I came downstairs this evening having just hung up the wet bath towels belonging to liz & mol - to find mol dressed in a white floaty skirt which she'd turned into a shoulderless dress, tied with a purple ribbon around her waist and a red ribbon in her crinkly mol-like ever-knotted hair. she looked really pretty and sort of etherial. i admired her secretly and thought how imaginative to turn a skirt into a shoulderless dress and tie a ribbon around it for shape and control.
she then said, shh. sit down on the sofa. I'm going to do a show for you.
so me and liz sat on the sofa and wondered what the show was this time. she'd murmured something about cinderella earlier in the bath.
i said, what's it about?
she said: it's a dance mum.
i said, ok. cool.
i like it when Mol puts on her 7 year old innocent dance shows. its kind of endless and she gets all whimsicle and is usually the dying swan, in lots of agony and am-dram-pain, taking hours to sink to the floor and flutter her eyelids to a final close.
she went over to the cd player and pressed play.
liz and I waited.
and then RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOAR.
it was only the mother-fuckin'-SEX-PISTOLS!
and mol, dying swan cast flippently aside, started poge-oh-ing (?sp?) around the sitting room, in her now gothic rather than whimsically balletic frock, flinging her head from side to side, flailing her arms around madly and with strange crinkled up scrunchy eyes (occasionally winking badly) face, in a mock-whoah- sort of shouty way.
WHAT?
How?
when did she learn to dance mod-like? she then started hopping like a rabbit on a massive dose of coke. (was she on coke? - I dont think so although she did have chocolate at supper.)
occasionally her dress would slip down and her little pale torso would be flung around careless of its clotheless state - and then she'd laugh hysterically when I pointed out that we could see everything - and whilst jumping up and down on the spot like the over-dosed-easter-rabbit she'd sort of shift her frock upwards only for it to fall down again as she continued with her mad mod rock punk dance.
anyway. I thought it was pretty bloody cool despite the foul language (luckily she was so in the moment i don't think she actually heard the lyrics) and made quite a change from the dreadful swan which she keeps trying to kill off.
(but shit. god knows what she'll be doing this time in 10 years when she's 17 and really off her head in a nightclub. its probably not good for my mental health to think about it too much.)
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
pastie, anyone?
Cornwall. Land of the cream (it comes in many different formats... all with the same net result: fat. fuckin' thighs). Home of the beach (which also comes in many different formats with the same net results: wet. tired. screechy children).
Love it or hate it, there is something magic about a holiday in Cornwall. Maybe its because its like being abroad but everyone speaks English? Maybe its just not being in London that does it for me. Maybe the magic is something to do with the fact that we were down there just as the land was bursting open with life (new lambs in the fields, a day old calf in the local farm, blossom just opening from its buds, and the grass couldn't have been greener if Liz had coloured it with her fluorescent green marker pen).
Maybe its also because 'one' packs thinking, oh well, its going to be sodding cold and wet and it'll probably rain every day, snow even, because this is England and the weather is so unpredictable, that when you get landed with 6 days in a row of golden sunshine and a sun-licked cheek at the end of each boldly-rayed-up day - well, that's pretty darned magic in my book.
The four of us set out last Wednesday morning, with our suitcases bulging with all our grey thermal underwear, our middle layer of long sleeved t-shirts, our 3rd layer of 'thin' jumpers and a fourth layer of thick winter woollies. Tights by the bucket. Hats stuffed into every spare pocket our bags had. Wellies. Winter walking boots (not that I have summer ones mind you). Winter anoracs. And when we arrived, 5hours later, at our small house named Corncockle (must have been put together by a drunken holiday maker with an untreated STD) we stripped off our outer layers, revealing our unsightly thermals to the pretty smart beaches of Rock (its all brassy glamour down there, even in April). 6 days later we were still in our string-vests and thermal shorts, sweating it out on the beaches as schools of dolphins leapt in the bay and mackerel hooked themselves onto our fishing rods over the side of a pirate-fishing-boat.
If that's not magic, well, tell me what is (apart from Paul Daniels).
Anyway. Liz and Mol enjoyed the Cornish Magic and their hair has got blonder and for the time we spent there, they actually didn't fight all that much, and they did sweet things like collect shells and make sandcastles and we built a spectacular dam across a stream on the beach turning upstream into a very cold paddling pool, and they ate ice-creams, and played with their cousins, and made my parents love them a little bit more than usual, and after they'd flaked out in their funny fishy-smelling-beds at night, we'd sit around the table and talk about their childish ways and the grandparents would make considered observations about each one in turn. (Mol is good at being on her own; Liz is just awful; Alice is very good at rock climbing; Jake is a great hugger - etc.)
And I got to drink a lot of wine. And because it was the holidays I also ate too much cheese, too much chocolate and didn't do enough exercise.
So, if anyone can recommend a good lippo-suction-surgeon on Green Lanes please pass on the contact.
Magic. (ooh, I feel a Queen moment...)
Love it or hate it, there is something magic about a holiday in Cornwall. Maybe its because its like being abroad but everyone speaks English? Maybe its just not being in London that does it for me. Maybe the magic is something to do with the fact that we were down there just as the land was bursting open with life (new lambs in the fields, a day old calf in the local farm, blossom just opening from its buds, and the grass couldn't have been greener if Liz had coloured it with her fluorescent green marker pen).
Maybe its also because 'one' packs thinking, oh well, its going to be sodding cold and wet and it'll probably rain every day, snow even, because this is England and the weather is so unpredictable, that when you get landed with 6 days in a row of golden sunshine and a sun-licked cheek at the end of each boldly-rayed-up day - well, that's pretty darned magic in my book.
The four of us set out last Wednesday morning, with our suitcases bulging with all our grey thermal underwear, our middle layer of long sleeved t-shirts, our 3rd layer of 'thin' jumpers and a fourth layer of thick winter woollies. Tights by the bucket. Hats stuffed into every spare pocket our bags had. Wellies. Winter walking boots (not that I have summer ones mind you). Winter anoracs. And when we arrived, 5hours later, at our small house named Corncockle (must have been put together by a drunken holiday maker with an untreated STD) we stripped off our outer layers, revealing our unsightly thermals to the pretty smart beaches of Rock (its all brassy glamour down there, even in April). 6 days later we were still in our string-vests and thermal shorts, sweating it out on the beaches as schools of dolphins leapt in the bay and mackerel hooked themselves onto our fishing rods over the side of a pirate-fishing-boat.
If that's not magic, well, tell me what is (apart from Paul Daniels).
Anyway. Liz and Mol enjoyed the Cornish Magic and their hair has got blonder and for the time we spent there, they actually didn't fight all that much, and they did sweet things like collect shells and make sandcastles and we built a spectacular dam across a stream on the beach turning upstream into a very cold paddling pool, and they ate ice-creams, and played with their cousins, and made my parents love them a little bit more than usual, and after they'd flaked out in their funny fishy-smelling-beds at night, we'd sit around the table and talk about their childish ways and the grandparents would make considered observations about each one in turn. (Mol is good at being on her own; Liz is just awful; Alice is very good at rock climbing; Jake is a great hugger - etc.)
And I got to drink a lot of wine. And because it was the holidays I also ate too much cheese, too much chocolate and didn't do enough exercise.
So, if anyone can recommend a good lippo-suction-surgeon on Green Lanes please pass on the contact.
Magic. (ooh, I feel a Queen moment...)
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
stomach unrest
For nearly 7 weeks I didn't glimpse the cheese cabinet in Sainsburys. No brie for me! Oh no, thank you! I passed on the chocolate mousse on Good Friday. I didn't flinch when the macaroni cheese was bought steaming and golden from the oven by my mum 2 weeks ago (Oh, darling, there's some salad you can have instead), and I waved off the left over Christmas Quality Street (and it wasn't just the coffee ones left at the bottom, I spotted two caramel drums and a toffee penny) at post-cheese-post-pudding-lets-wrap-the-meal-up-with-a-waifer-thin-chocolate time.
Then. On Sunday. April 4th. All hell broke loose. We laid the table on Saturday night so the children would be amazed at the deliveries from the notorious bringer of Eggs, the Easter Bunny (for gods sake - why does a Rabbit deliver chocolate eggs on easter day? surely it should at least be something that lays eggs? A platipus or duck perhaps? - I have no recollection from my minimal religious up-bringing of cute lop-eared-rabbits dropping by the houses of sweet well behaved children [ONLY WELL BEHAVED CHILDREN GET CHOCOLATES. IF YOU WANT THE EASTER BUNNY TO COME BY TOMORROW THEN EAT YOUR BLOODY BROCCOLLI - so went the mantra in our house for the last 2 weeks or so...] whilst Jesus rose from the dead to save our souls? Maybe that was the day I was off with alcohol poisoning from Religious Studies, such as they were at my school...) - and my eyes goggled at the tons of dark luscious chocolates laid on the table all ready for the big off on Sunday morning (after some branflakes to line the stomach).
And in the fridge, I knew already, I'd sniffed it out, was a large slice of delicious Emmental cheese. Chewy and yellow and holy. (holy! ha, gettit?)
And so, that night, I dreamt it was breakfast time and lunch time and it was great. my taste ducts getting ready.
And then, in the morning, dreams over, after my bowl of branflakes, and a round of hymns at the church, I finally got to dive in to my cheese and chocolates.
Hmmmmmmmmmmm.
Long pause while I think back to the divine moment of chocolateness and total cheese-fest.
How good it was to feel it slipping down my osophagus? How happy was my head to know that I'd abstained, and my halo was glowing and now my time was up I could lap it up like a pig in the shit. Hurrah.
After about 2hours of constant scoffing, I realised that I was last at the table, (the kids well bored by now of their chocolate and more into running around on that scary choc-high kids get) the front of my easter-dress splattered with crumbs of chocolate and yellow rubbery cheese, my mouth covered in the same, my finger-tips brown from licking and re-licking, my plate surrounded by wrappers and the tough skin off the cheese, and I also realised that my stomach had fallen out of its normal shape and taken on the shape of a large easter-egg. And that in fact my eyes had started to spin in opposite directions.
And that in fact I was now feeling a bit less holy and a bit revolting and totally. in fact. sick.
So. I put down that last bit of chocolate (the really good thick bits you find at the base of the egg...).
And went for a long walk and wondered if I would make it through the year without suffering cardiac problems or just drowning in my own chocolate/cheese vomit later on that night.
Well, I didn't drown. Here I am. Writing about my stomach and over indulgent behaviour. But dare I say it, I'm quite looking forward to the next round of Lent because there is something rather fantastic about abstaining from something that 'one' really loves. And the gigantic hit I had from my first bites of chocolate & cheese on Easter day. Really. Super. Duper.
However, my skin is now all covered in zits.
Now that's not quite so tasty.
Then. On Sunday. April 4th. All hell broke loose. We laid the table on Saturday night so the children would be amazed at the deliveries from the notorious bringer of Eggs, the Easter Bunny (for gods sake - why does a Rabbit deliver chocolate eggs on easter day? surely it should at least be something that lays eggs? A platipus or duck perhaps? - I have no recollection from my minimal religious up-bringing of cute lop-eared-rabbits dropping by the houses of sweet well behaved children [ONLY WELL BEHAVED CHILDREN GET CHOCOLATES. IF YOU WANT THE EASTER BUNNY TO COME BY TOMORROW THEN EAT YOUR BLOODY BROCCOLLI - so went the mantra in our house for the last 2 weeks or so...] whilst Jesus rose from the dead to save our souls? Maybe that was the day I was off with alcohol poisoning from Religious Studies, such as they were at my school...) - and my eyes goggled at the tons of dark luscious chocolates laid on the table all ready for the big off on Sunday morning (after some branflakes to line the stomach).
And in the fridge, I knew already, I'd sniffed it out, was a large slice of delicious Emmental cheese. Chewy and yellow and holy. (holy! ha, gettit?)
And so, that night, I dreamt it was breakfast time and lunch time and it was great. my taste ducts getting ready.
And then, in the morning, dreams over, after my bowl of branflakes, and a round of hymns at the church, I finally got to dive in to my cheese and chocolates.
Hmmmmmmmmmmm.
Long pause while I think back to the divine moment of chocolateness and total cheese-fest.
How good it was to feel it slipping down my osophagus? How happy was my head to know that I'd abstained, and my halo was glowing and now my time was up I could lap it up like a pig in the shit. Hurrah.
After about 2hours of constant scoffing, I realised that I was last at the table, (the kids well bored by now of their chocolate and more into running around on that scary choc-high kids get) the front of my easter-dress splattered with crumbs of chocolate and yellow rubbery cheese, my mouth covered in the same, my finger-tips brown from licking and re-licking, my plate surrounded by wrappers and the tough skin off the cheese, and I also realised that my stomach had fallen out of its normal shape and taken on the shape of a large easter-egg. And that in fact my eyes had started to spin in opposite directions.
And that in fact I was now feeling a bit less holy and a bit revolting and totally. in fact. sick.
So. I put down that last bit of chocolate (the really good thick bits you find at the base of the egg...).
And went for a long walk and wondered if I would make it through the year without suffering cardiac problems or just drowning in my own chocolate/cheese vomit later on that night.
Well, I didn't drown. Here I am. Writing about my stomach and over indulgent behaviour. But dare I say it, I'm quite looking forward to the next round of Lent because there is something rather fantastic about abstaining from something that 'one' really loves. And the gigantic hit I had from my first bites of chocolate & cheese on Easter day. Really. Super. Duper.
However, my skin is now all covered in zits.
Now that's not quite so tasty.
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