time for Mandarin for Beginners.

I want my Mommmmy!

Yesterday did not end well. I retreated to bed at 6pm feeling incredibly nauseous, or what trained medical professionals term "pukey". Mr B sprang into action, he is just so caring, he covered the new carpet in our room with a towel and put the bin by the bed. Behold the pathos of Blighty in her sickbed!

Luckily for the carpet no upchuckage occurred but I did manage to fall over the bin in the middle of the night and wake Mr B. Ha!

PLEASE NOTE: NO BUSHBABIES WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS POST

Pots and Polish

Will the self-gifting never end? Yesterday I recklessly splurged on some new saucepans. Actually the saucepan upgrade was long overdue, I have done for some of my pans (wandering off during cooking operations to peruse out of date, irresistably fascinating TV listings mag or flyers for double glazing etc), a couple have mysteriously lost their lids and all are misshapen (Boy 1 exploring toddler stage).

The new pans have a 25 year guarantee but I am sure there is some small print that the guarantee does not apply to people who have concentration issues when cooking.

I asked Mr B whether it was too sad to put pictures of my new pans on my blog. He said it was, so of course I had to do it. But to add glamour, I have thrown in a pic of some polish - by chance my OPI The Thrill of Brazil was a very good match for the new pans and can be used in repair work when they get chipped in the inevitable smashing and bashing I call cooking. (Actually a bit disappointed about this, had hoped to have to dash out to shops to curate matching polish......is there no end to my domestic traumas?)

In future, I shall of course be matching my nail polish to my kitchen utensils, matching to clothes or accessories is SOOOOO yesterday dahling.

Look, I saw these pans a while ago, did not buy but was tempted by the Chanel Particuliere/OPI Don't know Jacques colour.

In other exciting glamour news I bought a thing called a Ped Egg which I was told was the business for attaining lovely smooth feet.

It claims to be "so gentle won't burst a balloon" (but what would I be doing with it and a balloon??) and "safe to the touch".

Just getting it out of the packaging I flayed my thumb.

Think Pedi Egg need to add a warning : not suitable for those who suffer from packaging rage and other idiots.

Can't wait to try it out on my balloon.

Charles and Elizabeth - the "New" Harold and Lady Antonia

Hello my lovelies!

I feel the need to share with you my latest literary romance memoir. Ever since reading Lady Antonia's account of her life with Harold Pinter, "Must You Go?" (good on parties and poems, disappointing on mince beef recipes and shirt ironing), I have been hoping to find something similar. I have just stumbled across "Love's Civil War", a collection of the letters of Elizabeth Bowen and the diary entries of Charlies Ritchie "from the love affair of a lifetime", edited by Victoria Glendinning.

The Anglo-Irish writer Elizabeth Bowen and the Canadian diplomat Ritchie carried on an affair for about 32 years. They met when she was 41, living in Oxford and married to Alan Cameron, a civil servant. During their affair Ritchie married, and remained married to, Sylvia Smellie (no sniggering please, oh, sorry that's me).

This is what he looked like. Not exactly Cary Grant but apparently women loved him. (I always think photos don't tell the whole story, so much depends on other attributes like voice, manner, gestures, humour, animation, the careful use of cellotape and concealer). Ritchie was repeatedly unfaithful to Bowen as well as to his wife; he was reputed to be the most amusing man you could meet.

This is Elizabeth. I think she has a very beautiful, interesting, intelligent face, and real style.

In an early diary entry Ritchie writes about her, "In the first place how can a woman of forty with gold bangles* and the face of a woman of forty and the air of a don's wife, how can such a woman have such a body - like Donatello's David** I first told her when I first saw what it was like. Those small firm breasts, that modelled neck set with such beauty on her shoulders, that magnificent back....Would I ever had fallen for her if it hadn't been for her books***?"

*I have gold bangles, we are practically twins, we are living the same life! Except for the lover, novels, circle of literary friends (she knew Virginia Woolf), house overlooking Regents Park, mansion in Ireland...
**surely not exactly like

*** er, the books, right

I just know I am going to enjoy this!

Little beady eyes

Mr Blighty, who has been working all hours, came home early enough last night to see the boys before they went to bed. In an attempt to reconnect with Boy 2, he asked him what he had been doing at Holiday Club. This is a one week club run by the school as a contribution to mothers' sanity during the long summer break. It offers such entertainments as football, dodgeball, swimming, waterfights and art stuff.


"So what did you do at club today?" ventures Mr B.
" I made a baby chick out of beads" says Boy 2.

"That's nice" comments Mr B. "And what else did you do?"

"I made a penguin out of lots of different coloured beads."

"Did you do anything else?"

"Yeah, I made a frog."

"Was that out of beads too?" asks Mr B, getting into the swing of things.

" 'Course" replies Boy 2.

"And did you do any other things, perhaps not bead related?"

Boy 2 gives Mr B a hard stare.

"Yeah, a snowman."

In the acting business they do say never work with children.

Party On!

Last week school broke up for Boys 1 and 2. This means there are 8 weeks and 3 days (or 59 days) of summer holidays stretching out before us, not that I'm counting.


The end of term brought with it a round of social events. Three events, to be precise. Anymore and I would have to book into The Priory with "exhaustion" .



The first event was a summer party given by one of Boy 2's classmates. It was fantastic. Boy 2 kept running back to me wild-eyed exclaiming "This is the best party ever!" I agree, it was!

Above, the laser quasar tent, where Boy 1 spent most of the afternoon, despite the sauna like temperatures inside.


Below, a chap I met at the party, he didn't really do small talk so it was heavy going, to be honest.

Above and below, the boys enjoying the climbing wall.

Below, some guests arrived by helicopter.

For some reason the boys found our battered Ford a less cool means of transport.

The next event was the Parents summer party that evening, held in a marquee on the school tennis courts. It was sultry hot. Mr Blighty wanted to wear shorts. I wouldn't let him. The first thing we saw upon arrival was two guys wearing shorts. "I told you you should have worn shorts" I said to Mr B helpfully. Mr B went to the bar for a drink.

Champagne was drunk and dodgy dance moves were displayed. The Headmaster and his wife started the dancing. As is traditional the single male members (that sounds wrong) of the Sports Department arrived late from the pub ever so slightly mellow. I almost didn't recognise them with their trousers on (that definitely sounds wrong). I am referring of course to their penchant for shorts wearing all year round, probably to show off their tanned legs (rumours of a sunbed in the Sports Block are rife). They adopted a 4-2-2- attacking formation and took up position in the middle of the dancefloor where they stood swaying to the music and swigging beer. I was told that last year one of them went home with a mother. "That was nice of her to give him a lift" I chirped. Mr B raised one eyebrow at me. Oh, I seeeeeee! I was then lost in fantasies about taking a sports master home myself and he would play football and cricket all day in the garden with the boys and I could go shopping.. The librarian lets the boys take books home for the whole holidays, wonder if the same applies to sports masters?

It was fantastic people watching. There were sequined dresses and high, high heels. There were maxi-dresses, little black dresses, white lace numbers. Those fathers really know how to dress up.

Mr B and I walked home under a clear sky. Mr B pointed out the stars to me. It would have been romantic if I hadn't tripped up and fallen off the pavement.

The final event was Speech Day, in the same marquee but transformed by serious seating. Boy 1 had to go early with tie and blazer on , and polished shoes. Boy 2 got to stay at home with Mr B.

It was stiflingly hot. My head ached. My eyes were heavy. It was long. Very long.

It was started off by the Chairman of the Board of Governors. He reported on various capital expenditure projects. The nuclear processing plant had been completed on schedule and the aromatherapy suite was progressing well. Plans for producing heavy water had been abandoned due to objections from local residents but talks with Spearmint Rhino were moving ahead.

Up next was the Headmaster. He read out some exam howlers - Question: name 6 animals who live in the North Pole. Answer: 3 polar bears and 3 seals.

Then a pupil gave a brilliant performance of Debussy's Golliwog's Cakewalk on the piano. I was suddenly gripped by the horrible thought that I might shout out "Pants" in a quiet bit, that piece is so stoppy starty! I resisted the temptation. I think I was delirious with the heat. Around me fathers quietly sweated. As usual, I sat behind the mother who chews gum and next to the parents I have never seen before whose son is about to leave.

Another pupil played a classical guitar piece.

Then the guest speaker, an Old Boy who went to work for the BBC gave his speech.

Finally prizes were handed out. Boy 1 did not get a prize. As usual I found it incomprehensible that they had failed to recognise the brilliance of my son at , er, well, something.

After all the excitement, it was bound to end on a low note. It did. When I collected Boy 1 he was furious. And limping. "It's all your fault" he seethed, " you told me not to wear socks yesterday." I worked out he had blisters on his feet. But how on earth did he get blisters at Speech Day? "No, at the party yesterday" he wept. Barefooted laser quasaring had produced huge blisters on each big toe. Boy 1 limped home melodramatically clutching on to my arm and wincing in pain. I recalled a ghastly film I had seen as a child starring Anna Neagle as Odette the WW2 heroine*, who had her toenails pulled out by the Gestapo and spent the rest of the film walking on her heels. Boy 1 did his Odette impersonation all the way home. It was very moving.

And as we limped home oh so slowly all I could think was "Where's a helicopter when you need one?"

* when I was a child this was deemed suitable Sunday afternoon viewing. Strange.

Mr Blighty buys an inflatable

Just a quick post tonight! I wanted you to see what happens when you ask a man to buy a paddling pool. I caught Mr B looking somewhat shifty when he came back from Homebase.


Poor Mr B. He was convinced the pack included the beautiful (blow up) girl. That will teach him to read the small print in future! He was so hoping for some "summer escapes."

But look on the bright side Mr B. At least it came with a puncture repair kit.

P.S. have you ever seen an more unlikely photo? "Mother" looking on adoringly in fetching swimwear while two offspring sit sedately in pool, indulging in some gentle waterplay. It's just like that at our house. Ha!