Trouble

You know you're in trouble when....

.... you watch Black Swan on DVD and you then find yourself skipping about the kitchen, pointing your toes, and humming that music (Tum, tum  ti tum ti tum, ti tum, ti tum, ti tum ti tum ti tum..) and shouting, " I'm a prima ballerina and I'm absolutely bonkers..."

and you are growing feathers and stuff...

(you also know you are in trouble when you spend time trying to fashion a tutu out of paper tissue for a small stuffed animal...)

..............small boys dress up  Mad for a school charity thing and you can't tell the difference from their normal off duty attire..

.... you find a card to send Louise of InTownsville (Louise has just had a big operation on her back, wishing you Up and About soon Louise) and you are convinced this card is just the thing, telling yourself it depicts, left to right, you, Linda in Chile and Louise (you have a very jolly email playgroup going with these two ladies), and you are able completely to overlook the fact that it is, ahem, quite some time, since you were school girls...

.....you start your holiday packing* and put in 4 towels and an educational game which no one will play and then your suitcase is full and you are so done with packing and need a cup of tea...

......you reinstate the Wii which has been banned for 6 months and now Boy 2 has his mitts clasped to the controls EVEN WHEN IT IS NOT ON...

.....Mr Blighty discovers an ant infestation in the cupboard and spends the weekend in there dealing with it...

(by the way, those red boots do not have anyone in them, despite appearances - I have not, for example, been overcome by the sight of my spouse being all manly and fainted....they do look odd though...)

......................this is the scene after you have, in a weak moment, bought Boy 1 a new grip for his cricket bat*; and he has come home and ripped the old one off, and you hear wailing and after 10 minutes of panting and puffing you realise it is impossible to get the new grip on...

*why the bl**dy hell did they not warn me in the shop, do I look like the sort of woman who knows what she is doing? Of course not!

   If only I had paid attention to those saucy articles in Cosmopolitan about how to . .....never mind..with your teeth...no, that's enough

This particular spot of bother was resolved by a visit to yet another sports shop, it turns out you need a wooden thing to roll the new grip onto, inside out and then you roll it onto the bat....*

* Some of you really have filthy minds.  I like that.

Something for the weekend Mrs B?

A very nice lady called Kate raised an interesting question about my last post, where I mentioned buying my boys purses. I now realise that in America and possibly Australia "purse" is what women carry their most vital possessions around in - credit card, phone, lipstick, handcuffs, welding kit. She imagined Boys 1 and 2 tripping along with little designer bags over their arms, Boy 1 with a Mulberry Bayswater and Boy 2 with a Hermes Birkin, for example. You see, here in England we call "purses" "handbags". For us, "purses" are what you put your money/small change in. What do you people call them? Change purses? Bill folds? Condominiums? Eggplant?

That terrible old know-all Oscar Wilde went on about two nations divided by a common language. He does have a point.

I know in America "pants" are trousers; here "pants" are knickers, underwear. I am always amused that Americans talk about "pants suits." And I think "suspenders" in Americaland are what men use to hold up their trousers; in England these are called "braces"; suspenders are what people use to hold up their stockings/liven up their marriage/wear when playing Dr Frank N Furter in the local am dram production of "The Rocky Horror Show".


The best example of the US/Anglo language mismatch I ever witnessed was during a conference for lawyers from all over the world. Someone asked an Amercian lawyer what she would be wearing to the dinner that evening. "A sheath" she replied. The entire British contingent collapsed in very undignified squawks of laughter. Much to the bemusement of all delegates from other countries. Eventually when we'd picked ourselves off the floor, blown our noses, tucked our shirts back in and put our glasses back on, we explained that in England "sheath" means, er, a condom. (No, nothing to do with condominiums).

So you see ladies, purse sounds weird. But it could have been worse. Much, much worse.


Images from Wikipedia of Tim Curry and Monica Bellucci

Muuuuum can i have a snak?

Hi Boy Won here, i am doing writing today. Guest posts is cool.
Here is a pic of me. I cut out the Dennis the Menace mask, it came with my Beano comic.
I am going to send off pic and get a prize, a Nintendo DS or a helicopter or a speedboat or some stickers or other cool stuff.

I don’t like pink stuff and dresses and shoos and grils so I did not think FoeFoosha was cool. Till yesterday. Yesterday FF was cool. The pic of the snak was awsum. It made Mum shreek. Cool. Dear Missus FF plese can you post the snak to me, I will give you Mums credit card number. I will keep it in my room and feed it stuff like crisps and my brother Boy Too. I would realy like a pyton, can that other lady send me one, thank you.
We have snaks in our garden to. Mum does not belive me but we do.

This is dedly yella snak.

This is dedly tree snak

I want to get some of that net stuff for windoes and doors, it could keep snaks and my brother out. He always makes it back into the house. He is a po bott face smelli.......

This is my brother's sunflower. Mum said it was eaten by the dear that come into our garden, but I think my brother eated it as he is a compleet wirdo and chews stuff.

Oh no its Mum, look all cross.

“What are doing on the computer?
I asked you to get dressed hours ago!
Go now!

Wait! How long have you been wearing those pants?
Euch!
Put clean ones on, you can’t wear the same pants for days, it’s horrid.
No, I don’t want to smell them.
Take them off your head!

Upstairs now, get some clothes on!
No, don’t lick the mirror as you go past!
Stop swinging on the door!
Don’t you dare put those Nutella paws on the walls.....

EEEK, I’ll get the cloth
GET DRESSED NOW”

Better go, Mum has gone all shouty and horid she is a meenie, why she not just ask me nicly stead of shouting?

P.S i like that other ladie Janit too that does Tie kwando, cool

Turnips and Hermes

Below, crowded Kings Cross train station last week. Lovely B was about to take the train back to Newcastle. Kings Cross is not a nice station, especially now compared to St Pancras which has been greatly tarted up since Eurostar has moved there. But renovation work is underway in Kings Cross too. I was greatly amused by Elf and Safety announcements reminding us that cycling, skateboarding and rollerblading were not permitted in the station. So easy to forget and attempt a triple halfpipe on top of all those people. Bye Bye Lovely B! I felt quite folorn, but pulled myself together. I am a grown up, independent woman of today! A lady spoke to me as I was leaving the Kings Cross loos. I had noticed she had been glancing in my direction. I was looking quite smart that day: posh frock on and no obvious foodstuffs on my face. I prepared myself to accept the anticipated compliment graciously. "Excuse me" whispered the lady, "I think you've got your dress tucked up at the back". Oh god, a skirt in knickers situation. Lovely B, come back, I can't last 5 minutes without you, see what happens!



After this unsettling incident I took the bus to Selfridges. I had an idea of buying Mr Blighty some posh decaff coffee. This sign caught my eye. When did turnips become upmarket enough to be sold in Selfridges foodhall? Is there a whole department for them? No sign of any today, maybe not turnip season. Shades of Blackadder's downtrodden stooge, Baldrick, whose dream was to have his very own turnip one day.

Gosh, Baldrick's gone blonde!

No luck with the coffee but I noticed they stock Australian healthfood.

And that stuff Aussies are supposed to put in their sandwiches.

Good grief, has the world gone mad? £16 for tea? Miller Harris are better know for perfumes, maybe you drink half and then splash the rest over yourself??

After the heady atmosphere of the turnip department, I needed to get more down to earth, so I went to the Hermes shop inside Selfridges. I channelled the lovely MaiTai and tried to look nonchalant, as though I pop into Hermes all the time. The sales assistant was not fooled. He asked me to stop taking pictures - ha, too late mate! I ended up telling him all about MaiTai's blog, as otherwise I thought he might call Security and they would work me over in the basement. Worked like a dream, he was very interested and I wrote down her name for him. I think it is very important Hermes know what a fabulous brand ambassadress MaiTai is - before I discovered her blog, I never even knew I wanted a Hermes scarf, now I am getting myself noticed as a security threat in their store!

Below, sumptuousness of their bangles. Drool!

Tiger, tiger etc

Slobber!

The deliciousness of the scarves - dribble!

Below, I think these are called Twillys, MaiTai, help, need your expertise!

No shopping post would be complete without some nail porn. Selfridges stock OPI, good to know!
I considered buying Lincoln after Dark, FF has it. But there is also Lincoln after Midnight - maybe FF has this? It all got too much, plus more expensive in Selfridges than in my humble beauty wholesalers!

Below, very smart OPI set up but I am rather worried by the girl on the right, she seems to be pouring nail varnish over her body, very sloppy technique! The Nail Polish Hoarder would not approve!

Below, view of Selfridges from the balcony of M&S cafe, never knew the balcony was there before.

In M&S I bought Mr Blighty some clothes, since my coffee search had been fruitless and I felt guilty about spending money on everyone except him. Mr B used to be very designer, Armani suits and ties, Ralph Lauren, but Since Children he has scaled back, bless him, and hardly ever buys clothes. Most of this did not pass the Mr Blighty test of not looking sissy but surprisingly he likes the flowery shirt. Yes, Mr Blighty, don't be afraid to get in touch with your inner flower child!

And that is quite enough shopping for the time being! It was tough, all the eating, drinking, and shopping that Lovely B and I did. But I kept focused, kept going, there were hard times, gruelling times, testing and challenging, I had to dig deep. But it was worth it, Lovely B gave me an award. So proud!

Volcanic ash ate my cash

Hounded by the paparazzi


The boys are on holiday from school again. But this time we are staying put. We are still traumatised by our Easter holiday experience when we had decided to be adventurous and fly to Venice. But, as I merrily told everyone, just for 3 nights, as we couldn't afford any longer. Little did I know that a certain volcano was getting a bit restive over in Iceland.

The result was 3 extra nights in Venice, an overnight train journey from Venice to Paris, a day in Paris feeling slightly missplaced, and an evening Eurostar back to London.

It was all very unsettling, what with me and Mr B not knowing when we would next get a soothing cup of tea. But to be honest, I was thrilled, it is the most exciting thing to happen to me since Boy 2 won the egg and spoon race in 2007. (The travel situation seemed so dire, I suggested it would be best just to apply for Italian citizenship and get the boys into school in Venice. But Mr B exercised his special Euro veto, much like Mrs Thatcher in her prime). Boys 1 and 2 took it all in their stride as they quickly worked out they could increase their total gelati consumption by 100%. Only Mr B was perturbed as he was not sure the EU Regulations on compensation for air travellers were drafted with this situation in mind (my husband, the mad, impetuous fool).
So, I thought I would share what we learnt from our unplanned adventure, just in case it can be of help to anyone else ( I was told Brangelina were in Venice at the same time, so I am sure they could benefit from my handy tips).

*KEY LEARNINGS FROM OUR TRIP*
• JEEEEEEZ, Venice is expensive
• If you take small boys to the Lido and tell them not to get their trousers wet, you are deluded
• Hand dryers in Lido cafe loos are not designed to dry small boy trousers, plus you get pitying looks from people who think you are incontinent
• When the man in the Murano glass shop gives you a special tour upstairs of the really high end glass artefacts, don’t go with small boys (who, as we all know, never look where they are going and often walk backwards) and expect to breathe until you get safely downstairs again; even the man seemed to realise the enormity of the risk once upstairs and clearly regretted his offer: Why in God's name would you put glass things on free-standing glass plinths in the middle of a cluttered showroom?? And then take 2 small boy/whirling dervishes there???)

The only thing I want to see on a plinth. Well helloooo!
Sorry, got a bit distracted there, back to key learnings:

• Jeeeeeez, Venice is expensive
• Small boys will watch any cartoons/sport/ads for washing powder on hotel room TV, even if in Italian or German

• It really adds to the ambience if you customise your hotel room with 7 pairs of underpants festooning the radiators

I kept up with the washing while we were away
• It is great fun for small boys to go on the top bunk of the Venice-Paris overnight sleeper but their parents will spend all night awake, fearing small boy disastrous unplanned descent to ground level
• Jeeeeeeeez, Paris is expensive
• Small boys will shoot up the stairs to the top of the Eiffel Tower like rabid mountain goats but once at the top will not be interested in the view; their mother (who once watched a documentary on climbing Mount Everest will collapse after only a couple of flights, gasping "It's no good, you try to summit, leave me, we're in the Death Zone, you'll never get down if you stop to help me..." to which Mr B will cheerfully reply "OK"
• Taking small boys into Notre Dame and suggesting they compare and contrast it with the interior of Venetian churches is the dumbest, most over-optimistic idea ever
• When asked by teachers what they did in the Easter hols, small boys will grunt and say nothing except bowling in High Wycombe
A lot nicer than Tescos


Small boys attempting to escape from yet another art gallery

Pants

I had hoped to start my blog with a description of my life as an international supermodel, wife, mother of two adorable boys, living in a beautiful country house with organic free range peacocks roaming in the park and -er- stuff. I would have liked to tell you about my charity aimed at bringing aromatherapy to stressed out bankers around the world. And how I am an inveterate fantasist. But none of the above is remotely true, except the last bit. Instead I am starting with a photo of small boy pants. Why? Because for me, being a mother sometimes feels just a little bit pants. I had a day like that yesterday. It went something like this:

Before school - Boy 1 and 2 playing rowdy, good-natured (and to me totally ANNOYING) game of hurling at least 15 soft toys to each other in the kitchen; followed by the standard "male of the species" non-hearing of shouts to come and eat breakfast; then long negotiation of whether Boy 1 can take my ski sunglasses to school (he gets full custody but I get access once a year for ski trips), removal of toothpaste and most food substances from boys while chasing them around house and/or sitting on them.

So far, so good. Then things go sour when Boy 1 dons blazer and rucksack, and heads decisively for the door. I laugh as I notice he has forgotten to put his shoes on. A minor detail but an important one.

Boy 1 FURIOUS. Terrible wounded male pride. Some back peddling by me, general smoothing, I wish Boy 1 luck with his cricket match that afternoon and I remind Boy 2 to be nice and not shout at the other boys (to which he shouts "I DON'T SHOUT AND THEY'RE ALL IDIOTS!").

Drop off done, back home, exhausted, for a soothing cup of tea.

Fast forward to 3.30pm. I pick up Boy 2. His first and only words: "Can I play on the computer?" No, I say, we have talked about this, no computer on weekdays. Boy 2 goes PUCE. Massive eruption of displeasure "You never let me play 'puter, never, it's not fair, can I play, pleeeeeeeeeeez, waaaaaaaaah" Other parents watch with the quiet satisfaction that at least this time it's not their offspring who is kicking off. Boy 2 keeps up his vociferous protests as we walk home; neighbours turn to see what is going on, cats hide, car alarms go off. When he bangs his head repeatedly against a wooden fence I am horrified: what if he damages the fence? I try to record the tantrum on the voice bit of my phone (some half-baked idea of playing it back later to shame him, or at least it could be produced in evidence at the Bad Mothers Tribunal), but I am so distracted that all I find later is some stressed woman whining "oh, it's not recording" ...

At home Hurricance Smallboy continues. A moment of calm, then further Boy 2 wailing when DVD player won't work. Ring Mr B for technical back up but he is not at desk. I have evil vision of him lounging around in colleague's room eating biscuits and drinking tea. Eventually get DVD to work but now time to fetch Boy 1 after cricket. Cue further wailing from Boy 2: he wants to be left at home on his own and I say no, he is only 7, I am not leaving him on his own till he is 30...

Get to school in car, Boy 2 appears and shouts at me "Go, Go" as if he has just pulled off heist of the century and I am his wheels. "How did the cricket go?" I ask. "Cuthbert got 4 people out" he says. "That's good" I reply. "No it's not!!" yells Boy 1, going an even deeper puce than his brother's earlier shade. (I am puzzled, my cricket knowhow is sketchy but I am sure getting people out is good).

"The people he got out were on his own team!" screeches Boy 1.

There follows a furious, sobbing explanation: Boy 1 went into bat with Cuthbert as batsman at the other end. Boy 1 hits the ball straight at the other team's fielder, so he shouts at Cuthbert "No, stay!" But Cuthbert runs anyway, forcing Boy 1 to run and so Boy 1 is run out.* The harshness of Boy 1's fate is underlined by the fact that this was his first go and he has spent hours waiting to bat. I comfort myself that this is Good Life Training, for example, if he ever attempts to fly with British Airways ("Sorry your flight is cancelled").

*Apparently this tactic worked so well that the unfortunate Cuthbert tried it successfully three more times, making for a somewhat strained atmosphere in the minibus home from the match. Names have been changed, so I apologise to any real cricket playing Cuthberts out there.
When Boy 1 hurls abuse at his chair at dinner (chair not behaving) and then unleashes the full force of his wrath at me, I really feel that I Have Had Enough. "Come home now" I tell Mr B reassuringly on the phone, "otherwise I will murder your children".

And guess what happens when Mr B arrives? Yes, of course, the boys are 110% adorable, so sweet and good-natured and eager to please. Mr B looks at me enquiringly as if to say "What is your problem?"

Pants. Just a bit.