Thursday, 10 March 2011

Making a meal out of a maggot.





“Excuse me, I am sorry, but would you mind very much serving me before I have a cardiac arrest, or walk out and leave you to adopt my four kids” I gesticulate, arm flailing around demonstrating the numerous infants trapped in the waiting room corridor, with but 2 chairs and a toilet for entertainment, as I waited to see the ear specialist. My ‘challenge all the limits and beyond’ toddler is up to her tricks. She has discovered the loo roll, and does her deranged Andrex puppy trick, de-papering the roll. Monty, bless him, is doing his responsible role, he must sense at such a young age that mummy always needs help, medical help even…! But help, nonetheless, for a broken mummy, and he assists Esmie in re-rolling the de-rolled paper rolls. I would like to hear Jonathon Ross say that sentence. Mitzi is sat upside down on chair practicing her alphabet, which would have been cute, were it not for the fact that her and Lola were trying to ‘burp’ it. The burping alphabet. Nice. Es kicks off when a lady shuts door of toilet, ushering her out (nicely) and in all fairness, why would she want someone else’s child in the waiting room toilet with her? I am semi ‘on them’ but having to listen carefully to the extraordinarily complicated instructions as to the medical procedure Mitzi would be undergoing, what to do, what not to do, who to ring, what to eat, what not to wear. It’s only grommets for god’s sake. Typical French making a meal out of a maggot (is that a real live saying?). So there we go, that was how Tuesday after school went.

Wednesday was hot, 23 degrees, chilly-ish wind, but full blown summer for England! For France, it was a mild day! So we hit the beach, running and screaming and losing the dog, who ran off after a boy-dog, and would not stop trying to ‘mount’ him. So we had no choice but to tie him up on a log next to us, by his paws. Really, Oliver, too gay. I find loads of drift wood (you're driftwood floating on the water...dar di doo di dooo dooo dooo dooo, always, that Travis song haunts me whenever I am at the beach), huge great big bits of it, and bat my eyelids at Alex, yes, bat, rather than flutter, as the wind was making my face scrunch a bit, and my eyes blink hard and frequently in truth anyway. He sees the tree stumps, and concedes…three trips it takes him to get from the small driftwood forest I have collected and ferry them to the car parked over the back of beyond. My own personal Hulk. It’s very handy for my crazy projects. It’s all to do with me restarting my hobby, art. And I am now well equipped with wooden subjects for my muse.  Watch this space…! I also decided, foolishly, and man am I suffering the after effects now, to display my secret gymnastics’ antics to the kids and Alex on the beach. Sprinting like a mental woman, with all the grace of a 'wasted' Ostrich, leg up, and throwing myself into a full-on cartwheel, legs outstretched taking the will of all my life was worth, and triumphantly land on my feet. *Self-applauds*. Nice, I’ve still got it-I am planning the print I would like on my leotard for competitive events…

We bought some lovely Spring flowers to pot, and had great fun chucking the mud at each other rather than potting the flowers, I really enjoyed having mud thrown in my hair, no really…So it’s time for a bath, de-tense my aching strained thigh muscles, courtesy of cavorting cartwheel antics earlier today. (Bit of alliteration there, my old English teacher would be impressed).

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

(I’ll play the ‘I’m English’ card, brilliant)


I looked at my washing pile with glee, actual proper glee, glee that is usually only felt at winning the lottery, or hiring a manny, you know? That sort of glee. It was a pile of sheets. Big sheets. Not full to the brim with loads of tiny, impossibly tiny, teeny weeny things and odd socks. All of them, they’re always odd. I try and trick the washing machine by hiding the pair in a ball together, but it knows, it seeks out the weaker sock, and it chews it up and never spits it out again. Leaving it’s bereaved partner clinging terrified in the drum of doom. But there we go, at least the washing machine is semi-mended, enough that it’s washing things at least. The dishwasher still not, and I am bored now. I have, quite simply, had it. I have lost one and a half hours of the day again, and they're  all important hours. The dude needs to order a new part- this, when I was told, filled me with  utter dismay, he left leaving me feeling like a dead fish- gutted. I’ve been here before, the whole ‘ordering parts’ thing. I will not see sight nor sound of him till Easter, at the earliest.

My ‘cheeky’ (as they affectionately call her around these parts) toddler has been up to cutting tricks this week. One of my pot plants was shredded, the yucca too, she likes to cut up the dog water (?) although this is obviously less of an issue. She’s avoided self-haircuts this time round, which is always a positive, although my hair got a quick snip when I had my back turned. She took me by surprise attack “cut mummy’s hair”  she sing-songs, upon hearing this, I turn around swiftly, and see a clump of hair float towards the floor. I gasp, and she sees my face, and knows she’s done something not OK. Time out step, where she sits and sings a bit, shrugging her shoulders, talking to herself ‘didn’t cut mummy’s hair, no, me didn’t cut it’. No, absolutely not, it was the  big-bad-hairdressing ghost who has been bothering us since we moved in here…

I am to take Make-up lady to the vets, no, I meant to write hairdresser’s there. She reckons that the peroxide she used on her hair makes her look like a 'bad' person, or a ‘prostitute’-her words. Then she asked me for my opinion, what the hell? Don’t put me in that position, surely? I cannot lie at the best of times, easy times, at desperate times, let alone now. I pause, pretending I didn’t understand the question (I’ll play the ‘I’m English’ card, brilliant) only she knows I understood, and as that didn’t wash, I say slowly “well, maybe make a hairdresser’s appointment, and ask them to ‘tone it down’ a bit?” I cringe, why can I not just say she looks stunning, a veritable Goldie-locks, minus the three bears, and then be punished for lying later?? Some lies aren’t that bad…She humphs a bit, and rings the hairdresser S.O.S team. Damn me for the ‘toning it down a wee bit’ remark. Next time I’m straight up lying. Even if it means she walks the streets looking like a lady of the night.

Anyway, I must dash, collating leaflets to do, food shopping, washing, kids to collect from school, cupboard to paint, important phone calls to be made, make-up ladies to take places, toddlers to entertain before the bugrats return, animals to feed, ironing, and cooking to feed the masses who wait for no man, and that’s literally not even a zillionth of the week’s tasks. Oh for a many, although each time a mention this now, Alex looks wan, and suggests we hire a nanny instead…pointless hypothetical discussion, deciphering the sex of the nanny/manny who will never materialise. But what ever gets us through…!

Sunday, 6 March 2011

She is actually growing on me, in fairness a bit like a polyp, but she’s kinda cool.


Right well, that was a week, that was. I’ve been confronting all kinds…It turns out, not only do I have a 4 and an important half-year-old grizzly bear (‘nother ear infection) it also seems Dennis the Menace has moved in, put his feet up and parked his toddler-arse in my house, in place of my gorgeous little baby cheeks the Esmiester. She was a relatively calm baby, teething came and passed with some screaming, but I’ve known worse. She is still referred to as ‘the baby’ even though at the ripe old age of 2 ½, probably not that appropriate. However, my phase of denial has come to an abrupt end, as this week amongst her referring to me as ‘bonkers’, tutting at me whenever she is told off and rolling her baby blues, in such a manner she looks like she’s been on the bottle since her 6 am wake up, and is  swaying a little under the intense concentration of rolling her eyes. The last straw was when the ‘baby’ of the family shrugs and answers me back when I told her off, saying:
‘I am a baby, I don’t understand’ .
I realise it’s time to address the fact that maybe all these ‘she’s a baby she doesn’t understand’ is more like straight up denial! Cue: stricter mummy who now no longer excuses the wall drawings, shredded pot plants, half eaten soggy chocolate biscuits and water pouring that goes on non-stop, on babyhood explorations. I have ‘got real’ this week.

The food shop is never a barrel of hysterical laughter, unless you count that as crazed hysteria, manic mother styley, so this week when I had finally reached the till after what seemed like hours of attempting small-baboon training, at the same time as herding drunken wildebeest with a teaspoon, I find someone else’s advantage card on the card paying area, I hand it to the till lady, explaining I'd just found some one else's card, she is choosing to ignore me, and she gaily swipes through the card, regardless, with me crying “NooooooooO’ and waving mine wildly in her face. ‘It’s too late’ she informs me, she thought the card I had initially handed her was mine. How can you have thought that when I handed it to you expressly telling you that ‘this is not my card, I have just found it’? Which bit of that did you not get? Apparently all of it. And there is a Mexican stand-off at the till when I tell her I want my points. This will not be possible, she informs me majestically (oh yeah, you really are all that aren’t you there, behind the protection of your till and convenient counter with conveyor belt built-in) , short of re-ringing everything through the till. For god’s sake, as if I am going to put myself through that after finally having completed the food shop mission. She knows this too. And I am pissed off, having tried to do a good deed, I end up point-less. Back at the car I open the tin I bought (bought for my new delicious tea-smokey Russian caravan), which is heavier than I when I originally picked it up. Hidden inside I discover key ring chains- Alex brought me back a love heart stone from the beach this week with a hole in it I am going to put it on a key ring. I was moved by his gesture, then wondered whether in fact the fact that it had a hole in it meant something? There was also a huge bag of sweeties for Lola’s school Carnaval event…Do I go back and apologise, and pay? Nah bollocks, it’s all very well and good being honest- but can there be too honest?? In this case, I say yes! And I am out of there like someone with hearing difficulties playing musical chairs…

I also had Make-Up lady ring and ask me to return her a favour this week, which baffled me somewhat, as I wasn’t overly aware that she had done me any, but there you go. I took her to get something a little drive away, and do you know what? She is actually growing on me, in fairness a bit like a polyp, but she’s kinda cool. And I really don’t envy her her situation, so if I can help out a bit, even though every time I see her I may as well be having a conversation with my own nostril hair, for all she’s interested, so it’s humbling…then why not? 


The sun’s out, the week is about to begin, and I am on a count down to turning 33 in a week or so’s time. Dun dun dun. Have a superb Monday, and may my dishwasher be fixed tomorrow when the dishwasher fixer dude
Publish Post
arrives.