“Because I wannid it”.
This was the sum and total of Bratgirl’s explanation for why she had a shiny keychain in her hot little hand. An item that she had not traded for any form of currency and which her “grownup” had told her specifically she could not acquire due to lack of any funds whatsoever. Stupid me had given her a few Mauritian rupees and some disused Pfennigs when Bratgirl showed an interest in counting coins but even these were nestled safely at home under a mound of Barbie limbs surplus to requirement.
Getting the point across to a five year old that taking something because you “wannid it” is actually theft is challenging. First there is the absence of any context for commercial transactions. You hungry, you eat. You naked, you dress etc…etc… All needs are provided for by the parents in our household, a model I daresay not unique to our family unit. We appealed to her conscience explaining that there was a Science Museum staff member out there who was being brutally punished for being one keychain short at stock count. Nothing could countermand the glazed look of “are we done here?” that Bratgirl had perfected by the time she was out of nappies. Ok, perhaps we were complicating matters but we finally resorted to scaring our little girl by telling her we were considering calling the police.
In order to circumvent our daughter’s certain path into crime, I dragged her the very next day to the Science Museum gift shop in time for opening. Having scanned the room, I smugly selected a salesperson who appeared to be eeking out the last few weeks before his statutory retirement. Here was a dour looking fellow who had chastised a gazillion thieving children over his long and rich career working the tills at the aforementioned museum. I pointed accusingly at Bratgirl proffering her pilfered goods to Tillperson. “She who has stolen this is here to make amends” I said grandly hoping to sear this momentous occasion into our daughter’s subconscious. She turned to him with her watery blue eyes and bleated “msory” at which point he kneeled down and said gently “Aaaah that’s alright, I’m sure you didn’t mean it”.
Well yes actually she did!! After being told she couldn’t have it, she snuck it into her pocket yesterday at approximately fifteen hundred hours. And another thing, Mister Tillperson, I didn’t drag her out of bed, locate my Oyster Card, and frogmarch Bratgirl onto public transport at rush hour to teach her that her watery blue eyes would make everything a.o.k.?!?!!?
By this time, the nervous tick in my left eye was jitterbugging but didn’t keep me from spotting Securityguy. Actually it was the mismatched epaulettes that gave him a faux military look of authority. So off we headed to explain once again that museum property had been stolen and to explore the various implications of this grievous act. The creepy eyes facilitated our hitting the correctional jackpot. “Well little girl, we usually call the police who take thieves to prison. But as this is your first time, we won’t do that. HOWEVER, you see this camera over here and that one over there, they have your picture now so if you ever try to take something from the gift shop again, we’ll know about it”.
Now I realise that we could have used another approach but talking it through and underlining that we are unconditionally proud of her with every breath of our beings but that it was not nice to take the keychain would not have made the same impact. A few weeks ago, the same child asked to spend her pocket money on a portfolio of "Match attacks" football cards. When I questioned her motives, she looked me straight in the eye and said “so I can swap them for something much, MUCH, better.”
Thursday, 9 December 2010
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Biker dude
A woman reaches a certain age when she wishes builders would start whistling again and that people would stop looking through her. Did I say that out loud?
I met a man this summer who made me think deeply about chivalry. I never found out his name but it all happened one balmy morning in the hills beyond Castelnaudary in France.
Of the families sharing our villa, only S. felt the same acute need for baked goods that I was experiencing so we took to the rusty bikes that had graciously been included in the price of our holiday rental. My dinky panier lept off its hooks by the time we reached the end of the drive and a little further on came the amusing discovery that one of us had brakes and the other had working gears. Hell, we had a working bike between us and as the kids were happily splashing around the pool with husbands, life was gooooooo---ooood.
Undeterred, we cycled on until we reached a sign informing us that the closest village with a Boulangerie open on a Sunday was a mere 5 kilometers from the very spot we were at. S. led the way, skirts tucked fetchingly into her knickers and hair frolicking in the breeze. I puffed along behind---very much the emphysemic great aunt struggling to vaguely keep up with S's tanned calves. She was magnificent. I was drenched in sweat, pasty mouthed and starting to sunburn.
Returning empty handed was not an option. Calling the husbands on our mobiles for a lift back home wasn't an option. We vowed to complete our mission. As God was our witness, we would be worthy of "Operation Pain au Raisin."
Perhaps 45 minutes later, as we rounded yet another hill to find a curious lack of villages or bakeries of any description, a dashing man caught up with us. He wore distinguished mustaches and the country casual attire of a fellow entirely at ease with 80 odd years of picking up English girls.
As he overtook us, we gasped in a rather unattractive gaspy way: "Can you possibly tell us where this Godforsaken village is?". His eyes twinkled merrily as he swept his hand vaguely across the landscape and instructed us to kindly follow him. We struggled to keep up with our escort who seemed at one with the hairpin turns and hilly topography. Our thighs shook from the exertions of yet another massive hill as he beckoned to us from the next valley.
When we finally caught up with him we were in rough shape. Despite quite seriously hyperventilating and dehydrating, we made inquiries as to the secret of his vigour. Was it the air or simple clean living? He answered with the accent of his region "ma bicyclette est dopee". True enough, his bike was fitted with a tiny little motor that permitted him to effortlessly glide up Kilimanjaro and down the Himalayas.
With that, we reached the village boulangerie and thanked our guide profusely. The old goat requested sloppy kisses be dispensed to both cheeks in full view of the late morning queue for baguettes. Despite much arm waving from the baker himself who came around the counter to harangue our new friend for being up to his old tricks again, our very own biker dude managed an intriguing statement as we parted. "Perhaps now you will believe that there are still people in France who are nice to the British."
I met a man this summer who made me think deeply about chivalry. I never found out his name but it all happened one balmy morning in the hills beyond Castelnaudary in France.
Of the families sharing our villa, only S. felt the same acute need for baked goods that I was experiencing so we took to the rusty bikes that had graciously been included in the price of our holiday rental. My dinky panier lept off its hooks by the time we reached the end of the drive and a little further on came the amusing discovery that one of us had brakes and the other had working gears. Hell, we had a working bike between us and as the kids were happily splashing around the pool with husbands, life was gooooooo---ooood.
Undeterred, we cycled on until we reached a sign informing us that the closest village with a Boulangerie open on a Sunday was a mere 5 kilometers from the very spot we were at. S. led the way, skirts tucked fetchingly into her knickers and hair frolicking in the breeze. I puffed along behind---very much the emphysemic great aunt struggling to vaguely keep up with S's tanned calves. She was magnificent. I was drenched in sweat, pasty mouthed and starting to sunburn.
Returning empty handed was not an option. Calling the husbands on our mobiles for a lift back home wasn't an option. We vowed to complete our mission. As God was our witness, we would be worthy of "Operation Pain au Raisin."
Perhaps 45 minutes later, as we rounded yet another hill to find a curious lack of villages or bakeries of any description, a dashing man caught up with us. He wore distinguished mustaches and the country casual attire of a fellow entirely at ease with 80 odd years of picking up English girls.
As he overtook us, we gasped in a rather unattractive gaspy way: "Can you possibly tell us where this Godforsaken village is?". His eyes twinkled merrily as he swept his hand vaguely across the landscape and instructed us to kindly follow him. We struggled to keep up with our escort who seemed at one with the hairpin turns and hilly topography. Our thighs shook from the exertions of yet another massive hill as he beckoned to us from the next valley.
When we finally caught up with him we were in rough shape. Despite quite seriously hyperventilating and dehydrating, we made inquiries as to the secret of his vigour. Was it the air or simple clean living? He answered with the accent of his region "ma bicyclette est dopee". True enough, his bike was fitted with a tiny little motor that permitted him to effortlessly glide up Kilimanjaro and down the Himalayas.
With that, we reached the village boulangerie and thanked our guide profusely. The old goat requested sloppy kisses be dispensed to both cheeks in full view of the late morning queue for baguettes. Despite much arm waving from the baker himself who came around the counter to harangue our new friend for being up to his old tricks again, our very own biker dude managed an intriguing statement as we parted. "Perhaps now you will believe that there are still people in France who are nice to the British."
French customer service. NOT!!
I don't know if anyone else can relate but I find that I need to vent.
In a big way.
Now.
Based on the fact that I now live in London but used to work in Paris, I have a bank account in both countries. Now imagine, if you will, that upon rising you decide over your morning coffee that you want to send money from your account in London to your account in Paris. We are not talking funds to reduce the debt of a small country but housekeeping or pin money. So that when I am next visiting my parents in France, I am at my ease when purchasing a frippery such as an eyeliner, an espresso or some postcards. Are you still with me because I want to be clear that I am sending my money from my account to my account?
Never having been into racketeering or money laundering, I was perplexed to find that my bank in Paris was not accepting my transfer from London and that it was hanging in limbo somewhere between MY two accounts. I found this out because the money just wasn't showing up in my online statements.
Rang my bank in Paris who told me to talk to my personal banker at my very own branch. I think I last visited this place when I lived off my parents and had a curfew so wasn't really on a first name basis with the person who occupies herself with my "compte." Sorry this just cracks me up in an Inspector Clouseau "Is that your Compte" way. But I digress.
It turns out my "compte" is suspiciously inactive for long periods of time (guffaw guffaw) and then I have the audacity to try to top it up with a hundred euros here and there. As to where my money is, she cannot look into the matter unless I send a fax requesting that she follow up. I am told in shocked tones that I may NOT email. That is to say, as I have not subscribed to the email service that would permit me to email her. She tells me that she will be able to look into the matter armed with this fax in a way that she is unable to without this piece of paper to hand. The subtlety is lost on me so I do some parallel thinking.
Having lived in the Soviet Union while growing up, this conversation could have gone two ways. Either I was going to have to go around or through whatever Gogolian scenario a bureaucrat was sending my way. A bottle of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes probably would have put us both in a weird contravention of banking etiquette and as this was not 1986 Moscow, definitely the wrong tack.
Going around her, the call center was able to confirm that the money was in limbo but now I needed to get it into my French account. Again I dialed the agent in charge of my "compte." She told me that as I had not sent a fax requesting that the funds be accepted, her hands were OBVIOUSLY tied. I sent a fax in my most flowery diplomatic language entreating her to accept the transfer and still nothing on my statement.
It turns out I had failed to add a photocopy of my passport which apparently proved beyond reasonable doubt that I was the very same housefrau who had been haranguing the call centre to accept her meagre pin money. When I cackled down the telephone at the keeper of my "compte" that she could see how surreal this was becoming she gathered herself and snapped back that without identification, Madam could be trying to access any number of "comptes".
Well I never!!
In a big way.
Now.
Based on the fact that I now live in London but used to work in Paris, I have a bank account in both countries. Now imagine, if you will, that upon rising you decide over your morning coffee that you want to send money from your account in London to your account in Paris. We are not talking funds to reduce the debt of a small country but housekeeping or pin money. So that when I am next visiting my parents in France, I am at my ease when purchasing a frippery such as an eyeliner, an espresso or some postcards. Are you still with me because I want to be clear that I am sending my money from my account to my account?
Never having been into racketeering or money laundering, I was perplexed to find that my bank in Paris was not accepting my transfer from London and that it was hanging in limbo somewhere between MY two accounts. I found this out because the money just wasn't showing up in my online statements.
Rang my bank in Paris who told me to talk to my personal banker at my very own branch. I think I last visited this place when I lived off my parents and had a curfew so wasn't really on a first name basis with the person who occupies herself with my "compte." Sorry this just cracks me up in an Inspector Clouseau "Is that your Compte" way. But I digress.
It turns out my "compte" is suspiciously inactive for long periods of time (guffaw guffaw) and then I have the audacity to try to top it up with a hundred euros here and there. As to where my money is, she cannot look into the matter unless I send a fax requesting that she follow up. I am told in shocked tones that I may NOT email. That is to say, as I have not subscribed to the email service that would permit me to email her. She tells me that she will be able to look into the matter armed with this fax in a way that she is unable to without this piece of paper to hand. The subtlety is lost on me so I do some parallel thinking.
Having lived in the Soviet Union while growing up, this conversation could have gone two ways. Either I was going to have to go around or through whatever Gogolian scenario a bureaucrat was sending my way. A bottle of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes probably would have put us both in a weird contravention of banking etiquette and as this was not 1986 Moscow, definitely the wrong tack.
Going around her, the call center was able to confirm that the money was in limbo but now I needed to get it into my French account. Again I dialed the agent in charge of my "compte." She told me that as I had not sent a fax requesting that the funds be accepted, her hands were OBVIOUSLY tied. I sent a fax in my most flowery diplomatic language entreating her to accept the transfer and still nothing on my statement.
It turns out I had failed to add a photocopy of my passport which apparently proved beyond reasonable doubt that I was the very same housefrau who had been haranguing the call centre to accept her meagre pin money. When I cackled down the telephone at the keeper of my "compte" that she could see how surreal this was becoming she gathered herself and snapped back that without identification, Madam could be trying to access any number of "comptes".
Well I never!!
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Nanny Porn
My colleagues wanted to know why, as a work-from-home consultant, I was spending an inordinate amount of time in the office. The answer was simple. I was hiding from the nanny.
Being my own hyper-efficient self, I decided to put the finishing touches to a book proposal while giving the kids a snack and spending quality time in the same room as offspring. Our Childcare was, at that moment, transformed into our Cleaner and not, strictly speaking, on duty.
The kids drifted away in that grumpy way that young children have when you have not answered the millionth question asked in a 3 minute period. "Do elephants fart through their trunks?" and other conversational jewels would have to wait while I spell checked one last time.
Sending them upstairs to where the nanny,cleaner,school picker-upper was ironing so they could watch a DVD seemed logical enough when they left the room. As a result I had about 20 minutes to myself to concentrate on ME and MY needs on MY own. I want to say here and now that I do not condone TV watching as a replacement for the nurturing ministrations of a blood relative but, as I said, this was about MY needs.
What followed was our youngest bursting into the kitchen, asking "what that lady she is doing with thah fruit?" Having left my two little angels to chose their own DVD, they opted for Almodovar's "Kika" which was way up high in the Mummy and Daddy section of our shelves and not in with the Disneys at toddler height. What about the fruit you ask? So a man segments an orange and dips it into a lady's err...thingy. It is one scene in a much longer art house film, ok?
The nanny stormed into the kitchen hot on the heels of her charges, although strictly speaking she was ironing and not on the clock as their looker-after, but I digress. She then flung the DVD in the manner of a former Eastern Block shot putter at my left temple and spat "THIS is not for children I think, YES??"
This left me having to explain that Almodovar is certainly NOT for children, NOT characteristic of the sort of film that my husband and I watch on a regular basis and very much NOT for children YES.
She thought me so repugnant at that moment that I could hear her inner-self reviewing her contractual obligations to my family. Am pleased to report she stayed on but my nerves are frayed after her verbal warning. I have resolved to be much clearer to her about my responsibilities towards my kids and to use appropriate language like "Willy and Wonka" to designate...errrr....private parts.
Being my own hyper-efficient self, I decided to put the finishing touches to a book proposal while giving the kids a snack and spending quality time in the same room as offspring. Our Childcare was, at that moment, transformed into our Cleaner and not, strictly speaking, on duty.
The kids drifted away in that grumpy way that young children have when you have not answered the millionth question asked in a 3 minute period. "Do elephants fart through their trunks?" and other conversational jewels would have to wait while I spell checked one last time.
Sending them upstairs to where the nanny,cleaner,school picker-upper was ironing so they could watch a DVD seemed logical enough when they left the room. As a result I had about 20 minutes to myself to concentrate on ME and MY needs on MY own. I want to say here and now that I do not condone TV watching as a replacement for the nurturing ministrations of a blood relative but, as I said, this was about MY needs.
What followed was our youngest bursting into the kitchen, asking "what that lady she is doing with thah fruit?" Having left my two little angels to chose their own DVD, they opted for Almodovar's "Kika" which was way up high in the Mummy and Daddy section of our shelves and not in with the Disneys at toddler height. What about the fruit you ask? So a man segments an orange and dips it into a lady's err...thingy. It is one scene in a much longer art house film, ok?
The nanny stormed into the kitchen hot on the heels of her charges, although strictly speaking she was ironing and not on the clock as their looker-after, but I digress. She then flung the DVD in the manner of a former Eastern Block shot putter at my left temple and spat "THIS is not for children I think, YES??"
This left me having to explain that Almodovar is certainly NOT for children, NOT characteristic of the sort of film that my husband and I watch on a regular basis and very much NOT for children YES.
She thought me so repugnant at that moment that I could hear her inner-self reviewing her contractual obligations to my family. Am pleased to report she stayed on but my nerves are frayed after her verbal warning. I have resolved to be much clearer to her about my responsibilities towards my kids and to use appropriate language like "Willy and Wonka" to designate...errrr....private parts.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
WOO-WOO
Woo-woo is no garden variety dog. More of a super-action canine deity. His name was chosen by our then 2 year old to evoke the mighty bark that he identified with the little bean bag.
First the toy's fur was drooled on for several months and then his label was rubbed off. The ribbon collar snapped and his paws lost their tread. His left ear grew bald but we loved him just as he was.
We moved house and Woo-woo went AWOL for a bit. Perhaps husband and I felt vaguely threatened by the force of our son's bond with Woo-woo and didn't try hard enough to find him at the new address. We convinced our son that his dog had found another boy to look after until Woo-woo was recovered in a vase, protected by bubble wrap and those squidgy plastic worms they use for packing. To witness boy and dog reunite was stirring stuff.
Last week, our son was responsible for his school bag on a train trip back from half-term break. We reckoned our 5 year old needed to learn about responsibilities so he had been encouraged to pack his favorite things. These were a rubber (no tittering form my North American sisters), an action hero, some pencils, chalk, a matchbox car, random Lego, string, a dinosaur watch, a comic and Woo-woo. When the District Line expectorated us out at our station, we smugly congratulated ourselves for a smooth trip home and gathered our bags. Within nanoseconds, our son was wailing and fat tears were streaming off his chin. "For f*&ks sake" said Husband. "Why he is crying now" asked Daughter. "That's what you get for swinging around the carriage like a deranged pole-dancer instead of sitting like a gentleman" remarked I.
So as we dragged snot-boy home, the bag travelled along its merry way. Was it spotted as a suspicious package? Did a passenger attempt to prod it? Did someone hope it contained valuables? 10 days and 10 nights of suspense as I called and called and called Lost Property. I was being driven mad by the thought of Woo-woo trapped inside a dark book bag at the bottom of a dumpster. I identified with his plight an wondered if he was giving in to the fear or holding it together. LASSIE-WOO COME HOME!!
To us, Woo-woo is very real. Like a member of our family (albeit one that sleeps with dust bunnies under a junior bed, gets peed on and occasionally submits to a laundry cycle). So I had to call TFL one last time. The stern man who dealt with me asked a series of probing questions more Guantanamo interrogation style than kindly Santa q&a. As i figuratively dropped my knickers for the cavity search, his voice quickened---" Did you say rucksack type child's bag?". "I made that perfectly clear in the affidavit I sent you, the scan of the bag and the several densely written pages of descriptive to backup the video reenactment at the scene". Obviously I didn't say that as this bureaucrat was going to make or break my day.
Then, the most wonderful four words: "We. Have. It. Here."
So when I collect the bag, do I slip Woo-woo back into our son's bed and claim that his doggy braved untold danger to return to a boy who still believes in magic or do I sternly reiterate my lecture to the lad on the dangers of pole-dancing on public transport?
First the toy's fur was drooled on for several months and then his label was rubbed off. The ribbon collar snapped and his paws lost their tread. His left ear grew bald but we loved him just as he was.
We moved house and Woo-woo went AWOL for a bit. Perhaps husband and I felt vaguely threatened by the force of our son's bond with Woo-woo and didn't try hard enough to find him at the new address. We convinced our son that his dog had found another boy to look after until Woo-woo was recovered in a vase, protected by bubble wrap and those squidgy plastic worms they use for packing. To witness boy and dog reunite was stirring stuff.
Last week, our son was responsible for his school bag on a train trip back from half-term break. We reckoned our 5 year old needed to learn about responsibilities so he had been encouraged to pack his favorite things. These were a rubber (no tittering form my North American sisters), an action hero, some pencils, chalk, a matchbox car, random Lego, string, a dinosaur watch, a comic and Woo-woo. When the District Line expectorated us out at our station, we smugly congratulated ourselves for a smooth trip home and gathered our bags. Within nanoseconds, our son was wailing and fat tears were streaming off his chin. "For f*&ks sake" said Husband. "Why he is crying now" asked Daughter. "That's what you get for swinging around the carriage like a deranged pole-dancer instead of sitting like a gentleman" remarked I.
So as we dragged snot-boy home, the bag travelled along its merry way. Was it spotted as a suspicious package? Did a passenger attempt to prod it? Did someone hope it contained valuables? 10 days and 10 nights of suspense as I called and called and called Lost Property. I was being driven mad by the thought of Woo-woo trapped inside a dark book bag at the bottom of a dumpster. I identified with his plight an wondered if he was giving in to the fear or holding it together. LASSIE-WOO COME HOME!!
To us, Woo-woo is very real. Like a member of our family (albeit one that sleeps with dust bunnies under a junior bed, gets peed on and occasionally submits to a laundry cycle). So I had to call TFL one last time. The stern man who dealt with me asked a series of probing questions more Guantanamo interrogation style than kindly Santa q&a. As i figuratively dropped my knickers for the cavity search, his voice quickened---" Did you say rucksack type child's bag?". "I made that perfectly clear in the affidavit I sent you, the scan of the bag and the several densely written pages of descriptive to backup the video reenactment at the scene". Obviously I didn't say that as this bureaucrat was going to make or break my day.
Then, the most wonderful four words: "We. Have. It. Here."
So when I collect the bag, do I slip Woo-woo back into our son's bed and claim that his doggy braved untold danger to return to a boy who still believes in magic or do I sternly reiterate my lecture to the lad on the dangers of pole-dancing on public transport?
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Admit the powerlessness....
Why is it that I am not yet inured to the embarrassment my children cause me? Why is it that I do not have it in me to chuckle at the pets while valuing their precious and fleeting curiosity and unbridled honesty?
Last weekend we were gathered outside a church waiting to be invited in to celebrate a family christening. All of sudden, I saw our son's coat diving through the open door of the attached community hall. I grabbed at him and asked the little rascal where he was headed.
him: In here.
me: This is not the church. We have to wait for the church to open up.
him: I'm going in here. Don't care.
me: I am NOT kidding here. We are not supposed to be in this room--we need to go next door as soon as the doors open.
Just as I registered that we had now scuffled our way into the back row of an AA meeting, with around 50 recovering alcoholics reviewing the 12-Steps printed out on a flip chart, our son lunges for a coffee urn with a piercing "I AM THIRSTY AND I NEED A DRINK NNNNOOOWWWW".
I was completely mortified....not indulgently amused at his shenanigans. Not thinking, "boys will be boys", "peace on earth" or any other goodwill thoughts. More "Dear Lord, let the ground open up and swallow me whole".
Last weekend we were gathered outside a church waiting to be invited in to celebrate a family christening. All of sudden, I saw our son's coat diving through the open door of the attached community hall. I grabbed at him and asked the little rascal where he was headed.
him: In here.
me: This is not the church. We have to wait for the church to open up.
him: I'm going in here. Don't care.
me: I am NOT kidding here. We are not supposed to be in this room--we need to go next door as soon as the doors open.
Just as I registered that we had now scuffled our way into the back row of an AA meeting, with around 50 recovering alcoholics reviewing the 12-Steps printed out on a flip chart, our son lunges for a coffee urn with a piercing "I AM THIRSTY AND I NEED A DRINK NNNNOOOWWWW".
I was completely mortified....not indulgently amused at his shenanigans. Not thinking, "boys will be boys", "peace on earth" or any other goodwill thoughts. More "Dear Lord, let the ground open up and swallow me whole".
Friday, 22 January 2010
A BRIT + A BROAD
As the leaves began to turn and the back-to-school rituals successfully negotiated, we decided to dump the kids on gorgeous grandparents and spend a week away becoming a couple again. More precisely, I accompanied Husband on his business trip to Ringuard-sur-Mer in a nasty part of France. But it wasn’t about the location, it was about being together. The plan was to share much spontaneous laughter and lashings of rich food away from the routines and responsibilities of home.
As anticipated, there had been hand holding through cobble-stoned cutie pie villages nesting in clay hills beyond the grotesque seaside resort. There had been the gentle wafting of lavender and the heavy pendulousness of harvest time grapes. Oh, how the cicadas had deafeningly rubbed their cicada bits.
One afternoon we managed to duck Husband’s clients and hide out by our hotel pool. I was well into a book while he contemplated a swim. Into this atmosphere of easy bonhomie entered the thought (his) that it might be time for a cup of tea.
It was at this point that I shouldda skulked back to the room claiming the acute onset of female trouble of some kind.
For I knew what was to follow. In the depths of my being, I knew because I have been to this dark side of my Husband before. No sooner had he ordered a pot of tea than a subtle change came over the aura of the entire hotel complex.
It wasn’t the spotty waitress’ fault that her approach laden with a faux silver tray was regarded with scepticism and flaring of nostril. As she moved towards us I could feel Husband transform into a pith helmet, riding crop wielding Colonial Governor. I glanced over to see his fine pair of legs encased in a pair of those khaki distended hipped jodhpurs. His normally smooth upper lip suddenly sported a splendid moustache below which could be heard the first grumblings “humphlrrrr…grk…Damn your eyes, Woman.”
Zit-girl placed a teapot before him. He glared through his monocle barking at her “do you REEEEEAAALLY expect me to taste the poor excuse for ants piss?” “And what are these?” pointing to the cane sugar lump,”abattoir scrapings”??? I am exaggerating the Colonial Governor thing to make a point but the next bit is true…He sniffily raised the cover of the teapot revealing a single flaccid teabag marked “TISANE DRAINAGE FEMININ” at which point he almost choked before raising himself to his full height and marching directly to the kitchen.
Our courtship had been punctuated with these scenes and I should have been inured to the drama unfolding. I continued to read while Husband returned from the kitchen, vexed at the unsatisfactory collection of tea on offer. Spotty girl returned, this time with a stale mothball eaten sac floating in tepid water. Briefly raising my eyes from my uninspiring novel, I once again suggested that when not in a tea-drinking culture, perhaps an espresso would suffice.
Enraged to the extreme, he barked “this f-ing country and its f-ing people can all go to hell”, grabbed his keys and screeched out of the gravel parking lot to find tea from a local shop. Approximately 7 minutes later, he returned swinging our rent-a-car into the rosebush of the circular driveway and yelled down the hall to the spotty waitress, “boiling water, dammit woman”.
The crisis passed shortly after he’d had his pot of tea fix. Mamzelle Acne was terrified for months after and felt not at all compensated by Husband’s largess having offered her the entire packet of tea for her troubles. To this day, if you order tea by the pool, she immediately retreats to the kitchen where she rolls herself into the foetal position to regroup. Husband still adores France but I refuse to accompany him there unless he brings own travel kettle and stash of Tetley along.
As anticipated, there had been hand holding through cobble-stoned cutie pie villages nesting in clay hills beyond the grotesque seaside resort. There had been the gentle wafting of lavender and the heavy pendulousness of harvest time grapes. Oh, how the cicadas had deafeningly rubbed their cicada bits.
One afternoon we managed to duck Husband’s clients and hide out by our hotel pool. I was well into a book while he contemplated a swim. Into this atmosphere of easy bonhomie entered the thought (his) that it might be time for a cup of tea.
It was at this point that I shouldda skulked back to the room claiming the acute onset of female trouble of some kind.
For I knew what was to follow. In the depths of my being, I knew because I have been to this dark side of my Husband before. No sooner had he ordered a pot of tea than a subtle change came over the aura of the entire hotel complex.
It wasn’t the spotty waitress’ fault that her approach laden with a faux silver tray was regarded with scepticism and flaring of nostril. As she moved towards us I could feel Husband transform into a pith helmet, riding crop wielding Colonial Governor. I glanced over to see his fine pair of legs encased in a pair of those khaki distended hipped jodhpurs. His normally smooth upper lip suddenly sported a splendid moustache below which could be heard the first grumblings “humphlrrrr…grk…Damn your eyes, Woman.”
Zit-girl placed a teapot before him. He glared through his monocle barking at her “do you REEEEEAAALLY expect me to taste the poor excuse for ants piss?” “And what are these?” pointing to the cane sugar lump,”abattoir scrapings”??? I am exaggerating the Colonial Governor thing to make a point but the next bit is true…He sniffily raised the cover of the teapot revealing a single flaccid teabag marked “TISANE DRAINAGE FEMININ” at which point he almost choked before raising himself to his full height and marching directly to the kitchen.
Our courtship had been punctuated with these scenes and I should have been inured to the drama unfolding. I continued to read while Husband returned from the kitchen, vexed at the unsatisfactory collection of tea on offer. Spotty girl returned, this time with a stale mothball eaten sac floating in tepid water. Briefly raising my eyes from my uninspiring novel, I once again suggested that when not in a tea-drinking culture, perhaps an espresso would suffice.
Enraged to the extreme, he barked “this f-ing country and its f-ing people can all go to hell”, grabbed his keys and screeched out of the gravel parking lot to find tea from a local shop. Approximately 7 minutes later, he returned swinging our rent-a-car into the rosebush of the circular driveway and yelled down the hall to the spotty waitress, “boiling water, dammit woman”.
The crisis passed shortly after he’d had his pot of tea fix. Mamzelle Acne was terrified for months after and felt not at all compensated by Husband’s largess having offered her the entire packet of tea for her troubles. To this day, if you order tea by the pool, she immediately retreats to the kitchen where she rolls herself into the foetal position to regroup. Husband still adores France but I refuse to accompany him there unless he brings own travel kettle and stash of Tetley along.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Self Checkout
In so many ways, working from home is the ideal scenario for a professional mum. Time saved commuting can be spent hyper-efficiently at my desk. While the rest of you are cramped on smelly tubes, gleaning current events from a newspaper partly viewed through the armpit hairs of your strap hanging neighbour, I am smugly sipping a latte and ticking items off my to-do list.
Lest I sound up my own butt, the flip side is that when I do show up at work for an office day, I am overdressed with vamp makeup and bouffant hair that is so not in line with my trendy 20-something colleagues. I silently muse that I was around for the first Flashdance craze (WHADDAFEEEELING!!!) and thus fully processed the double-belt, leg-warmer look before they were born.
Equally, I acknowledge that pulling my pre-maternity leave wardrobe out of mothballs for our recent corporate retreat was a colossal mistake. The herringbone power suit, oversized pearls and artfully knotted flight attendant foulard were bad enough but the frosted lipstick and scrunched hair were the final straw. Imagine a Dynasty befrocked Joan Collins in the Carrington boardroom, clinging to her diamante clutch for dear life and flanked by Kate Moss and Kate Hudson sniggering into their iphones.
I then regroup in my home office for a few days of trackysuit bottoms and bunny slippers. My way of managing is to keep work and home life separate. That means that I don’t leave my desk to transfer the laundry into the dryer, I don’t do personal emails or Amazon orders on office time. Strictly no googling “perimenopause symptoms” or plucking. I like to think that I am compartmentalising and therefore reaching new heights of efficacy.
A friend came to supper last Saturday and asked me why I was doing this blog. I was completely gobsmacked after all the affirming emails of encouragement and support from friends who have been after me to do this for ages. The answer is that I am desperately lonely and miss the camaraderie of the water cooler. As she is a big deal in HR, I should have perhaps shared this insight with her but I was a bit tipsy from post-Christmas retoxing at that exact moment. Drinking isn’t the answer and admitting my loneliness to myself is a solid first step.
I know my self-imposed sequestration is the crux of the matter because when I do force my colossal shoulder pads through the revolving doors of our corporate headquarters things get bad. I babble like a hysterical teenager to my less than amused colleagues, make pathetic jokes about hot-desking, inappropriate observations about my line manager’s nose hair and find any pretext to monologue on a diverse range of subjects from paper clip chains to Ikea meatballs.
The fall-out of my home-office isolation was further driven home when I found myself audibly musing to a packet of ethically somethinged free range organic salmon fillets in my shopping basket while queuing for the self-checkout at my local supermarket. I politely extricated myself from banter with the dead fish to address the touch screen and bar-code reader. No I hadn’t had a chance to swipe my loyalty card, yes I had brought 2 of my own bags, (where else would I put them if not in the bagging area?), that’ll be cash and you are most welcome, I WILL come again. The sum and total of my verbal interaction for the best part of 6 hours.
Lest I sound up my own butt, the flip side is that when I do show up at work for an office day, I am overdressed with vamp makeup and bouffant hair that is so not in line with my trendy 20-something colleagues. I silently muse that I was around for the first Flashdance craze (WHADDAFEEEELING!!!) and thus fully processed the double-belt, leg-warmer look before they were born.
Equally, I acknowledge that pulling my pre-maternity leave wardrobe out of mothballs for our recent corporate retreat was a colossal mistake. The herringbone power suit, oversized pearls and artfully knotted flight attendant foulard were bad enough but the frosted lipstick and scrunched hair were the final straw. Imagine a Dynasty befrocked Joan Collins in the Carrington boardroom, clinging to her diamante clutch for dear life and flanked by Kate Moss and Kate Hudson sniggering into their iphones.
I then regroup in my home office for a few days of trackysuit bottoms and bunny slippers. My way of managing is to keep work and home life separate. That means that I don’t leave my desk to transfer the laundry into the dryer, I don’t do personal emails or Amazon orders on office time. Strictly no googling “perimenopause symptoms” or plucking. I like to think that I am compartmentalising and therefore reaching new heights of efficacy.
A friend came to supper last Saturday and asked me why I was doing this blog. I was completely gobsmacked after all the affirming emails of encouragement and support from friends who have been after me to do this for ages. The answer is that I am desperately lonely and miss the camaraderie of the water cooler. As she is a big deal in HR, I should have perhaps shared this insight with her but I was a bit tipsy from post-Christmas retoxing at that exact moment. Drinking isn’t the answer and admitting my loneliness to myself is a solid first step.
I know my self-imposed sequestration is the crux of the matter because when I do force my colossal shoulder pads through the revolving doors of our corporate headquarters things get bad. I babble like a hysterical teenager to my less than amused colleagues, make pathetic jokes about hot-desking, inappropriate observations about my line manager’s nose hair and find any pretext to monologue on a diverse range of subjects from paper clip chains to Ikea meatballs.
The fall-out of my home-office isolation was further driven home when I found myself audibly musing to a packet of ethically somethinged free range organic salmon fillets in my shopping basket while queuing for the self-checkout at my local supermarket. I politely extricated myself from banter with the dead fish to address the touch screen and bar-code reader. No I hadn’t had a chance to swipe my loyalty card, yes I had brought 2 of my own bags, (where else would I put them if not in the bagging area?), that’ll be cash and you are most welcome, I WILL come again. The sum and total of my verbal interaction for the best part of 6 hours.
Thursday, 7 January 2010
Snow days are rubbish
I know that when schools announce the possibility of a snow day, legions of mums start comparing notes on the perfect hot cocoa recipe, which park to best be seen frolicking with children and other wintery pastimes.
My reality is slightly clouded by work commitments, childcare realities and the searing memory of the great snow of 2009. This resulted in not just one but, I kid you not, 2 consecutive snow days. Day one was spent squidging play-do, potato printing, musical statues and by 10:27 am of that first morning, I was flat out of ideas on how to keep my darlings suitably entertained. Somehow the day passed thanks to a protracted session with Cebeebies and setting cocktail hour slightly earlier than strictly necessary.
I distinctly remember clinging on to my husband at around 6am on day 2. Part of me wanted to encourage him to leave the nuptial bed to report back on the weather but my heart wasn’t truly in it. In a bid not to wake the kids, I found myself stage whispering in a terrified, doe-in-headlights way “don’t-leave-me-at-home-with-them-please-promise-you-won’t-leave-me…..”…and then he did. For eight hours. Its not like we had to toss a coin as he was nearing a deadline and it was not one of my work days. So I girded my loins, bundled the kids up and took them to the park. We too would have that perfect Boden catalogue snowball fight. It was terrific fun for a while until both kids yelled “Uncle” (that’s American for “I give up”) and I stopped grinding their little faces into random snowmen….of course I didn’t but I did think about it when my son, church candles of snot dripping down his little face said “I wanna go home, its cold and you are a big fat tw%t.”
That was about 2 weeks into his elite Church of England education. That was what my precious 4 year old was picking up from the other kids---the kids we wanted him to associate with at the nice villagey school with the caring parents and the softly-softly teachers.
As I quickly scanned over my mental list of strategies, I decided to ignore rather than inflame the situation. This, I felt at the time, was what a seasoned Lieutenant Commander would do when faced with insurgency from a unit comprised of overtired 4 year old recruits. Once decided on this path, I stuck to it all the way home ignoring snotboy’s singsongy taunts of “mummy is a tw%t-a-tw%t-a-tw%%%%%t”. Passersby gave me those pitying looks, those snorts of disapproval for not being in a controlled situation with my offspring, those smug “Gina Ford wouldn’t brook this nonsense glances”, those “Thank God we are sending ours to private school” mutterings. Oh the shame of it burns even today.
So you can take your “yippyhurrah, we may get a snow day, just think of it, some unexpected quality time that wasn’t timetabled into today’s schedule” and stick it where the snow don’t freeze!!!
My reality is slightly clouded by work commitments, childcare realities and the searing memory of the great snow of 2009. This resulted in not just one but, I kid you not, 2 consecutive snow days. Day one was spent squidging play-do, potato printing, musical statues and by 10:27 am of that first morning, I was flat out of ideas on how to keep my darlings suitably entertained. Somehow the day passed thanks to a protracted session with Cebeebies and setting cocktail hour slightly earlier than strictly necessary.
I distinctly remember clinging on to my husband at around 6am on day 2. Part of me wanted to encourage him to leave the nuptial bed to report back on the weather but my heart wasn’t truly in it. In a bid not to wake the kids, I found myself stage whispering in a terrified, doe-in-headlights way “don’t-leave-me-at-home-with-them-please-promise-you-won’t-leave-me…..”…and then he did. For eight hours. Its not like we had to toss a coin as he was nearing a deadline and it was not one of my work days. So I girded my loins, bundled the kids up and took them to the park. We too would have that perfect Boden catalogue snowball fight. It was terrific fun for a while until both kids yelled “Uncle” (that’s American for “I give up”) and I stopped grinding their little faces into random snowmen….of course I didn’t but I did think about it when my son, church candles of snot dripping down his little face said “I wanna go home, its cold and you are a big fat tw%t.”
That was about 2 weeks into his elite Church of England education. That was what my precious 4 year old was picking up from the other kids---the kids we wanted him to associate with at the nice villagey school with the caring parents and the softly-softly teachers.
As I quickly scanned over my mental list of strategies, I decided to ignore rather than inflame the situation. This, I felt at the time, was what a seasoned Lieutenant Commander would do when faced with insurgency from a unit comprised of overtired 4 year old recruits. Once decided on this path, I stuck to it all the way home ignoring snotboy’s singsongy taunts of “mummy is a tw%t-a-tw%t-a-tw%%%%%t”. Passersby gave me those pitying looks, those snorts of disapproval for not being in a controlled situation with my offspring, those smug “Gina Ford wouldn’t brook this nonsense glances”, those “Thank God we are sending ours to private school” mutterings. Oh the shame of it burns even today.
So you can take your “yippyhurrah, we may get a snow day, just think of it, some unexpected quality time that wasn’t timetabled into today’s schedule” and stick it where the snow don’t freeze!!!
Monday, 4 January 2010
Post Christmas blues
So can we talk about the people who draw & professionally print their own Christmas cards and pass them off as their kids’ handiwork? I mean puhleeze, a detailed rendition of the Nativity by Oskar 2 ¾ or the perfect outline of Santa sleighing through the Manhattan skyline with Rudolph at the fore by Persephone, 3. My kids are still shoving crayolas up their nostrils and chewing on play-do at 4 and 5 years of age so either mine are retreads or they just aren’t the arts ‘n crafts type.
I only dwell on this because I can’t even face recycling these cards into next year’s gift tags. The only vaguely smug homemakerish thing I do is snip at cards to turn them into smaller versions thus satisfying my cheap-skate urges and doing my bit for the environment. This year, we didn’t wait for ephiphany to de-Christmas the living room as I couldn’t live with the red and green madness any longer. I was being stifled by our self-imposed and demented interpretation of Kris Kringle meets West London middle-class aspirations. No New Year’s resolutions this year, only a clean slate---a Tabula Rasa from which to launch myself into 2010.
My great misfortune was in watching that Kirstie Allsopp show on Christmas craftiness. I am a London based half-American and fled the US to get as far away from Martha Stewart as possible. Here I am sucked back into that vortex of smug coziness as Kirstie dangles her knucklebuster of an aquamarine ring over the homemade project Du jour. She invites craftspeople to her Devon retreat implying that you too can lure master cheese makers or candle artisans or chocolate chefs to your 2 up 2 down for a masterclass that will result in delightful homemade pressies costing thrupence. I hate her I hate her I hate her and yet I can't take my eyes off the screen. Is there a 12 step programme out there for me?
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