I am looking out onto a two acres of grass, orchards, wood shed, sprinkler system, swooping swallows, a swimming pool shaped like a blue almond, crickets and cicada's are chirruping and LO! on either side of my line of vision are two gigantic mountains. One has a name which is Canigou where people ski and climb and do athletic things and it even had a sliver of snow on it right now as I type and the other is I don't know what but is quite high. Apparently there are bears and wolves and chamoix (thought that was something you cleaned a car with?) and just when Mol & Liz were eating their saussison a large eagle-like bird lazily flew over our heads kind of just y'know, soaring. Et Voila! In't France BRILLIANT?!
Ryan Air is not so brilliant but it was brilliant enough to get us from Stansted to Perpignan without us dying (although I was reduced to anxiety-attack-like-tears at the end of the flight when great gusts of happy Pyrenees wind blew us up and down like a goddamn paper airplane - this is it I thought, clutching onto Liz's little chubby hand for what I really thought would be the last time, as a conscious Human Being - mummy get off my hand she said to me, oooh, bumpy! - meanwhile I'm sitting there clutching my chair with my legs and bottom in a sort of 'if I hold on really tight to everything it won't happen' way, and my head in my other hand my heart in my mouth and snot streaming down my face, this is no exaggeration either, I really did have snot streaming down my face and nothing to wipe it with and Ryan Air, bless them, only have plastic wipe down seats so I couldn't even bury my nose in the back of the chair in front... Anyway. Lengthy divert... Here I am. Safe. Sound. Sane.)
And we had that gorgeous moment when you step out of a plane onto hot tarmac. Remember that feeling? Stifling air? The smell of petrol and rubber and heat? Oh, my jeans - WAY too hot! But right now I'm so happy to be on the ground alive I don't care how many gallons of sweat are dripping down my thighs. Honest! Mol! France! Brilliant! Heat! Awesome!
And then the grumpy French passport Garcon! Bonjour, je t'ador! And then the first supermarket shop! Ou est le bier et vin! Ou sont les fromages...?
So far we've had a lot of fantastique French sun. I've got through two bottles of rose. Husband has drunk his way through many petit biers and Mol and Liz are 1/2 a litre each into their preferred chocolate & vanilla flavoured icecream.
The sun has gone down now, and the garden is dark, the mountains are burning hot, but their pink tan has vanished. Its just the buzz of the cicada's, the squeal of a distant French scooter and thoughts of what tomorrow will bring, other than baguette, more cheese, another 50 laps of the pool and my dear brother who is flying over to spend some time in the Pyrenees with us. Joy.
Saturday, 25 July 2009
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
get the suncream...
We're all going on a summer holiday, doo-be-doo-be-doo-be-doo-be-dooooooo. Ah, Cliff, m'ol'mucker. You are the beginning of every persons voyage to that perfect summer abode...
This time tomorrow I hope I'll be dusting down my sunhat, squeezing into one of two really old scrappy bikinis and supping on some trez-tasty French wine.
But don't worry trusted readers: all 2 of you will be kept posted of my French antics because despite the house location being ultimate Pyrenees rurality - there is internet! hurrah. So, I will be updating Mothers Ruin with tales of woe as I finish of the 5th camembert of the morning, after a couple of bottles of Boujolais, and checking that my children haven't turned into real-live-human-prunes in the swimming pool.
Now. What is the French for just-one-more-chocolate-croissant, oh, and what the heck, chuck in one of those Vouvray's too..?
Au revoir petit choux as they say sur la continent!
(Although, before we get to France we have to do the whole RyanAir shite on a bike will we be sane this time tomorrow? I probably will be pissed on my 8th bottle of Bier Blondes, nursing wounds gathered in London Stansted... But all shall be revealed my pretty, all shall be revealed...)
Boff Boff! Bon Soir!
This time tomorrow I hope I'll be dusting down my sunhat, squeezing into one of two really old scrappy bikinis and supping on some trez-tasty French wine.
But don't worry trusted readers: all 2 of you will be kept posted of my French antics because despite the house location being ultimate Pyrenees rurality - there is internet! hurrah. So, I will be updating Mothers Ruin with tales of woe as I finish of the 5th camembert of the morning, after a couple of bottles of Boujolais, and checking that my children haven't turned into real-live-human-prunes in the swimming pool.
Now. What is the French for just-one-more-chocolate-croissant, oh, and what the heck, chuck in one of those Vouvray's too..?
Au revoir petit choux as they say sur la continent!
(Although, before we get to France we have to do the whole RyanAir shite on a bike will we be sane this time tomorrow? I probably will be pissed on my 8th bottle of Bier Blondes, nursing wounds gathered in London Stansted... But all shall be revealed my pretty, all shall be revealed...)
Boff Boff! Bon Soir!
Saturday, 18 July 2009
bunting bunting bunting
Hoist the bunting!
Reserve a cake!
Scone and jam?
oooh, here's the brass band!
oooh, here's the vicar come to open the fete!
hurrah hurrah hurrah!
So today is The Village Fete. Not the village of Harringay, no, I'm talking genuine ye-olde-Hampshire-village fete. I'm down at my parents house enjoying the chaos as 50 or so of the well bred helpful village folk heave tressle tables around Mum's garden which Dad has spent hours and hours fine-tuning over the last few weeks (the nettles have been tamed, but SHOCKER, a wasps nest has just been discovered by the coconut shy and stings have been stung... do I sniff a village sized law suit?). Upon said tressle tables are piled cakes jams cheap jewellary old toys bottles of dusty Blue Nun for the tombola and a few old copies of Gilly Cooper and a couple of out of date Lonely Planet Istanbul. Anything goes on sale at a village fete. Some things are recycled and have made appearances for the last couple of decades. There is a particular broach I recognise for the 3rd year running. Poor broach. Does it get laughed at by the other more glossy numbers? It sits there like a teenage wall flower at its first disco, never asked to dance, not even glanced at, just left - thoughtlessly, callously - alone, untouched... It sits on its little cushion sniffing quietly proudly to itself, it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. I like my marbled pink plastic montage. I do and my self esteem is OK. It really is.
But enough about the self-pitying recycled mad talking broach.
What Mol is really up for is a bit of traditional Punch & Judy. Where Judy really does get the shit beaten out of her for about 1/2 hour none-stop, whilst the baby gets chucked over the side of the mini-theatre (a la Michael Jackson & Blanket - I find it hard to write Blanket in the context of being a name without heaving, how could anyone call their child that? That in itself is tantamount to some sort of child-abuse, surely?) and a crocodile that eats a lot of sausages and chases Punch. It's so violent but apparently it's also OK this sort of domestic violence is acceptable because, um, oh, I've forgotten the reason why. Oh, maybe because it's really old and traditional and it's like an institution so it's fine to watch a man whack his wife with a truncheon and the kids, honestly, won't realise that it's mirroring a grizzly reality of normality for many women and families.
I wonder why Mol is so up for it? For someone who is so not interested in banging about with a sword or play-fighting or guns or even thumb-war, it surprises me that she'd be into this cracking-yarn of puppetry-battle. I think the worst violence she's seen in her family was when I was very hormonal at the end of my pregnancy with Liz and I chucked a bowl of cheerios over Husband's head. With milk in it. Its funny now (sort of) but at the time it caused a big uproar and a lot of toe-curling-humiliation. God knows what got me in such a rage. Probably something entirely trivial and unimportant. But that is the joy of hormones and pregnancy.
So. Punch & Judy. Cakes. Splat the Rat. Coconuts. Brass band & bunting. Maybe some sack-races, and a pony-ride.
As the moment of the grand opening comes closer all the village folk are turning up in their plastic macs and their eyes trained on the sky, "oh lord, look at that black cloud", "will the heavens open?" "god give us mercy on this day of fund raising" are just a few of the phrases I can hear being chewed over as the scones are being eyed up by the pensioners at the front of the tea-queue.
Ah. I just love a good fete me I do.
And the best bit is friendly-jossling at the junk-stall where the optimists think they'll find that gem from the attic that is worth a tidy fortune and will transform their close-circuit village life and take them to ST Tropez and sparkling wine ad-infinitum.
For me, I just like to make sure I win the raffle. Even if I have to buy all the damned tickets.
Now. Where's that bloody crocodile got to?
Reserve a cake!
Scone and jam?
oooh, here's the brass band!
oooh, here's the vicar come to open the fete!
hurrah hurrah hurrah!
So today is The Village Fete. Not the village of Harringay, no, I'm talking genuine ye-olde-Hampshire-village fete. I'm down at my parents house enjoying the chaos as 50 or so of the well bred helpful village folk heave tressle tables around Mum's garden which Dad has spent hours and hours fine-tuning over the last few weeks (the nettles have been tamed, but SHOCKER, a wasps nest has just been discovered by the coconut shy and stings have been stung... do I sniff a village sized law suit?). Upon said tressle tables are piled cakes jams cheap jewellary old toys bottles of dusty Blue Nun for the tombola and a few old copies of Gilly Cooper and a couple of out of date Lonely Planet Istanbul. Anything goes on sale at a village fete. Some things are recycled and have made appearances for the last couple of decades. There is a particular broach I recognise for the 3rd year running. Poor broach. Does it get laughed at by the other more glossy numbers? It sits there like a teenage wall flower at its first disco, never asked to dance, not even glanced at, just left - thoughtlessly, callously - alone, untouched... It sits on its little cushion sniffing quietly proudly to itself, it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. I like my marbled pink plastic montage. I do and my self esteem is OK. It really is.
But enough about the self-pitying recycled mad talking broach.
What Mol is really up for is a bit of traditional Punch & Judy. Where Judy really does get the shit beaten out of her for about 1/2 hour none-stop, whilst the baby gets chucked over the side of the mini-theatre (a la Michael Jackson & Blanket - I find it hard to write Blanket in the context of being a name without heaving, how could anyone call their child that? That in itself is tantamount to some sort of child-abuse, surely?) and a crocodile that eats a lot of sausages and chases Punch. It's so violent but apparently it's also OK this sort of domestic violence is acceptable because, um, oh, I've forgotten the reason why. Oh, maybe because it's really old and traditional and it's like an institution so it's fine to watch a man whack his wife with a truncheon and the kids, honestly, won't realise that it's mirroring a grizzly reality of normality for many women and families.
I wonder why Mol is so up for it? For someone who is so not interested in banging about with a sword or play-fighting or guns or even thumb-war, it surprises me that she'd be into this cracking-yarn of puppetry-battle. I think the worst violence she's seen in her family was when I was very hormonal at the end of my pregnancy with Liz and I chucked a bowl of cheerios over Husband's head. With milk in it. Its funny now (sort of) but at the time it caused a big uproar and a lot of toe-curling-humiliation. God knows what got me in such a rage. Probably something entirely trivial and unimportant. But that is the joy of hormones and pregnancy.
So. Punch & Judy. Cakes. Splat the Rat. Coconuts. Brass band & bunting. Maybe some sack-races, and a pony-ride.
As the moment of the grand opening comes closer all the village folk are turning up in their plastic macs and their eyes trained on the sky, "oh lord, look at that black cloud", "will the heavens open?" "god give us mercy on this day of fund raising" are just a few of the phrases I can hear being chewed over as the scones are being eyed up by the pensioners at the front of the tea-queue.
Ah. I just love a good fete me I do.
And the best bit is friendly-jossling at the junk-stall where the optimists think they'll find that gem from the attic that is worth a tidy fortune and will transform their close-circuit village life and take them to ST Tropez and sparkling wine ad-infinitum.
For me, I just like to make sure I win the raffle. Even if I have to buy all the damned tickets.
Now. Where's that bloody crocodile got to?
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