Saturday, 15 January 2011

World record...!



Spot the world's smallest egg... you can't see Margo's effort, a splatted egg on the floor.

Friday, 14 January 2011

I really am tired of looking like mother druggie…!











My John Mcenroe mini-me, get that attitude!

Well 3am Wednesday morning, that was it, I was up, the night was gone. And yes, Wednesday is the day they have no school in France, so with toothache, the likes of which I have never had before in my long legged life, I was more than a little pissed off that I was going to have to run and entertain my self-created kindergarten, with toothache, agonising shooting pains and temperature, oh, yeah, and no sleep…

I have to ring the dentist, there is no way this is normal, I ring, sounding a bit drunk, as I can hardly open my mouth it’s hurting to breathe. His only appointment is not till 7 pm that evening…I would have to spend the whole day like this. OMG. So I did 4 loads of washing, cooked, cleaned, entertained the masses and got on with the day. Returning from the dentist, I wonder whether I was in fact mistaken, and had accidentally swung by the vets. The horse-sized dose of antibiotics (it turns out, it’s an abscess), that he gave me are just not compatible with human beings. How does one swallow a pill the size of a small hamster? With great difficulty, I can assure you. This set me off wondering whether in fact they were meant for elsewhere…As the French are renowned for their penchant to use ulterior routes for their medicines. Although I very much doubt I’ll be giving it a whirl…”Excuse me kids just a mo, you carry on with what you’re doing, mummy’s just off to the bathroom to see whether this pill is meant for elsewhere…! “.

At one point, whilst I am making the tea, all goes quiet…time to panic, time to panic big-time. Quiet where there are four children=kids in the process of silently destroying things/walls/bed covers/sofa throws/animals, that general type of thing. I sprint into the bedroom like a crazed lady, the 3 big ones are quietly drawing, complimenting each other on their masteries (very sweet), then my eyes fall on the littlest, Esmie, she gets a little fright in seeing me, and looks at me with HUGE big black panda eyes, yes, she’s discovered my mascara’s hiding place…black everywhere. Still, I console myself, at least it’s not indelible ink. Thursday was all too quiet for me. I was still feeling rough and some weird drug induced shakes going on (prescrption drugs I must add), I had such a relaxing day! It is unheard of usually, all there was was the school run (the mother with toothache and drug induced shakes, this was gonna look good…), few loads of washing to do, hang out, bit of ironing, entertainment for the toddler who is now going through a John Mcenroe mini-me phase, insisting on self-hairdressing (scissors NO where to be found; I have learned, we are still growing out her ‘tufts’) with a hair band that she has taken to. Oh yes, my lazy day, I had a lil mop too, you know, as you do, and I hung out all by my little self for 27 minutes and 8 seconds (I have a stop watch) and had a coffee in the garden, occasionally being pecked by a chicken. Then Esmie woke up from her 4 hour sleep…I know, 4 hours, this is an absolute record, and I am stamping on my own feet as I write this for not having recording every element of the day, military style, to reflect upon and copy to the T the next day. But I didn’t, so we’ll be back to one hour, but there’s worse things that happen at sea apparently, according to my dad that is. As I am outside, I witness my chicken Margo, laying her egg over the back of the box they have found to lay their eggs in. I mean, really, what is the use in that? It plopped out of her backside and landed splat! Right on the ground. Useless chicken. Well, I have a busy week end ahead of me, and typing with these shakes is doing my head in! I hope they wear off soon, as I really am tired of looking like mother druggie…! Have a great weekend every one!

Just a little post blog beg, please can you all do me a BIG favour? It’ll only take a second, I promise! Please, if you read my blog, can you go up to the top left hand side, and click on ‘follow’ fill out the teeny weeny detail bit and be an official follower?? It will make me look better you see! Thank you!


Wednesday, 12 January 2011

I could have been telling her she was uglier than a hatful of bottom holes for all she was paying attention!

I was in the shop today, briefly, before meeting Make-up lady to take her to the Brocante, and there, I hit upon old lady supermarket-sweep-a-thon-pay-with-luncheon-vouchers time…I am trapped, and in there for what seems like years of my one short life, wondering to myself if I will still be here at Easter? I am busy answering all their “Oooh, they’re not all yours are they?” and how lucky I am, I am standing there “Oh yes, terribly lucky, so very lucky, yes, o lucky me”, when my 4-year-old daughter turns round to one of the old ladies who cornered us near the pickles, and tells her she is a “conass” this, in English means approximately a w*nk*r…smiling a big smile, and flashing her big blue eyes as she says it. Thankfully, the old lady did not drop down dead in shock, as I had feared, how would I explain that to the shop? “Oh, I was the last to see her, she was chatting to me, my 4-year-old daughter called her a w*nk*r, then she just kinda dropped down, like this” (demonstration over, and I am thinking I am NOT guilty?). No, that would not do at all. The nice old lady did let me explain we were English, we were only 4 (now I am sure she didn’t believe me!) and that we didn’t realise that we had just called her a w*nk*r, and how dreadfully sorry we were. I think she was more confused in my patronising look whilst telling her, and my insistence on calling one person ‘we’.

So, my date with Make-up lady, well it was, interesting. It went like this: I fly back from the doctor’s, skid round the corner to her street (well, not literally, I had my self-popping daughter in the car to think of, no, she has not been javelling her way out of the permanent/durable/non-flammable/non-eatable/biteable/ bubble I have decided to let her grow up in, she keeps unpopping her seat belt in the car, I am honestly having real issues…), I pick Make-up lady up, and off we go. I am suddenly transported, after the 4th time she recounts her life’s history to me, to a world where I am apparently opening my mouth, and making all the right facial gestures, but there’s no sound coming out, Make-up lady answers questions I never asked, laughs at things I was not even joking about, and genuinely, I only saw her breathe twice. I could have been telling her she was uglier than a hatful of bottom holes for all she was paying attention (she is not, I might add). As soon as we get there, she grabs her bag and basically ran off quicker than sh*t off a shovel, with the instructions to not forget about her, she needed a ride home, but she was off on her own!! Good god. What have I done? Well Esmie and I had good fun looking at all the second hand toys, much to the chagrin of my mother-in-law! They do have some cool stuff though M-i-L! And Make-up lady did offer to highlight my hair for me, so that’s nice. But probably, no thanks.

I am late for the kids, I see my friend, who asks me if I phoned her the other day. I hadn’t, but she tells me that actually I had, in error, I had congratulated her, on the answering machine, on the birth of her son and rabbled on incoherently for a bit, she thinking I had been drinking and ringing as a practical joke (err, what?!). It hadn’t been that, obviously, I had rung the wrong friend; they both have the same first name. And then I realised they had the same surname too, and she was astounded as it is apparently a really uncommon surname, and could they in fact be related it’s that uncommon, and as this is being discussed, I realise, she had her answering machine message with her name and surname, and I was still thinking that it had been the answering machine of the friend I had meant to be in contact with (did you get that? Re-read it then!). By now it’s gone too far, I can’t back track, if I do I am going to look like one complete and utter fruit cake, a total “conass”! On that note, my bed calls, despite the fact I shall be staring at the ceiling all night fretting about the fact that I have to potentially follow through with a big “fake” family reunion, because I’ve been and had one of my intensely thick moments, which befall me all too frequently…Night!

Tuesday, 11 January 2011


This is how I caught my leggings on the line, "Please leave me here, don't wear me, noooo"...Not even my clothes want to be worn by me! Oh, and no, it is not a dodgy white stain on the crotch...it is the label!!

Monday, 10 January 2011

I feel about as useful as a jam sandwich to a drowning rabbit…


The sound of mugs sent hurtling to the floor and being smashed to smithereens, makes me doubt my sanity (this thought plagues me on a daily basis), putting mugs on top of a spinning washing machine is never going to be the brightest of places to put them, especially when your washing machine is on the verge of breaking, and hops around the garage, trying desperately to find an escape-route from the madhouse, every time it spins…!

Yesterday evening, I was busy mopping, cooking, bread rising, children still up and down out of bed, feeding animals, sweeping outside, and knitting with my ears; when I hear the phone ring. For some reason, the sound of the phone ringing frequently sends me into a silent (but deadly) rage. I quite often find myself looking at the phone and shouting (before I pick it up), “Yes? Well, then, yes, what? What now? Oh, so I haven’t got enough on, and you think by making a noise you’ll get my attentions too?”. Realising it is in fact an inanimate object that I am focussing my inner anger upon, I check myself, take a deep breath and I pick up, smile, add sweet voice and away, “Yes, helllooo?”. Mrs Hyde… In fact, it is Make-up lady, after inadvertently adopting Make-up lady (please read earlier blogs if you have no idea of whom I am talking about!) a few weeks back, and I have apparently become Counsellor/walking laundrette/’getting her out’ woman in the process. This, coupled with the endearment ‘Chicken-woman’ from my husband, renders me in a position of overwhelming surges of self doubt, and “Am I really?”,"Really, am I?” Questioning each time I look in the mirror (not that I am obsessed). These titles make me feel about as useful as a jam sandwich to a drowning rabbit…Tuesday, I have a date, to wash her sheets (OMG, what am I doing? out, again with the latexs...) and to take her to the Brocante (France's equivalent of second-hand shops). I want today to be Tuesday...! Not.

Friday afternoon, I am on my way back from picking up the publicity to collate, and distribute on foot to various surrounding countries (well, may as well be, the walking my husband does!). All of a sudden, in my rear view mirror, I can just about make it out in the mirror, as it is covered in little grubby finger prints, courtesy of young-lings, and claw prints from the chickens checking their appearance after they have laid another egg in the car, Esmie, wandering around, gay as you like, in the car…Please note here, the fact that she is wandering around. No child should ever be wandering about in the car, unless it is immobile. Esmie had decided to pop herself, bored, evidently of her ride in the car, and do a bit of exploring. Driving like an alcoholic late for a pub lunch, I pull over in the nearest stop off place, re-attach self-detached child, and get stuck at traffic lights a little further on. There is a dude with dreadlocks, wearing nothing but purple, looking very disconcerting, and purple, strolling round the cars stopped at the lights asking for stuff. I look down, and avoid eye contact at all cost. I press the ‘lock your vehicle in presence of freaky, purple-clad road strollers, NOW, NOW, NOW!’ button, and see many arms reaching up in various other cars doing the same thing…! The lights turn, and I speed off before I encounter any more purple-clad dudes wanting stuff… and arrive safely home. Ooof.

Tomorrow there is school again (I try not to cry with relief), and thankfully it will be the last day I drug my 4-year-old daughter too. The steroids shall be at an end, no I have not been trying to create the next child body builder at 4-years-old, they are prescription, and for poorly ears! Happy Monday everyone!