A ten day holiday in Scotland?
North west coast?
Do I see you smirking behind a politely positioned knuckle in front of twitching mouth?
But... Won't it be freezing?
Won't it just rain the whole time?
Isn't there a risk of snow, even?
Wouldn't you rather spend 13 hours going SOUTH?
Ha! Not on your nelly! The only risk to us 5 intrepid adventurers (uncle scratchy was uncle-napped for the holiday) was inadvertent bog-snorkelling (both Liz & Mol fell into bogs... First liz - up to her waist... It was like a scene from an old fashioned Tarzan where the desperate damsel in distress is running from an evil woman-eating baboon (in this case Liz running from crazed sister...) and she slips into quicksand and sinks up to her chin, gulping with bulging eyes knowing her time is up... Luckily for this damsel her mother was two steps behind and pulled her muddy derrier from the black goo. And then Mol (moment of parental concern: how thick can you get?) 20 seconds later despite my "watch the bog Mol!" yell, goes and dives legs first into the exact same bog that just ate Liz...) - and (returning to initial train-of-thought) being decapitated by a low-flying Tornado Jet plane (that came over our heads just as Mol asked Husband if we are really allowed to light fires on the beach...- we thought being blown up by a missile would be pretty harsh punishment... Mind you, it's what to expect nowadays... N'est ce pas?) that had us all flattened to the smooth pebbles of the shore as it blew our eardrums and reduced Liz to a screaming shivering frightened wreck. Spare a thought for children of war-torn countries I thought as it disappeared over the brow of the local Munroe to dodge some deer antlers or claim a haggis or whatever.
Scotland totally rocked the family of MR. Not least because of the genuinely breath-taking views & beaches & crystal clear emerald seas & pink Heather & lack of sirens & fluffy eared cows that meander lazily over the roads & the little men with orange hair and swishing kilts that jump out of the bushes and play Bonnie Prince Charlie on their bagpipes (just checking if you're still awake) & all 4 of us plus uncle scratchy having the most amazing rowing sessions over the loch while seals with beseechingly scrummy brown eyes bob in the sea beside us...
It was just. Well. I don't know. Scotland!
Brilliant!
Can we come back?
(Will bring snorkell & ear defenders...)
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Thursday, 18 August 2011
is it a snail? is it a whale? no its a trussed up M.R...
I'm just having a negative flashback.
Rewinding a week or so, before the whole Not Quite Gastric Flu incident, on the first day of our time in Devon I did an IDIOTIC thing.
Possibly the most stupid thing I did since getting paralytically drunk when I was pregnant with Mol (explains a lot... but I was young, I didn't know that if my period was late I'd really be pregnant... Yes, I did biology for A-Level...). Or maybe even more stupid than that time when I was getting on the tube with Mol ahead of me and Liz behind me, and I got stuck in the doors as they closed with Mol on the tube and Liz on the platform. Both children wailing. And obviously no gallant passenger jumped up to help me, no, no, in true Brit style the assholes in the carriage looked up from their dirty Metro's with raised eyebrows wondering how this interesting predicament was going to end. Well, all 3 of us are still here to tell the tale, so the complacent fuckers on the tube can shove the dirty Metro up their dirty...
Anyway, going off on a tangent.
Sorry about my language. That occasion on the tube really pissed me off though.
How can people watch and not help? Is it another sign of our strange times... Hey, look! A panicking mother with children on and off the tube, lets do some rubber-necking! Hey! Free trainers! Lets go raid some more shops! Hell, lets burn it all down afterwards too - I've got matches in my pocket that say light-me! The relationship is as clear as the water in the local council pool (once you've pushed the pubes and verucca-plasters out the way).
Anyway. So, back to the point.
So, on the first day of our Devonshire Cream Break, I said to the girls as we bumped off the A38 nearing the end of our 4 hour journey (which I was driving alone, so had a tennis racket to hand to whack any moaners or "are we nearly there"-ers, or shouters or fighters, or mainly, sorry - not to whack the girls with - any petrol pumps that dared totalise a filling up pump over £50... - a lot of whacking going on I tell you), HEY! Girls! I've got a great idea! How about I buy myself a wetsuit too?
I had visions of us all splashing into the crystal clear Devonshire sea, a bit like a scene from Baywatch, but English and a little greyer, great white smiles on our faces, the sun bouncing off the modest waves, a boogy board tucked under our arms, and people admiring us from the beach...
I thought they'd not heard me, and that I may have actually got away with it, and not have to buy a wetsuit (because my other vision which quickly slipped over the Baywatch scenario, was of us tiptoeing into a weed-filled-sea, the skies black with cloud, our towels blown onto wet sand, and the car key lost in a sandcastle-moat...), but no. To my horror... YEAH! COOL MUM! Way to go! Awesome! Lets go now! Get a pink one! Get a shorty! Get a board! Get a new body too...
Huh?!
So the very next day, true to my word, we snuck to the local Devonshire wetsuit shop called Pickles (is that because you get pickled when you go into a wetsuit and then into the sea?) and the 15 year old shop assistant stuffing a pasty into his mouth surrounded by acne (not his fault I know, but can't help what one see's), spat his crumbs out in my face and told me: You need to be able to fit two fingers, no more, between the suit and the skin. UG - I'm thinking, well, I don't need your fingers going anywhere near my skin thank you.
2 Hours later, its scene two (minus the lost car keys thank god) and we're tip toeing into the water, me feeling like a sausage that's about to burst its skin in my pink and black (wow, its the same as mine mum, says Mol, how cool are we? - I'm nearly replying, about as fucking cool as MCHammers crutch) wetsuit, and my girls in theirs looking way better and 'at home'...
Despite a lack of paparazzi and camera flashes to admire the 3 of us jumping and boarding in the fridgesome water, and despite the fact that a man left the water (he had strange man-boobs that actually bounced as he walked - has he NO idea his boobs bounce?) telling us 'watch out for the jellies' - we stuck it out and screams of delight were fast replacing screams of ffffff-hahaha-colllldddddd, as the wetsuits warmed up and we caught some fat-waves.
So in fact now I come to think of it, although I feel a bit like that man with man-boobs (what on EARTH does a woman my age think she's doing in a pink & black wetsuit, clutching a board that has cartoon fish on it?) I have to say: it was the bloody best thing I've done for a long long time.
Rock on the sea!
Rock on wetsuits!
Bring on the fat surf - and yeah baby - see that chick standing on the board? (yep, in my dreams...)
Rewinding a week or so, before the whole Not Quite Gastric Flu incident, on the first day of our time in Devon I did an IDIOTIC thing.
Possibly the most stupid thing I did since getting paralytically drunk when I was pregnant with Mol (explains a lot... but I was young, I didn't know that if my period was late I'd really be pregnant... Yes, I did biology for A-Level...). Or maybe even more stupid than that time when I was getting on the tube with Mol ahead of me and Liz behind me, and I got stuck in the doors as they closed with Mol on the tube and Liz on the platform. Both children wailing. And obviously no gallant passenger jumped up to help me, no, no, in true Brit style the assholes in the carriage looked up from their dirty Metro's with raised eyebrows wondering how this interesting predicament was going to end. Well, all 3 of us are still here to tell the tale, so the complacent fuckers on the tube can shove the dirty Metro up their dirty...
Anyway, going off on a tangent.
Sorry about my language. That occasion on the tube really pissed me off though.
How can people watch and not help? Is it another sign of our strange times... Hey, look! A panicking mother with children on and off the tube, lets do some rubber-necking! Hey! Free trainers! Lets go raid some more shops! Hell, lets burn it all down afterwards too - I've got matches in my pocket that say light-me! The relationship is as clear as the water in the local council pool (once you've pushed the pubes and verucca-plasters out the way).
Anyway. So, back to the point.
So, on the first day of our Devonshire Cream Break, I said to the girls as we bumped off the A38 nearing the end of our 4 hour journey (which I was driving alone, so had a tennis racket to hand to whack any moaners or "are we nearly there"-ers, or shouters or fighters, or mainly, sorry - not to whack the girls with - any petrol pumps that dared totalise a filling up pump over £50... - a lot of whacking going on I tell you), HEY! Girls! I've got a great idea! How about I buy myself a wetsuit too?
I had visions of us all splashing into the crystal clear Devonshire sea, a bit like a scene from Baywatch, but English and a little greyer, great white smiles on our faces, the sun bouncing off the modest waves, a boogy board tucked under our arms, and people admiring us from the beach...
I thought they'd not heard me, and that I may have actually got away with it, and not have to buy a wetsuit (because my other vision which quickly slipped over the Baywatch scenario, was of us tiptoeing into a weed-filled-sea, the skies black with cloud, our towels blown onto wet sand, and the car key lost in a sandcastle-moat...), but no. To my horror... YEAH! COOL MUM! Way to go! Awesome! Lets go now! Get a pink one! Get a shorty! Get a board! Get a new body too...
Huh?!
So the very next day, true to my word, we snuck to the local Devonshire wetsuit shop called Pickles (is that because you get pickled when you go into a wetsuit and then into the sea?) and the 15 year old shop assistant stuffing a pasty into his mouth surrounded by acne (not his fault I know, but can't help what one see's), spat his crumbs out in my face and told me: You need to be able to fit two fingers, no more, between the suit and the skin. UG - I'm thinking, well, I don't need your fingers going anywhere near my skin thank you.
2 Hours later, its scene two (minus the lost car keys thank god) and we're tip toeing into the water, me feeling like a sausage that's about to burst its skin in my pink and black (wow, its the same as mine mum, says Mol, how cool are we? - I'm nearly replying, about as fucking cool as MCHammers crutch) wetsuit, and my girls in theirs looking way better and 'at home'...
Despite a lack of paparazzi and camera flashes to admire the 3 of us jumping and boarding in the fridgesome water, and despite the fact that a man left the water (he had strange man-boobs that actually bounced as he walked - has he NO idea his boobs bounce?) telling us 'watch out for the jellies' - we stuck it out and screams of delight were fast replacing screams of ffffff-hahaha-colllldddddd, as the wetsuits warmed up and we caught some fat-waves.
So in fact now I come to think of it, although I feel a bit like that man with man-boobs (what on EARTH does a woman my age think she's doing in a pink & black wetsuit, clutching a board that has cartoon fish on it?) I have to say: it was the bloody best thing I've done for a long long time.
Rock on the sea!
Rock on wetsuits!
Bring on the fat surf - and yeah baby - see that chick standing on the board? (yep, in my dreams...)
Saturday, 13 August 2011
being nearly 5
So Liz hasn't had a birthday party for 2 years. We feel a bit neglectful. This year she's getting a party. And proper presents (last year to her great delight she unwrapped a packet of cocoa-pops... - is that qualifying as child abuse? Nearly?).
Having a birthday in the middle of the school holidays has its pros and cons. The pro is that for the last two years we've fobbed her off with a "but everyone is on holiday my dear. We'll have a family tea party, ok? Just as fun!".
Now she's nearly 5 she's caught wind of communication methods other than jungle-drums. "Why don't you email Aisha's mum? Mum, you should really text Alices parents, I know you have their number. Why don't you set up a twitter feed? Mum, there's this new forum attached to google where you can post tailored messages for exclusive parties for 5 year olds..."
I feel like the petulant teenager. WHATEVER.
The con to having a birthday in the holidays is that there are still a few people around and about who are very very very happy to have something to do on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of August.
Suddenly there are 12 children to entertain and feed.
And on top of this, I have returned from a week in Devon with some sort of bug. An Almost Being Sick Bug. My nieces both spent the last 5 days coughing up every sort of wondrous substance - at any time of day - maybe in the drive home from the beach (said wonders being caught in an upsidedown frisby - who'd have thought how useful they really can be?) or say, at 1030pm just as the last glass of Valpolicella has been sunk and the cheese board polished off - loving parents repair to the bedroom of their beloved for a goodnight kiss and tuck-up to find them caked in regurgitated pizza... etc. I could tell you more but we've done the sick-thing previously and you know what I'm on about.
I came home with a mild strain.
I've yet to revisit my wondrous lunch or breakfast, instead, my stomach is festering and boiling sordidly - like its plotting for my ruin at the most important part of the day... and can't decide yet at what point it'd be most inconvenient to empty myself. "Neeeheeheeheeee"(evil laughter from stomach), "what can I do to cause ruin and humiliation..?" (rubs hands together and laughs another burst of evil)
Tomorrow is Liz's party.
This morning I made THE cake - practically with a clothes peg on my nose, such was my disinterest in the production. I felt robotic as I wizzed the ingredients up, not enjoying the aromas of vanilla and sugar and all things nice as they bake in the oven. This evening I will transform the cake into a magnificent ... (don't want to ruin the surprise) - and hopefully the sardines dear Husband sensitively bought for our dinner won't make it as a garnish for the cake...
Liz and Mol are in a state of nearly high excitement about tomorrow.
I'm in a state of oh god how will we do it low excitement. I may have to go down to Green Lanes and score some crack to get me through it.
Actually as I write I already feel better. Maybe I just needed to vent anxiety at the computer - my therapist - and bit by bit the games the chocolate fingers the party poppers the balloons the screams of delight as Husband gets them in a tizz over Simon Says - will all fall neatly into place over night, and the Almost Being Sick Bug will get bored of trying to find the ultimate moment for its show and piss off to the noisy student house opposite us. That'd be a much better home for the Almost Being Sick Bug. Except I'm pretty sure that by the time it got to the student house it'd have transmogrified into virulent vomming and disastrous diarrhoea... That at least would shut them up in one sense of the word.
And with that. I embrace the party. I embrace the cake. I embrace the madness that will be shortlived for 2.5hours. Its very manageable.
I wonder where that local dealer has got to...?
Having a birthday in the middle of the school holidays has its pros and cons. The pro is that for the last two years we've fobbed her off with a "but everyone is on holiday my dear. We'll have a family tea party, ok? Just as fun!".
Now she's nearly 5 she's caught wind of communication methods other than jungle-drums. "Why don't you email Aisha's mum? Mum, you should really text Alices parents, I know you have their number. Why don't you set up a twitter feed? Mum, there's this new forum attached to google where you can post tailored messages for exclusive parties for 5 year olds..."
I feel like the petulant teenager. WHATEVER.
The con to having a birthday in the holidays is that there are still a few people around and about who are very very very happy to have something to do on a Sunday afternoon in the middle of August.
Suddenly there are 12 children to entertain and feed.
And on top of this, I have returned from a week in Devon with some sort of bug. An Almost Being Sick Bug. My nieces both spent the last 5 days coughing up every sort of wondrous substance - at any time of day - maybe in the drive home from the beach (said wonders being caught in an upsidedown frisby - who'd have thought how useful they really can be?) or say, at 1030pm just as the last glass of Valpolicella has been sunk and the cheese board polished off - loving parents repair to the bedroom of their beloved for a goodnight kiss and tuck-up to find them caked in regurgitated pizza... etc. I could tell you more but we've done the sick-thing previously and you know what I'm on about.
I came home with a mild strain.
I've yet to revisit my wondrous lunch or breakfast, instead, my stomach is festering and boiling sordidly - like its plotting for my ruin at the most important part of the day... and can't decide yet at what point it'd be most inconvenient to empty myself. "Neeeheeheeheeee"(evil laughter from stomach), "what can I do to cause ruin and humiliation..?" (rubs hands together and laughs another burst of evil)
Tomorrow is Liz's party.
This morning I made THE cake - practically with a clothes peg on my nose, such was my disinterest in the production. I felt robotic as I wizzed the ingredients up, not enjoying the aromas of vanilla and sugar and all things nice as they bake in the oven. This evening I will transform the cake into a magnificent ... (don't want to ruin the surprise) - and hopefully the sardines dear Husband sensitively bought for our dinner won't make it as a garnish for the cake...
Liz and Mol are in a state of nearly high excitement about tomorrow.
I'm in a state of oh god how will we do it low excitement. I may have to go down to Green Lanes and score some crack to get me through it.
Actually as I write I already feel better. Maybe I just needed to vent anxiety at the computer - my therapist - and bit by bit the games the chocolate fingers the party poppers the balloons the screams of delight as Husband gets them in a tizz over Simon Says - will all fall neatly into place over night, and the Almost Being Sick Bug will get bored of trying to find the ultimate moment for its show and piss off to the noisy student house opposite us. That'd be a much better home for the Almost Being Sick Bug. Except I'm pretty sure that by the time it got to the student house it'd have transmogrified into virulent vomming and disastrous diarrhoea... That at least would shut them up in one sense of the word.
And with that. I embrace the party. I embrace the cake. I embrace the madness that will be shortlived for 2.5hours. Its very manageable.
I wonder where that local dealer has got to...?
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
chicken on the bone
So, I was sitting with Liz & Mol last night as they chomped away on some chicken I'd baked for them. Chicken drumsticks. They call it "chicken on the bone". It's a pretty clear definition of what they are eating.
So, chomp chomp. Liz (who is nearly 5...) takes a hearty bite of her chicken-on-the-bone and then, while teeth are gnashing the white flesh around her mouth like a cement mixer, she asks me a question (a few bits spit out onto the table landing close to my vegetarian elbow).
"Mum, so, is this pork or beef that I'm eating?"
My last blog entry was months and months and months and years and centuries ago. Almost last millennium before internet was invented. Why such a long break in the correspondence to the masses who need this drug? The drug of words and distraction from the mundane routine of work or children or cleaning the kitchen floor for the 2nd time in a day as the 2nd meal of the day has been uploaded off a spoon or fork or plate and joyously left by the children who squash a bit into the tiles so the mother who is on her hands and knees actually has to scrub the baked bean off with real traditional elbow grease. fuckers.
Well to answer the question I asked about 400-sentences ago it is because I've been preoccupied by academia and school and children and housework and cooking and sainsburys and eastenders and wondering if the sun will ever come out again after that lovely drought of a spring and I sort of got carried away by time and woosh before I knew it hey pasta&pesto it's the 2nd of August. Shocking how time flies.
I heard a rumour that time flies when you're having fun.
Well I would say since March I've had a bit of fun but mostly I've been chasing my children to school and then chasing my tail around essays (and then sobbing at the results) and then trying to feed everyone nourishing food (chips tonight? Pizza tomorrow! Fried eggs and bacon on Thursday! Fish fingers on Friday as is tradition... of course you can have another packet of crisps to tide you over). So the mother has been feeling a bit literally ruined. Whilst clasping vats of chardonnay and chugging the occasional cancer stick.
I'm sure I can hear necks creaking as the masses who read this nod in agreement at the recent chaos and accelleration (can't spell it sorry) of life generally.
Answers on postcards if you think its to do with us all having collosal amounts of fun.
Although I have had some massively fun times. Like going to Take That (even the 3 hour journey home as fun). Like going to North West Ireland, otherwise known as Donegal, otherwise known as Southern Ireland (of course it makes sense!). Like drinking black zambucca on my birthday and being drunk for weeks afterwards. All good fun.
My theory is this: I blame the children. If the childrens lives weren't so full of after school clubs and dancing and birthday parties and uniform updates and new shoes and hair cuts and more packets of crisps or trips to the park and then urgent dashes for the loo (always a poo) in the middle of nowhere.
So now I have a solution to slow down life: home schooling, never leave the house (unless for adult activity), long hair, Iceland ready made meals delivered to the door, potties in every room.
With this resolution I believe life will slow down and I may have more time to write my blog.
Although I may also go insane.
So, perhaps a happy medium. Send them to school! Don't cut their hair! Eat meals together (rather than having to cook two suppers every day of the week). Cut down after school activities! Increase DVD consumption!
Yeah.
Who want's to join the slow-it-down club?
See you in WHSmith buying bumper packs of dvd-box-sets, and just think how bloody glorious all the blogs will become?
So, chomp chomp. Liz (who is nearly 5...) takes a hearty bite of her chicken-on-the-bone and then, while teeth are gnashing the white flesh around her mouth like a cement mixer, she asks me a question (a few bits spit out onto the table landing close to my vegetarian elbow).
"Mum, so, is this pork or beef that I'm eating?"
My last blog entry was months and months and months and years and centuries ago. Almost last millennium before internet was invented. Why such a long break in the correspondence to the masses who need this drug? The drug of words and distraction from the mundane routine of work or children or cleaning the kitchen floor for the 2nd time in a day as the 2nd meal of the day has been uploaded off a spoon or fork or plate and joyously left by the children who squash a bit into the tiles so the mother who is on her hands and knees actually has to scrub the baked bean off with real traditional elbow grease. fuckers.
Well to answer the question I asked about 400-sentences ago it is because I've been preoccupied by academia and school and children and housework and cooking and sainsburys and eastenders and wondering if the sun will ever come out again after that lovely drought of a spring and I sort of got carried away by time and woosh before I knew it hey pasta&pesto it's the 2nd of August. Shocking how time flies.
I heard a rumour that time flies when you're having fun.
Well I would say since March I've had a bit of fun but mostly I've been chasing my children to school and then chasing my tail around essays (and then sobbing at the results) and then trying to feed everyone nourishing food (chips tonight? Pizza tomorrow! Fried eggs and bacon on Thursday! Fish fingers on Friday as is tradition... of course you can have another packet of crisps to tide you over). So the mother has been feeling a bit literally ruined. Whilst clasping vats of chardonnay and chugging the occasional cancer stick.
I'm sure I can hear necks creaking as the masses who read this nod in agreement at the recent chaos and accelleration (can't spell it sorry) of life generally.
Answers on postcards if you think its to do with us all having collosal amounts of fun.
Although I have had some massively fun times. Like going to Take That (even the 3 hour journey home as fun). Like going to North West Ireland, otherwise known as Donegal, otherwise known as Southern Ireland (of course it makes sense!). Like drinking black zambucca on my birthday and being drunk for weeks afterwards. All good fun.
My theory is this: I blame the children. If the childrens lives weren't so full of after school clubs and dancing and birthday parties and uniform updates and new shoes and hair cuts and more packets of crisps or trips to the park and then urgent dashes for the loo (always a poo) in the middle of nowhere.
So now I have a solution to slow down life: home schooling, never leave the house (unless for adult activity), long hair, Iceland ready made meals delivered to the door, potties in every room.
With this resolution I believe life will slow down and I may have more time to write my blog.
Although I may also go insane.
So, perhaps a happy medium. Send them to school! Don't cut their hair! Eat meals together (rather than having to cook two suppers every day of the week). Cut down after school activities! Increase DVD consumption!
Yeah.
Who want's to join the slow-it-down club?
See you in WHSmith buying bumper packs of dvd-box-sets, and just think how bloody glorious all the blogs will become?
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