I first assumed the Meeks were home educators (outdoor education wing, survivalist tendencies, possibly militant Jesus set, because who else is going to build the shelters come judgement day?) but then I found out they were safely in the bosom of normality, so unlike several thousand alternative educators living off-grid or dragging the kids round the Atlantic, their activities can be happily endorsed by the Daily Mail.
Their list got us started early anyway, planning the happy family goals for 2014.
We can ignore Tiger's, because they all include horses, and I can feel my hives starting up badly.
Shark pips up that we all should have a go at weaselling, and next time not in daddy's office. Then she says 2014 has to be the year for whale watching or else. Apparently I promised it for 2009 and what happened then?
I say I rather fancy glamping. Or a stay in a yurt. I will not put on the list the 2013 triumphs, like being carted off to A&E in the back of an ambulance, receiving yet another Notice of Prosecution, or having the hamster die. (Or was that 2012?)
I will put onto the family list a visit to Spurn Head at Hull, some Peak District rock scrambling, an ill-advised watery pursuit, and yet another bash at hearing the nightingale sing in a wood in the dark. Bastards.
Apparently I am not allowed to add goals like Teach Yourself Maths to GCSE Level. That, according to Squirrel, can only remain the stuff of hopeless aspiration.
Showing posts with label No/Achievement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label No/Achievement. Show all posts
Saturday, 23 November 2013
Thursday, 18 July 2013
A right time for everything
Had a to-do list as long as both arms of a long-armed gibbon.
Crushed by my own ennui, I accomplished not one item from the list, all day long. Even though some items are urgent and I have had plenty, plenty of time.
Instead! I made a notebook inspired by 1920s jazz.
Small compensation, but I shall call it achievement.
Crushed by my own ennui, I accomplished not one item from the list, all day long. Even though some items are urgent and I have had plenty, plenty of time.
Instead! I made a notebook inspired by 1920s jazz.
Small compensation, but I shall call it achievement.
Monday, 3 December 2012
The little things of life
It's been a busy old few days.
I have barely had time to thrash the little grits onwards towards their autonomously-inspired educational achievements, let alone shackle them to the radiators.
But I had better note here the minor happenings which have passed while I have been a-busy, creating my delicious lovely things to catch your unguarded soul.
After all, you never know how things turn out. Any of the following minor events may be significant for the future.
1. Fish death.
It was sad. There was mourning. With a coffin.
The gas meter man arrived during the grieving process. The wailing had just reached a new height of emotion. I had to explain it, obviously, in case he thought I was up to something with child and manacle. I said there had been a pet death. He looked awfully sad and consoling, then I said it was a fish, not a cocker spaniel. He burst out laughing. Me, I would not dare do that. Thankfully, I shared a conspiratorial snigger with him by the gas meter.
2. Ceiling collapse.
Dig's office. An issue of not if, but when.
For many gloomy rainy seasons I have shuffled the buckets around the kitchen floor. Do not ask why a hole in the office roof has not been mended. Life is complicated. Anyway, the ceiling finally caved in, brought down, presumably, with August's rain, which we have stored there in the plaster and insulation. Well, I have abandoned the ceiling on the kitchen floor as a punishment. I will now source a new bucket, in extra-large.
3. Car crumpling.
I emerge at 9am one morning to drive the car dangerously round corners as normal, and I see someone has beaten me to the crumple point. One side of the car is totally bashed in. I suspect this is a result of the hard economic times we live in; more particularly, the man who runs the car shop down the road, trying to bring about my state of mind when I think it is worth trading in our old beat-up van for a nice new shiny van.
I can tell him now, it isn't going to work, driving your white van at speed towards my sides and rear at 2am. I am on my uppers thanks to filling the van up with fuel the other day.
4. The back door lock.
It keeps dropping off. The wilful disobedience of the thing is driving me insane. I hate the lock. It is telling me the awful truth that I need someone about the house who can do stuff. This is a profound confession, and I give it in a moment of weakness, the lock just having dropped off again, even though I have shouted, several times over, DO NOT DROP OFF.
Yes, I bought the book 100 Things You Don't Need a Man For, which hand-holds me from dripping-tap-mending to wobbly-door-hanging. No matter how helpful the text, I know it is all doomed. The state of my DIY skills are about as useful as a crippled poodle. I can just about wield a hammer, regardless of the task, but in all truth I am weary of taps and doors and locks dropping off. I want someone to sort it all.
On the bright side! I have half-mended the kitchen scales!
But I now look back and see that so many events have occurred! Any could, in the future, be significant. How is one to know? How can you pluck from a million events the single moment which will form more weightily in a life than all the rest?
Now I have come over all Proust, with echoes of crunch, memory of buttered toast, and wonder at significant insignificance. Soon I will be rearranging Squirrel's gravel collection, and marvelling at it all.
I have barely had time to thrash the little grits onwards towards their autonomously-inspired educational achievements, let alone shackle them to the radiators.
But I had better note here the minor happenings which have passed while I have been a-busy, creating my delicious lovely things to catch your unguarded soul.
After all, you never know how things turn out. Any of the following minor events may be significant for the future.
1. Fish death.
It was sad. There was mourning. With a coffin.
The gas meter man arrived during the grieving process. The wailing had just reached a new height of emotion. I had to explain it, obviously, in case he thought I was up to something with child and manacle. I said there had been a pet death. He looked awfully sad and consoling, then I said it was a fish, not a cocker spaniel. He burst out laughing. Me, I would not dare do that. Thankfully, I shared a conspiratorial snigger with him by the gas meter.
2. Ceiling collapse.
Dig's office. An issue of not if, but when.
For many gloomy rainy seasons I have shuffled the buckets around the kitchen floor. Do not ask why a hole in the office roof has not been mended. Life is complicated. Anyway, the ceiling finally caved in, brought down, presumably, with August's rain, which we have stored there in the plaster and insulation. Well, I have abandoned the ceiling on the kitchen floor as a punishment. I will now source a new bucket, in extra-large.
3. Car crumpling.
I emerge at 9am one morning to drive the car dangerously round corners as normal, and I see someone has beaten me to the crumple point. One side of the car is totally bashed in. I suspect this is a result of the hard economic times we live in; more particularly, the man who runs the car shop down the road, trying to bring about my state of mind when I think it is worth trading in our old beat-up van for a nice new shiny van.
I can tell him now, it isn't going to work, driving your white van at speed towards my sides and rear at 2am. I am on my uppers thanks to filling the van up with fuel the other day.
4. The back door lock.
It keeps dropping off. The wilful disobedience of the thing is driving me insane. I hate the lock. It is telling me the awful truth that I need someone about the house who can do stuff. This is a profound confession, and I give it in a moment of weakness, the lock just having dropped off again, even though I have shouted, several times over, DO NOT DROP OFF.
Yes, I bought the book 100 Things You Don't Need a Man For, which hand-holds me from dripping-tap-mending to wobbly-door-hanging. No matter how helpful the text, I know it is all doomed. The state of my DIY skills are about as useful as a crippled poodle. I can just about wield a hammer, regardless of the task, but in all truth I am weary of taps and doors and locks dropping off. I want someone to sort it all.
On the bright side! I have half-mended the kitchen scales!
But I now look back and see that so many events have occurred! Any could, in the future, be significant. How is one to know? How can you pluck from a million events the single moment which will form more weightily in a life than all the rest?
Now I have come over all Proust, with echoes of crunch, memory of buttered toast, and wonder at significant insignificance. Soon I will be rearranging Squirrel's gravel collection, and marvelling at it all.
Friday, 23 November 2012
I know it's not rational
Men, I suggest you do not read this post. Achieve a goal more useful, like make a cup of tea, and cherish your beloved.
Today I had the routine once-every-five years smear for cervical cancer. The second smear this year, note, because the earlier attempt two months ago produced no cells for examination.
Really? Well, I can tell you why it didn't. The same reason I expect this attempt with the dreaded speculum also to fail.
Because, strangely, when I am flat on my back on a medical couch vulnerably exposing my doodah to a Chinese woman with a focused stare, watching in growing horror and fear as she draws back her arm to skewer me with something that resembles a bicycle pump, terror kicks in. My body reacts in a completely involuntary, uncontrollable manner. This always takes both of us by surprise.
Personally, I think my body has examined the options. As far as it can see, they are:
a) suffer being stabbed up the doodah with a bicycle pump
b) punch Chinese Lil in the face and record-break the three-minute mile
c) confuse the enemy, by levitating.
Obviously, it is option (c). My body has worked out that by jumping to a height one metre above the couch with the speed of a cricket, this unexpected manoeuvre will confound the enemy, secure its safety and thwart the evil attempt to stab it in the doodah with a bicycle pump.
Unfortunately for my body, the limbs and torso have not yet learned how to jump like a cricket. This is where it cunningly employs the hands. The left hand attempts to scale the wall while the right hand grabs at the modesty curtain to lever the whole being up and off the couch.
I think my hands do very well, considering the people who make walls forgot to put in handles. My left hand, for example, does a sort of flat-palming technique half a metre up, which works fine and is a good start for elevation purposes. The right hand does not fare as well, sadly, because a thin modesty fabric curtain is obviously not as rigid or secure as a wall. The scrabbling right hand can therefore have the entire screen tipped over on the floor in seconds; curtain, hooks, metal rods, the lot, crashing about the feet of the confused Chinese Lil.
The worst isn't over, because once the body attempts the levitation, I have started screaming. I have tried to stop this panic reaction, and simply can't, unless it is to suppress this sound into a sort of gulping sobbing noise punctuated by shouting GET AWAY FROM ME I MAY PUNCH YOU. It is not very dignified, it is true, but at least I can be relieved that there is only the final act to go before the horrible scene is complete and I can crawl home in ignominy.
The combined forces of the failed levitation attempt, the falling modesty screen, and the fight-or-flight reaction invariably tips me over, unbalanced, off the couch, sending me lurching towards the floor. Given that my legs are at ninety degrees to the rest of me, it is understandable that I have zero stability and no point of balance to help right me in the fall. I am not a cat, after all! Thus one leg swings wildly round to locate a floor while Chinese Lil steps back to avoid my foot in her ear, simultaneously tripping backwards over the fallen screen. Give it one misplaced footstep now and we will both be sprawled on the floor in the wreckage, wishing I had cancelled like last time.
I can find nothing, absolutely nothing, to say about the whole experience which suggests it is a good one. In previous years the only way I have found to control the involuntary terror is by drinking a triple whiskey beforehand. I do not emerge well, and Chinese Lil is now completely terrified of me.
To her credit, in the hour-long appointment I take for this two-minute procedure, she attempts to calm me by reason (fail), with humour (fail), by showing me the speculum which she confusingly labels 'virgin size' (fail), telling me the techniques of others (fail, you are insane), suggesting a variety of pain-lessening positions to do with buttocks and hands (fail), asking me to use deep-breathing exercises (fail), giving me a badge which reads I have been brave at the doctor's today (fail), and suggesting, as a last resort, that in five years from now I don't take up the offer of the smear on the basis that I am probably low risk for cervical cancer and frankly it is doing more damage to her nerves than the good it is doing for my medical reassurance.
Today I had the routine once-every-five years smear for cervical cancer. The second smear this year, note, because the earlier attempt two months ago produced no cells for examination.
Really? Well, I can tell you why it didn't. The same reason I expect this attempt with the dreaded speculum also to fail.
Because, strangely, when I am flat on my back on a medical couch vulnerably exposing my doodah to a Chinese woman with a focused stare, watching in growing horror and fear as she draws back her arm to skewer me with something that resembles a bicycle pump, terror kicks in. My body reacts in a completely involuntary, uncontrollable manner. This always takes both of us by surprise.
Personally, I think my body has examined the options. As far as it can see, they are:
a) suffer being stabbed up the doodah with a bicycle pump
b) punch Chinese Lil in the face and record-break the three-minute mile
c) confuse the enemy, by levitating.
Obviously, it is option (c). My body has worked out that by jumping to a height one metre above the couch with the speed of a cricket, this unexpected manoeuvre will confound the enemy, secure its safety and thwart the evil attempt to stab it in the doodah with a bicycle pump.
Unfortunately for my body, the limbs and torso have not yet learned how to jump like a cricket. This is where it cunningly employs the hands. The left hand attempts to scale the wall while the right hand grabs at the modesty curtain to lever the whole being up and off the couch.
I think my hands do very well, considering the people who make walls forgot to put in handles. My left hand, for example, does a sort of flat-palming technique half a metre up, which works fine and is a good start for elevation purposes. The right hand does not fare as well, sadly, because a thin modesty fabric curtain is obviously not as rigid or secure as a wall. The scrabbling right hand can therefore have the entire screen tipped over on the floor in seconds; curtain, hooks, metal rods, the lot, crashing about the feet of the confused Chinese Lil.
The worst isn't over, because once the body attempts the levitation, I have started screaming. I have tried to stop this panic reaction, and simply can't, unless it is to suppress this sound into a sort of gulping sobbing noise punctuated by shouting GET AWAY FROM ME I MAY PUNCH YOU. It is not very dignified, it is true, but at least I can be relieved that there is only the final act to go before the horrible scene is complete and I can crawl home in ignominy.
The combined forces of the failed levitation attempt, the falling modesty screen, and the fight-or-flight reaction invariably tips me over, unbalanced, off the couch, sending me lurching towards the floor. Given that my legs are at ninety degrees to the rest of me, it is understandable that I have zero stability and no point of balance to help right me in the fall. I am not a cat, after all! Thus one leg swings wildly round to locate a floor while Chinese Lil steps back to avoid my foot in her ear, simultaneously tripping backwards over the fallen screen. Give it one misplaced footstep now and we will both be sprawled on the floor in the wreckage, wishing I had cancelled like last time.
I can find nothing, absolutely nothing, to say about the whole experience which suggests it is a good one. In previous years the only way I have found to control the involuntary terror is by drinking a triple whiskey beforehand. I do not emerge well, and Chinese Lil is now completely terrified of me.
To her credit, in the hour-long appointment I take for this two-minute procedure, she attempts to calm me by reason (fail), with humour (fail), by showing me the speculum which she confusingly labels 'virgin size' (fail), telling me the techniques of others (fail, you are insane), suggesting a variety of pain-lessening positions to do with buttocks and hands (fail), asking me to use deep-breathing exercises (fail), giving me a badge which reads I have been brave at the doctor's today (fail), and suggesting, as a last resort, that in five years from now I don't take up the offer of the smear on the basis that I am probably low risk for cervical cancer and frankly it is doing more damage to her nerves than the good it is doing for my medical reassurance.
Friday, 23 March 2012
There are worse futures
Good grief, with the kids out of action or in various states of recuperation, I have ticked twenty items on the to do list!
MOT, Bank, Eon, Hair, Dentist and collecting the hamster! So this is why parents send their kids to school! Now I get it! Maybe the free childcare 8-4 is not such a bad idea, eh?
But I have not much of interest to report, either, so you can see what drives this blog.
When, in a few years, the home education is all done, and I have stood the offspring close to the nest edge to give them each a shove, I shall probably close the blog down and stay at home. I will make saucy notebooks for the WI, cuddle my tiny toy fox terrier, and watch classic reruns of Inspector Morse.
MOT, Bank, Eon, Hair, Dentist and collecting the hamster! So this is why parents send their kids to school! Now I get it! Maybe the free childcare 8-4 is not such a bad idea, eh?
But I have not much of interest to report, either, so you can see what drives this blog.
When, in a few years, the home education is all done, and I have stood the offspring close to the nest edge to give them each a shove, I shall probably close the blog down and stay at home. I will make saucy notebooks for the WI, cuddle my tiny toy fox terrier, and watch classic reruns of Inspector Morse.
Monday, 12 March 2012
The date that wasn't
This blogpost should have been Grit's report of her date.
Yes! A date!
Not with a handsome gentleman, obviously. They all escape kicking and screaming when they clap eyes on me, running at them with my arms outstretched.
No, my date was even better than with a Ryan Gosling look-a-like. This date was with the splendid ladies of my exclusive Hong Kong club: The Homeschool Moms.
Well, the date was to be this: supper at the Foreign Correspondents' Club, then drinks to end the evening at the China Club.
Yup. This is the sort of swanky life Grit could lead.
If only daughter Squirrel had not vomited ONE HOUR before departure time, then sank to her bed and passed out.
I do the only thing a dutiful mama can do. Cancel my attendance at my own farewell party, and play nurse.
With a sigh, I put the event down in my book of life, Unfinished Business.
Then I can imagine a return at some point to complete the work of departing a place in style, instead of my usual. In haste, indignity, and covered with sick.
Yes! A date!
Not with a handsome gentleman, obviously. They all escape kicking and screaming when they clap eyes on me, running at them with my arms outstretched.
No, my date was even better than with a Ryan Gosling look-a-like. This date was with the splendid ladies of my exclusive Hong Kong club: The Homeschool Moms.
Well, the date was to be this: supper at the Foreign Correspondents' Club, then drinks to end the evening at the China Club.
Yup. This is the sort of swanky life Grit could lead.
If only daughter Squirrel had not vomited ONE HOUR before departure time, then sank to her bed and passed out.
I do the only thing a dutiful mama can do. Cancel my attendance at my own farewell party, and play nurse.
With a sigh, I put the event down in my book of life, Unfinished Business.
Then I can imagine a return at some point to complete the work of departing a place in style, instead of my usual. In haste, indignity, and covered with sick.
Saturday, 18 February 2012
The gap
I wake up all peaceful as normal, tra-la-la, am sipping coffee as normal, humdy-dum, then suddenly I have the most shocking experience of the last twelve months (not sex).
The moment when I realise it. We are leaving Hong Kong. No, I mean, really leaving Hong Kong. Packing-objects-into-boxes. Deciding, item by item, what is important and what is not; what is worth the journey and what can stay in the landfill. That type of leaving.
With the sudden shock that is the gap between intellectually looking at monthly planning sheets a long way away, and the horrible dawning that the clothes are in the laundry, the books lie open, the cupboards are filled, nothing is sorted, and we're gone in just one month.
And we means me, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger.
There ensues an uncomfortable conversation. Along with this knowledge, how our time is up, how packing is a priority, how I do that alone, how I manage three children leaving Hong Kong, comes the reality that I knew all along, how Dig must keep to an entirely different schedule.
While me and the children unpack our things in England, Dig must return to his old ways of globe wandering. He will stay a while in Hong Kong, visit Brazil, pop back to Blighty, then jump back out to Asia. Colombia, he is yet considering.
I tell myself I can deal with this way of living, because I have done so before. I have a script for it. It is not called packing up, changing places, or living apart. It is called staying on, earning a wage, and supporting a family.
The moment when I realise it. We are leaving Hong Kong. No, I mean, really leaving Hong Kong. Packing-objects-into-boxes. Deciding, item by item, what is important and what is not; what is worth the journey and what can stay in the landfill. That type of leaving.
With the sudden shock that is the gap between intellectually looking at monthly planning sheets a long way away, and the horrible dawning that the clothes are in the laundry, the books lie open, the cupboards are filled, nothing is sorted, and we're gone in just one month.
And we means me, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger.
There ensues an uncomfortable conversation. Along with this knowledge, how our time is up, how packing is a priority, how I do that alone, how I manage three children leaving Hong Kong, comes the reality that I knew all along, how Dig must keep to an entirely different schedule.
While me and the children unpack our things in England, Dig must return to his old ways of globe wandering. He will stay a while in Hong Kong, visit Brazil, pop back to Blighty, then jump back out to Asia. Colombia, he is yet considering.
I tell myself I can deal with this way of living, because I have done so before. I have a script for it. It is not called packing up, changing places, or living apart. It is called staying on, earning a wage, and supporting a family.
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Nope.
We're not going anywhere today. Nowhere at all. We stay put. I shall not clear away the piles of trash, not complete basic projects, not attend to all matters relating to personal hygiene, and not achieve anything, by way of um, anything.
I'm not expecting much of the children, either, except the usual breathing, eating, sleeping.
I don't excuse myself. It is down time. It is very positive. It is what we home educators can declare an amount of, when we like.
Out of doing not much, except footling about, staring out of the window, gazing and wondering, will come bright and shiny things. You see if it doesn't.
I'm not expecting much of the children, either, except the usual breathing, eating, sleeping.
I don't excuse myself. It is down time. It is very positive. It is what we home educators can declare an amount of, when we like.
Out of doing not much, except footling about, staring out of the window, gazing and wondering, will come bright and shiny things. You see if it doesn't.
Monday, 13 February 2012
Tidy up day
Isn't this how visitors impact your house?
Trash. Everywhere.
I don't know about you, but no clearing up is done while there are visitors. None at all. Only an emergency sweep of one forearm across half the sofa, sweeping away kid trash. The esteemed guest can then park their backside for five minutes and drain a cup of coffee, before being marched out the house to express eternal wonder at the tourist facilities. In our case, a Hong Kong street vendor squatting by a pile of Chinese cabbage. Whatever. Visitors = I stare at our three-week routine of dump stuff and run. Dump more stuff, and run. Dump and run. Dump and run.
But now the visitor has gone!
I start the day with vigor and enthusiasm. Today! Things will be done!
I survey the landscape of this Grit household. Folded mountains of pamphlets, leaflets and newspapers appearing inexplicably overnight, lakes of plastic food-wrap swirling by the front door, never draining to the ocean of the recycling bin, and forests of clothing which have grown in heaps, I note mainly at foot of stairs and mostly composted from Squirrel's gear.
I declare proudly, it is tidy up day!
Shark tuts, Squirrel puts her hands over her ears, and Tiger is downright rude. I am just glad she doesn't yet know the four-letter word.
I am undaunted.
I say to Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, pick up your precious stuff. Now. The typhoon of the vacuum cleaner is due imminently.
You can guess the kid response. Clutch hair, gasp, scream, bear expression of terror, adopt body contortions of torture victims straight off a violation of human rights card. I ignore them all. I am used to it.
Children, it may come to pass that my enthusiasm will end in an earthquake of fury at a blocked vacuum hose within about 15 minutes. And yes, when I reach exhaustion, one black eye thanks to a broom pole and one collapsed lung courtesy of Cif fumes, I may grab hold of anything left over, including the kitchen cat if we had one, and shovel it into plastic sacks to dump it by the bins, BUT.
I must go through with it.
En route I simply note Law of Kids + Tidying up: it is easier for any kid to spend three hours in emotional suffering, beating themselves senseless and rending their clothing, than it is to spend three seconds picking up a half-finished unicorn moulded from bottle-tops.
It is time. I merely go to find the vacuum cleaner in a stately, majestic sort of way. Like a sailing ship in full wind across the Pacific/front room floor, stepping over writhing kids, sure of my course, and steady as I go.
Only I can't find the vacuum cleaner.
Where is it? It is not in the office. It is not in the toilet (now disused thanks to the landlord cutting off the water supply). It is not behind the curtain.
The vacuum cleaner isn't anywhere!
Which leads to the following conversation with the beloved, which I hope you do not have in your household on tidy up day.
Grit: Have you seen the vacuum cleaner?
Dig: What?
Grit: Have you seen the vacuum cleaner?
Dig: What?
[repeat this for about five minutes]
Dig: The one with the brushes?
Grit: What?
Dig: Has it got brushes?
Grit: We've only got one vacuum cleaner. Does it have brushes?
Dig: I don't know.
Grit: I want the vacuum cleaner.
Dig: Where is it?
Reader, I shall draw tidy up day to a conclusion now.
If you have reached this point and found it a profound disappointment, be reassured. So did I.
And if you find the vacuum cleaner, please let me know where the f***ing thing is.
Trash. Everywhere.
I don't know about you, but no clearing up is done while there are visitors. None at all. Only an emergency sweep of one forearm across half the sofa, sweeping away kid trash. The esteemed guest can then park their backside for five minutes and drain a cup of coffee, before being marched out the house to express eternal wonder at the tourist facilities. In our case, a Hong Kong street vendor squatting by a pile of Chinese cabbage. Whatever. Visitors = I stare at our three-week routine of dump stuff and run. Dump more stuff, and run. Dump and run. Dump and run.
But now the visitor has gone!
I start the day with vigor and enthusiasm. Today! Things will be done!
I survey the landscape of this Grit household. Folded mountains of pamphlets, leaflets and newspapers appearing inexplicably overnight, lakes of plastic food-wrap swirling by the front door, never draining to the ocean of the recycling bin, and forests of clothing which have grown in heaps, I note mainly at foot of stairs and mostly composted from Squirrel's gear.
I declare proudly, it is tidy up day!
Shark tuts, Squirrel puts her hands over her ears, and Tiger is downright rude. I am just glad she doesn't yet know the four-letter word.
I am undaunted.
I say to Shark, Tiger and Squirrel, pick up your precious stuff. Now. The typhoon of the vacuum cleaner is due imminently.
You can guess the kid response. Clutch hair, gasp, scream, bear expression of terror, adopt body contortions of torture victims straight off a violation of human rights card. I ignore them all. I am used to it.
Children, it may come to pass that my enthusiasm will end in an earthquake of fury at a blocked vacuum hose within about 15 minutes. And yes, when I reach exhaustion, one black eye thanks to a broom pole and one collapsed lung courtesy of Cif fumes, I may grab hold of anything left over, including the kitchen cat if we had one, and shovel it into plastic sacks to dump it by the bins, BUT.
I must go through with it.
En route I simply note Law of Kids + Tidying up: it is easier for any kid to spend three hours in emotional suffering, beating themselves senseless and rending their clothing, than it is to spend three seconds picking up a half-finished unicorn moulded from bottle-tops.
It is time. I merely go to find the vacuum cleaner in a stately, majestic sort of way. Like a sailing ship in full wind across the Pacific/front room floor, stepping over writhing kids, sure of my course, and steady as I go.
Only I can't find the vacuum cleaner.
Where is it? It is not in the office. It is not in the toilet (now disused thanks to the landlord cutting off the water supply). It is not behind the curtain.
The vacuum cleaner isn't anywhere!
Which leads to the following conversation with the beloved, which I hope you do not have in your household on tidy up day.
Grit: Have you seen the vacuum cleaner?
Dig: What?
Grit: Have you seen the vacuum cleaner?
Dig: What?
[repeat this for about five minutes]
Dig: The one with the brushes?
Grit: What?
Dig: Has it got brushes?
Grit: We've only got one vacuum cleaner. Does it have brushes?
Dig: I don't know.
Grit: I want the vacuum cleaner.
Dig: Where is it?
Reader, I shall draw tidy up day to a conclusion now.
If you have reached this point and found it a profound disappointment, be reassured. So did I.
And if you find the vacuum cleaner, please let me know where the f***ing thing is.
Saturday, 22 October 2011
Splendid work
A day of achievement, thanks to the following.
1. Keeping a low profile after joining last night's Expat Woman Divorced & Separated Drinking Group.
Really they are not called that, and I take it back immediately in case I'm due a punch in the mouth next time I'm standing on Main Street buying my island bananas.
I cannot drink like them, that's for sure. And, after hearing the story of how one of them picked a fight with two nuns, I warn you, these are not women to be messed with. They have not cultivated that weedy Passive/Aggressive nonsense like you have to do when you're married; they're more direct action, deliberate vengeance, knock-out-your-two-front-teeth types. I like them. And I hope none of them checks out this blog.
(If you are wondering where I stowed Shark, Squirrel and Tiger on Grit's boozy night out, they stayed out of it and tortured some hapless teenager with a Harry Potter quiz.)
2. Sipping fresh coconut juice to restore my electrolyte balance.
Thanks to last night, I eschew Coke Zero and Blue Girl lager for the healthy rebalancing formula of sodium, potassium and chloride made fresh from the coconut tree.
You can buy these green beauties for HK$13 outside the island 'supermarket'.
('Supermarket' my eye. They are a lock-up shed with a trolley. The only item I have ever seen in the trolley is the family's two-year old.)
Anyway, the electrolytes. All my being must be turned to educational advantage bringing benefit to the next generation. Thus, in the course of researching potassium in electrolytes on the internet to serve as a example of normal functioning liver, I became accidentally diverted by titanium hip joints. I made the children watch instructional videos about having metal rods inserted through your abdomen.
3. Asking 'When are you coming back?'
Mostly to Squirrel who excused herself from the age-inappropriate Anatomy and Physiology lesson on the grounds that she had a sleepover to arrange with her island friend.
I waved her off, this afternoon, gone until tomorrow. I now think she must be someone else's child, because the family she's going to live with tonight keep a dog - a bushy monobrowed hairy thing, but with a strangely winning smile. Delightfully, she is not afraid of it, much. Apparently it only bites children who are very irritating and under one meter tall.
4. Saying 'That's amazing!'
To Shark, who removed my empty coconut shell to paint it orange and stab holes in it with her penknife.
(Yes, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger all carry knives. That is because we can be trusted with knives. Unlike in England. There a kid with a knife is assumed to be a social horror, a deviant and a murderer out to take vengeance on their classmates. Rather than a child who wants to master correct handling of traditional tools and how to whittle wood.)
Shark has made a face in the coconut shell; this is sensible, because soon it is Hallowe'en. We need to experiment with carving up any rounded foodstuffs in lieu of pumpkins. I can buy those, but at too high a price to supply the experimental crafting needs of three enthusiastic children.
5. Congratulating everyone on not smashing up the house.
After the emotional exhaustion of yesterday, Tiger in particular has returned to her lovely semi-neurotic state. She is an oasis of calm.
Well, more precisely, a simmering lake of burning resentment. Daddy Dig on his travels is touching her precious English soil. Nevertheless, this Hong Kong house is now semi-restored to a condition that looks like it was only burgled, rather than the scene of a brutal crime involving a stuffed dragon.
So I consider the day a fine achievement! Education, socialisation, and a restored electrolyte balance. Satisfying.
1. Keeping a low profile after joining last night's Expat Woman Divorced & Separated Drinking Group.
Really they are not called that, and I take it back immediately in case I'm due a punch in the mouth next time I'm standing on Main Street buying my island bananas.
I cannot drink like them, that's for sure. And, after hearing the story of how one of them picked a fight with two nuns, I warn you, these are not women to be messed with. They have not cultivated that weedy Passive/Aggressive nonsense like you have to do when you're married; they're more direct action, deliberate vengeance, knock-out-your-two-front-teeth types. I like them. And I hope none of them checks out this blog.
(If you are wondering where I stowed Shark, Squirrel and Tiger on Grit's boozy night out, they stayed out of it and tortured some hapless teenager with a Harry Potter quiz.)
2. Sipping fresh coconut juice to restore my electrolyte balance.
Thanks to last night, I eschew Coke Zero and Blue Girl lager for the healthy rebalancing formula of sodium, potassium and chloride made fresh from the coconut tree.
You can buy these green beauties for HK$13 outside the island 'supermarket'.
('Supermarket' my eye. They are a lock-up shed with a trolley. The only item I have ever seen in the trolley is the family's two-year old.)
Anyway, the electrolytes. All my being must be turned to educational advantage bringing benefit to the next generation. Thus, in the course of researching potassium in electrolytes on the internet to serve as a example of normal functioning liver, I became accidentally diverted by titanium hip joints. I made the children watch instructional videos about having metal rods inserted through your abdomen.
3. Asking 'When are you coming back?'
Mostly to Squirrel who excused herself from the age-inappropriate Anatomy and Physiology lesson on the grounds that she had a sleepover to arrange with her island friend.
I waved her off, this afternoon, gone until tomorrow. I now think she must be someone else's child, because the family she's going to live with tonight keep a dog - a bushy monobrowed hairy thing, but with a strangely winning smile. Delightfully, she is not afraid of it, much. Apparently it only bites children who are very irritating and under one meter tall.
4. Saying 'That's amazing!'
To Shark, who removed my empty coconut shell to paint it orange and stab holes in it with her penknife.
(Yes, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger all carry knives. That is because we can be trusted with knives. Unlike in England. There a kid with a knife is assumed to be a social horror, a deviant and a murderer out to take vengeance on their classmates. Rather than a child who wants to master correct handling of traditional tools and how to whittle wood.)
Shark has made a face in the coconut shell; this is sensible, because soon it is Hallowe'en. We need to experiment with carving up any rounded foodstuffs in lieu of pumpkins. I can buy those, but at too high a price to supply the experimental crafting needs of three enthusiastic children.
5. Congratulating everyone on not smashing up the house.
After the emotional exhaustion of yesterday, Tiger in particular has returned to her lovely semi-neurotic state. She is an oasis of calm.
Well, more precisely, a simmering lake of burning resentment. Daddy Dig on his travels is touching her precious English soil. Nevertheless, this Hong Kong house is now semi-restored to a condition that looks like it was only burgled, rather than the scene of a brutal crime involving a stuffed dragon.
So I consider the day a fine achievement! Education, socialisation, and a restored electrolyte balance. Satisfying.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Promises much, delivers little
Thanks to my role in the new home educational regime (which you can be sure I will be quickly amending, or go berserk), I have now sat for a further 8 hours with a numb arse and an intractable problem involving a straw.
However, since I have been thinking of more conventional schooling matters, I show you this.
Grit's school report.
So long as you show me something of yours. In the comments box, please, and not waved in my face via Skype, as I read some members of the teaching profession are now driven to do.
English
Never fails to set high expectations. From which point we can all be consistently underwhelmed. Grade D.
Maths
Terrible. Is unable to handle rudimentary calculations. Is unlikely to become a functioning member of society. Can only hope to marry money. Grade U.
Biology
Fair. In the past year, has conducted intensive studies of moths, ants, cockroaches and millipedes. However, must learn that correct scientific study excludes spraying subjects with DDT, or hitting them with hammers while screaming DIE DIE DIE. Grade D.
Physics
Has enthusiasm, but demonstrates no understanding whatsoever. Continues to insist that electricity is brought by invisible unicorns in their magic horns. Cannot be entered for further examination in this subject. Grade U.
Chemistry
Over-confident. Shows no ability to hypothesise or even plan basic experiments safely. The laboratory table has still not recovered from the acid. Grade U.
Languages
Extremely poor. Seems to think buying a takeaway pizza is a substitute for Latin. Grade U.
Geography
Shows engagement with field studies yet demonstrates spasms of silly behaviour, limited spatial awareness, and terrible sense of direction. Constantly asking for GPS support even in rudimentary conditions. Needs full-time supervision. Grade D.
History
Belligerent. Frequently picks fights with seniors and teaching staff. Refuses to accept authority. Must realise that over-confidence in this area will gain few admirers. Grade E.
Music
Dangerous near all musical instruments thanks to profound lack of talent crossed with enthusiasm to discover 'what it does'. Listening skills also poor. They must improve beyond 1989 and Frazier Chorus. Grade U.
Dance
The worst-performing pupil in the history of humanity with no redeeming features whatsoever. The dance mistress has now removed the iPod after legal advice on matters of Public Safety. Grade Zero.
Domestic Science
Sloppy. Needs to understand that an ingredient range can be greater than two onions and a tin of tomatoes. This term, have had to confiscate cooking sherry and gin. Grade F.
Art
Too fond of playing the fool. Must stop inciting fellow classmates to commit dangerous and criminal acts with paint. Otherwise, drew a fair picture of a wombat. Grade D.
Citizenship
Tries hard in English conduct skills. Making progress in awkward silences, apologising, exhibiting embarrassing behaviour. Employing techniques of scowling and shouting at foreigners to good practical effect. Random acts of violence are improving although need better focus. Grade D.
Physical Education
Suspension given as a result of sulky, uncooperative behaviour. Hiding the basket ball then lying about its whereabouts fails to grasp the essentials of sporting play. Clearly not a team player. Grade U.
Socialisation
Far too easily led by others into regrettable company and ill advised acts. Lacking in charm, modesty, restraint. Bottoms are not that funny. And telling Ms Whittleberg to Bugger Off and Take The Pussy With Her has been a low point. Grade U.
Progress
We are sad to report that extremely little progress has been made this term and we are unlikely to be seeing a scholar in the making.
However, this lack of achievement or ambition has, on occasions, been tempered by the maintenance of a cheerful disposition. We suggest focusing on this quality as a means to offset the character problems which remain deep-rooted.
Despite every indication to the contrary, we hope for better next term, and request that the outstanding invoice for repairs to the bathroom door is settled in full, immediately.
However, since I have been thinking of more conventional schooling matters, I show you this.
Grit's school report.
So long as you show me something of yours. In the comments box, please, and not waved in my face via Skype, as I read some members of the teaching profession are now driven to do.
English
Never fails to set high expectations. From which point we can all be consistently underwhelmed. Grade D.
Maths
Terrible. Is unable to handle rudimentary calculations. Is unlikely to become a functioning member of society. Can only hope to marry money. Grade U.
Biology
Fair. In the past year, has conducted intensive studies of moths, ants, cockroaches and millipedes. However, must learn that correct scientific study excludes spraying subjects with DDT, or hitting them with hammers while screaming DIE DIE DIE. Grade D.
Physics
Has enthusiasm, but demonstrates no understanding whatsoever. Continues to insist that electricity is brought by invisible unicorns in their magic horns. Cannot be entered for further examination in this subject. Grade U.
Chemistry
Over-confident. Shows no ability to hypothesise or even plan basic experiments safely. The laboratory table has still not recovered from the acid. Grade U.
Languages
Extremely poor. Seems to think buying a takeaway pizza is a substitute for Latin. Grade U.
Geography
Shows engagement with field studies yet demonstrates spasms of silly behaviour, limited spatial awareness, and terrible sense of direction. Constantly asking for GPS support even in rudimentary conditions. Needs full-time supervision. Grade D.
History
Belligerent. Frequently picks fights with seniors and teaching staff. Refuses to accept authority. Must realise that over-confidence in this area will gain few admirers. Grade E.
Music
Dangerous near all musical instruments thanks to profound lack of talent crossed with enthusiasm to discover 'what it does'. Listening skills also poor. They must improve beyond 1989 and Frazier Chorus. Grade U.
Dance
The worst-performing pupil in the history of humanity with no redeeming features whatsoever. The dance mistress has now removed the iPod after legal advice on matters of Public Safety. Grade Zero.
Domestic Science
Sloppy. Needs to understand that an ingredient range can be greater than two onions and a tin of tomatoes. This term, have had to confiscate cooking sherry and gin. Grade F.
Art
Too fond of playing the fool. Must stop inciting fellow classmates to commit dangerous and criminal acts with paint. Otherwise, drew a fair picture of a wombat. Grade D.
Citizenship
Tries hard in English conduct skills. Making progress in awkward silences, apologising, exhibiting embarrassing behaviour. Employing techniques of scowling and shouting at foreigners to good practical effect. Random acts of violence are improving although need better focus. Grade D.
Physical Education
Suspension given as a result of sulky, uncooperative behaviour. Hiding the basket ball then lying about its whereabouts fails to grasp the essentials of sporting play. Clearly not a team player. Grade U.
Socialisation
Far too easily led by others into regrettable company and ill advised acts. Lacking in charm, modesty, restraint. Bottoms are not that funny. And telling Ms Whittleberg to Bugger Off and Take The Pussy With Her has been a low point. Grade U.
Progress
We are sad to report that extremely little progress has been made this term and we are unlikely to be seeing a scholar in the making.
However, this lack of achievement or ambition has, on occasions, been tempered by the maintenance of a cheerful disposition. We suggest focusing on this quality as a means to offset the character problems which remain deep-rooted.
Despite every indication to the contrary, we hope for better next term, and request that the outstanding invoice for repairs to the bathroom door is settled in full, immediately.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Balancing the successes and the failures
I now have so many preparations to make for our too-soon departure to Hong Kong, that I can afford to waste several hours balancing out success vs failure of our few months in England.
(Let us pray when we have done this futile exercise that we reach equilibrium or, better still, are on the up. Otherwise, I fear the worst. In the woods last week my mind could not help but record how the kiddie rope swing had been most effectively mended.)
Success!
(Most in worship of a god called Education; obeisance performed while feeling smug and self-satisfied about the raising of outdoorsy children, who neither see broccoli as the devil's nose pickings nor imagine the most fun thing they can do on a Friday night is to smash up the city centre.)
1. Five outdoor adventure holidays taken by three children in lakes, woods, fields. Not a bad rate. My advice is: hold your nerve till the final hour. Some desperate adventure holiday company always does a half-price or kid bogof offer. (But not so useful if the holiday is located in Ullapool while you live in Eastbourne.)
2. St George's Day. And the Festival of History. And lots of castle. I love English Heritage, I do.
3. The Globe. Passion, satisfaction, delight, surprise, perfection.
4. Seeing Richard III at the Old Vic. I must pause to sigh.
5. Making jam, like good mother.
6. Local museums, all over the place. Hmm. Not as many as I would have liked. Saxmundham was my favourite, thanks to Peter with the keys.
7. Happy hour cantering for Tiger.
8. Spending time in Suffolk. Should I count as a success the fact that Big Bro's partner left the house before our arrival so she does not have to clap eyes on me or my foul brood ever again? I have put it in the Success list, anyhow.
9. Illyria Theatre. I include here all workshops, parks events, home ed activities, RSPB kiddie group etc. I could not possibly list them all as individual successes.
10. Northumberland. (And this time, avoiding being stabbed by Arctic Terns.)
11. Staying married.
12. Buying a small piece of vinyl. (I know it does not seem much, and it was the wrong size, but it was a big thing to me.)
13. Halting the ferocious advance of The Ivy. (The plant, not the restaurant.)
14. Visiting the tip with the contents of the house bundled into anonymous plastic bags. Strangely satisfying.
15. Organising and executing a week's tour of the Jurassic coast. With hamster. Without injury, loss, disfigurement, imprisonment, hospitalisation. (Very great success.)
16. Killing 235 moths.
Fail.
1. Losing the shifty nightingale for which no vengeance is enough. I will trap the little bastard next time, if I have to sit up all night in Bradfield woods to do it.
2. Missing the British Library Science Fiction Exhibition. Don't show me your Martian badge and say in a funny voice while you are pretending to be a Martian, that it was very, very good.
3. Christmas pudding (make it and eat it). Truly, I am sad about this. I really wanted Sarah's Vegan Christmas Pud. And so what if we celebrate Christmas in August?
4. Visiting Dover castle. Big FAIL. Warning: I will make Dover Castle to see the Great Tower by this same time next year, or explode. Fact.
5. Staying over in Nottingham. (Always on the list.) Yes, I know that Nott'm is one of the premier gun cities of England. But we can all laugh together while we watch our innards splattered over the stone lions in the Market Square in a drugs turf war.
You are probably right. A visit here is a misconceived idea. The kids do not want to loll around The Trip before heading off to an evening's mindless criminal damage with a Robin Hood statue, but it was called fun when I grew up.
6. Other sites of visit FAILURE. Cornwall (Squirrel). North Wales (Tiger). Whale-spotting on the west coast (Shark). Salmon watching in Scotland (Shark). Hull, for The Deep (Shark). I harbour a desire for Scilly Isles burial chambers. So basically, everywhere.
7. All school-type work as recognised by most of the population. Handwriting. Spelling. Maths. Etc. Etc. Big Deep Fail with High Probability of Sudden Anxiety Attack at 2am Type of Fail.
8. Admitting to friends, flung about several counties, that we are now in England. Um.
9. Lace making. Long story, slightly embarrassing.
10. Allowing 756 moths to live because they have gone into hiding.
Now, those are the lists that spring to mind, and I have to say, the comparison of success and fail is NOT BAD.
Indeed, I can now say with some confidence that the children may enjoy the rope swing in the woods without first having to cut down mother.
(Let us pray when we have done this futile exercise that we reach equilibrium or, better still, are on the up. Otherwise, I fear the worst. In the woods last week my mind could not help but record how the kiddie rope swing had been most effectively mended.)
Success!
(Most in worship of a god called Education; obeisance performed while feeling smug and self-satisfied about the raising of outdoorsy children, who neither see broccoli as the devil's nose pickings nor imagine the most fun thing they can do on a Friday night is to smash up the city centre.)
1. Five outdoor adventure holidays taken by three children in lakes, woods, fields. Not a bad rate. My advice is: hold your nerve till the final hour. Some desperate adventure holiday company always does a half-price or kid bogof offer. (But not so useful if the holiday is located in Ullapool while you live in Eastbourne.)
2. St George's Day. And the Festival of History. And lots of castle. I love English Heritage, I do.
3. The Globe. Passion, satisfaction, delight, surprise, perfection.
4. Seeing Richard III at the Old Vic. I must pause to sigh.
5. Making jam, like good mother.
6. Local museums, all over the place. Hmm. Not as many as I would have liked. Saxmundham was my favourite, thanks to Peter with the keys.
7. Happy hour cantering for Tiger.
8. Spending time in Suffolk. Should I count as a success the fact that Big Bro's partner left the house before our arrival so she does not have to clap eyes on me or my foul brood ever again? I have put it in the Success list, anyhow.
9. Illyria Theatre. I include here all workshops, parks events, home ed activities, RSPB kiddie group etc. I could not possibly list them all as individual successes.
10. Northumberland. (And this time, avoiding being stabbed by Arctic Terns.)
11. Staying married.
12. Buying a small piece of vinyl. (I know it does not seem much, and it was the wrong size, but it was a big thing to me.)
13. Halting the ferocious advance of The Ivy. (The plant, not the restaurant.)
14. Visiting the tip with the contents of the house bundled into anonymous plastic bags. Strangely satisfying.
15. Organising and executing a week's tour of the Jurassic coast. With hamster. Without injury, loss, disfigurement, imprisonment, hospitalisation. (Very great success.)
16. Killing 235 moths.
Fail.
1. Losing the shifty nightingale for which no vengeance is enough. I will trap the little bastard next time, if I have to sit up all night in Bradfield woods to do it.
2. Missing the British Library Science Fiction Exhibition. Don't show me your Martian badge and say in a funny voice while you are pretending to be a Martian, that it was very, very good.
3. Christmas pudding (make it and eat it). Truly, I am sad about this. I really wanted Sarah's Vegan Christmas Pud. And so what if we celebrate Christmas in August?
4. Visiting Dover castle. Big FAIL. Warning: I will make Dover Castle to see the Great Tower by this same time next year, or explode. Fact.
5. Staying over in Nottingham. (Always on the list.) Yes, I know that Nott'm is one of the premier gun cities of England. But we can all laugh together while we watch our innards splattered over the stone lions in the Market Square in a drugs turf war.
You are probably right. A visit here is a misconceived idea. The kids do not want to loll around The Trip before heading off to an evening's mindless criminal damage with a Robin Hood statue, but it was called fun when I grew up.
6. Other sites of visit FAILURE. Cornwall (Squirrel). North Wales (Tiger). Whale-spotting on the west coast (Shark). Salmon watching in Scotland (Shark). Hull, for The Deep (Shark). I harbour a desire for Scilly Isles burial chambers. So basically, everywhere.
7. All school-type work as recognised by most of the population. Handwriting. Spelling. Maths. Etc. Etc. Big Deep Fail with High Probability of Sudden Anxiety Attack at 2am Type of Fail.
8. Admitting to friends, flung about several counties, that we are now in England. Um.
9. Lace making. Long story, slightly embarrassing.
10. Allowing 756 moths to live because they have gone into hiding.
Now, those are the lists that spring to mind, and I have to say, the comparison of success and fail is NOT BAD.
Indeed, I can now say with some confidence that the children may enjoy the rope swing in the woods without first having to cut down mother.
Friday, 8 July 2011
Next I shall clean out Tiger's room!
So, in the last 24 hours, I have achieved more than Hercules.
I know, when I list my labours (oh reading joy!), these triumphs will seem not quite so dramatic as they would from a Roman half-god. But take my word for it, they are quite dramatic for a Buckinghamshire resident who is sometimes half-dead.
They include:
Acquiring pink recycling sacks. (Ha! They are available only from the central library, so imagine that gruelling journey! Then facing down the Nemean lion who guards the box where they're kept!)
Making an appointment with the dentist. (The shameful moment I put off last year, then went to Hong Kong to avoid. Being poked in the face by a surgical instrument is far worse than being stabbed by beaks of Stymphalian birds.)
Visiting the bank to withdraw enough cash to pay the stables for Squirrel's adventure week. The stables do not take cards, only cheques, but I cannot find the cheque book although I have looked for it. (I think taking the bull by the horns is appropriate, no? Now is the point to be agog at my determination in the face of adversity.)
Leaving a message for the gardener. The one who is not really a gardener but a man with a chainsaw. (I am not sure which labour this is, but he cannot come round because I have not yet dismantled the piano we keep in the back yard. Maybe I will keep this as a labour for later.)
Locating the new National Trust tickets and putting them in my purse! Yes! This is just like Hippolyte's girdle! (I can now look forward to only a small amount of trouble in trying to gain entry to National Trust properties, as opposed to a large amount of trouble and 25 minutes arguing with the membership desk while secretly wishing to go berserk in the tea shop with a garden fork.)
I think you may conclude these are no small achievements for one day, excepting the piano, which is work in progress, and Hercules may feel a tiny bit outshone.
I know, when I list my labours (oh reading joy!), these triumphs will seem not quite so dramatic as they would from a Roman half-god. But take my word for it, they are quite dramatic for a Buckinghamshire resident who is sometimes half-dead.
They include:
Acquiring pink recycling sacks. (Ha! They are available only from the central library, so imagine that gruelling journey! Then facing down the Nemean lion who guards the box where they're kept!)
Making an appointment with the dentist. (The shameful moment I put off last year, then went to Hong Kong to avoid. Being poked in the face by a surgical instrument is far worse than being stabbed by beaks of Stymphalian birds.)
Visiting the bank to withdraw enough cash to pay the stables for Squirrel's adventure week. The stables do not take cards, only cheques, but I cannot find the cheque book although I have looked for it. (I think taking the bull by the horns is appropriate, no? Now is the point to be agog at my determination in the face of adversity.)
Leaving a message for the gardener. The one who is not really a gardener but a man with a chainsaw. (I am not sure which labour this is, but he cannot come round because I have not yet dismantled the piano we keep in the back yard. Maybe I will keep this as a labour for later.)
Locating the new National Trust tickets and putting them in my purse! Yes! This is just like Hippolyte's girdle! (I can now look forward to only a small amount of trouble in trying to gain entry to National Trust properties, as opposed to a large amount of trouble and 25 minutes arguing with the membership desk while secretly wishing to go berserk in the tea shop with a garden fork.)
I think you may conclude these are no small achievements for one day, excepting the piano, which is work in progress, and Hercules may feel a tiny bit outshone.
Thursday, 9 June 2011
No more of that
Sadly, my new and satisfying routine of gutting old storage boxes of clothes must now be suspended. I must turn my labours to donning rubber gloves and scrubbing away the mould growing on the ceiling of the cellar.
Even those of you die-hards who come here to see whether I am dead in a ditch probably won't recall The Pile flooded last winter. (Thanks to an electrician twiddling with a pressure valve - not the same electrician who actually electrocuted himself then ran from the house and locked himself in his van.)
While we were safely in Hong Kong, the cellar filled up like a swimming pool. When the water all drained away to who-knows-where, in its place grew a luxuriant vegetation resembling a reconstruction of a Carboniferous forest. I assured Dig, maybe in March, that if me and his daughters were to come home early, then I could sort out the vegetation and restore his attractive property to its former glory.
Needless to say, the cellar looks almost exactly the same as it did in March. In fact it may be evolving with giant insect life.
Meanwhile however, I have enjoyed a holiday in Suffolk, remodelled an old wooden garage into a child's art and craft room, and passed the remaining happy hours carelessly posing in front of a mirror and taking photographs of my bosom adorned by a lot of 1980s clothing to amuse any passer by. (If they are really coming to look at this, they probably have something missing in their life.) (Come to think of it, the act of putting it up here suggests I have something missing in my life. Taste, dignity, that sort of thing.)
Well, no more of that. Time is up. Dig is returning to The Pile very soon. One of his first questions, after the upbringing of his three daughters, is sure to be the condition of the cellar.
So that is what I must do. If you find a photoblog in place of a 1980s two-piece, assume I am up a stepladder with a bottle of disinfectant and a torn pair of cotton underpants because I am too mean to buy a cleaning cloth.
I think scraping off mould is a very unattractive idea, now I have put it down in actual letters.
I might just have to sort out that last hidden box, the one with the fantastic nylon snakeskin, then I might check the ticket availability for a quick trip with the kids into London.
If that fails, I'm sure I can eye-spy the ironing.
Even those of you die-hards who come here to see whether I am dead in a ditch probably won't recall The Pile flooded last winter. (Thanks to an electrician twiddling with a pressure valve - not the same electrician who actually electrocuted himself then ran from the house and locked himself in his van.)
While we were safely in Hong Kong, the cellar filled up like a swimming pool. When the water all drained away to who-knows-where, in its place grew a luxuriant vegetation resembling a reconstruction of a Carboniferous forest. I assured Dig, maybe in March, that if me and his daughters were to come home early, then I could sort out the vegetation and restore his attractive property to its former glory.
Needless to say, the cellar looks almost exactly the same as it did in March. In fact it may be evolving with giant insect life.
Meanwhile however, I have enjoyed a holiday in Suffolk, remodelled an old wooden garage into a child's art and craft room, and passed the remaining happy hours carelessly posing in front of a mirror and taking photographs of my bosom adorned by a lot of 1980s clothing to amuse any passer by. (If they are really coming to look at this, they probably have something missing in their life.) (Come to think of it, the act of putting it up here suggests I have something missing in my life. Taste, dignity, that sort of thing.)
Well, no more of that. Time is up. Dig is returning to The Pile very soon. One of his first questions, after the upbringing of his three daughters, is sure to be the condition of the cellar.
So that is what I must do. If you find a photoblog in place of a 1980s two-piece, assume I am up a stepladder with a bottle of disinfectant and a torn pair of cotton underpants because I am too mean to buy a cleaning cloth.
I think scraping off mould is a very unattractive idea, now I have put it down in actual letters.
I might just have to sort out that last hidden box, the one with the fantastic nylon snakeskin, then I might check the ticket availability for a quick trip with the kids into London.
If that fails, I'm sure I can eye-spy the ironing.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Suspicious...
What is this strange happening? Every message I post to Freecycle simply disappears into the intersphere, never seen again!
This is very odd. Everything was working last month when I got rid of three bags of craft fabric. But now, I have sent six messages from three different email accounts and nothing. I have had to hold a one-hour international Skype call to Dig in the Asian subcontinent to tell him the urgent news that I cannot get rid of the toddler car seats to Joan who lives six streets away and has a friend with twins.
I am beginning to suspect things. Like, the National Trust may have a hand in this conspiracy. Is it they who are steadily removing all evidence that I ever lived in England? Is it they who 'lost' my details from their database, who removed my name from the electoral roll, and who are now up to their trickery with my little home on Freecycle?
If so, the moderator might be in on it. He promptly responded to my message of concern with the suggestion that I screen grab the automatic message maker box and send him a copy.
I'm sorry? What is he saying? Perhaps he is trying to tip me over the edge into a complete phobic reaction and nervous breakdown. Then he and the National Trust can make me disappear from all records FOREVER!
Well, I shall subvert the subverters! I am sure to be passing your house soon. Who wants a bag of Megablocks, an inflatable swimming pool with only a few leaks, two vacuum cleaners that nearly suck, five child car seats, a box of plastic play food, a bag of dressing up clothes, a drawing board, three fuel cans, a duff Epson printer, and a beat up old piano?
HA, NATIONAL TRUST! I HAVE THE INTERNET.
This is very odd. Everything was working last month when I got rid of three bags of craft fabric. But now, I have sent six messages from three different email accounts and nothing. I have had to hold a one-hour international Skype call to Dig in the Asian subcontinent to tell him the urgent news that I cannot get rid of the toddler car seats to Joan who lives six streets away and has a friend with twins.
I am beginning to suspect things. Like, the National Trust may have a hand in this conspiracy. Is it they who are steadily removing all evidence that I ever lived in England? Is it they who 'lost' my details from their database, who removed my name from the electoral roll, and who are now up to their trickery with my little home on Freecycle?
If so, the moderator might be in on it. He promptly responded to my message of concern with the suggestion that I screen grab the automatic message maker box and send him a copy.
I'm sorry? What is he saying? Perhaps he is trying to tip me over the edge into a complete phobic reaction and nervous breakdown. Then he and the National Trust can make me disappear from all records FOREVER!
Well, I shall subvert the subverters! I am sure to be passing your house soon. Who wants a bag of Megablocks, an inflatable swimming pool with only a few leaks, two vacuum cleaners that nearly suck, five child car seats, a box of plastic play food, a bag of dressing up clothes, a drawing board, three fuel cans, a duff Epson printer, and a beat up old piano?
HA, NATIONAL TRUST! I HAVE THE INTERNET.
Monday, 16 May 2011
Mon Day
The sort of day which carelessly throws out poor quality fare to me, and I give it back superior disdain.
Quite frankly, I say, Day can do better than this. I have not come this far to be disappointed by unsatisfactory nourishment. If Day does not address its failings and offer better, then I may have to deliver to it my Stern Talk.
This is the type of dog's dinner that Day provides. As you can see, quantity, no quality.
1. A moth infestation. Location uncertain, but in my boudoir, and close enough to my bed that I spend the first fifteen minutes of my alive time with a cup of French roast stupidly wondering about the flapping wildlife over my head.
Flapping wildlife is not a normal start to the day. Reflecting on that, I then seriously alarm myself with horrible imaginings that involve a part-chewed Betty Jackson. There is only one solution. Hit the furniture with shoes to stop them all having babies.
I am on to Doctor Internet before breakfast, begging for help in the event of cloth-moth invasion. Doctor Internet is disappointing. Nay, he is rubbish. One of his ideas is get in a colony of moth-eating wasps. I think my sanctuary has been invaded enough, thank you very much.
2. The children all distract me from my great purpose of scrutinising the wardrobe with a stiletto. They bicker, pointlessly, about pointless things. Like raspberries. We haven't got any raspberries. Pencils. We have 200 of those (mostly on the floor). And pasta, when I am not cooking pasta and, by the time they have finished, have no intention of cooking pasta ever again. I retaliate by becoming shouty and obnoxious and sulky and passive aggressive while hitting a chest of drawers with a pair of loafers, and it is not even lunchtime.
3. Depart house in a froth of outrage. Take up residence in garage. Start throwing away stuff in a burst of satisfying spite. If only I could eject moths and children and all conflict! Basically I am unable to handle any of those unless I am winning.
Actually, 'throwing away stuff' is a bit far. I pile up stuff so that the resultant heap looks temptingly like a bonfire. When I am discovered, the froth has subsided a bit and become self-pity and martyrdom, so I claim this is for everyone else's benefit not mine and that I am clearing out the garage so it can become a craftroom from which I will not benefit.
4. After lunch, take resentful, awkward children to park to meet lovely friends. Observe how everyone else's home educated children are socially well-balanced, delightfully happy and playful. Mine are sulky, awkward, and refuse to talk to anyone. Every fifteen minutes one of them appears at my side demanding to go home. No. We are staying. Home is a pit of moths, a stew of bicker, and now, thanks to my efforts, a pile of junk in the yard. We are staying here, in the park, where we may all be miserable but the sun is shining, the sky is blue and the grass is green.
Hmph. On consideration I think I'd better quit while I'm ahead and not explain what Day did next when it handed round the cheese and tomato pasties.
Quite frankly, I say, Day can do better than this. I have not come this far to be disappointed by unsatisfactory nourishment. If Day does not address its failings and offer better, then I may have to deliver to it my Stern Talk.
This is the type of dog's dinner that Day provides. As you can see, quantity, no quality.
1. A moth infestation. Location uncertain, but in my boudoir, and close enough to my bed that I spend the first fifteen minutes of my alive time with a cup of French roast stupidly wondering about the flapping wildlife over my head.
Flapping wildlife is not a normal start to the day. Reflecting on that, I then seriously alarm myself with horrible imaginings that involve a part-chewed Betty Jackson. There is only one solution. Hit the furniture with shoes to stop them all having babies.
I am on to Doctor Internet before breakfast, begging for help in the event of cloth-moth invasion. Doctor Internet is disappointing. Nay, he is rubbish. One of his ideas is get in a colony of moth-eating wasps. I think my sanctuary has been invaded enough, thank you very much.
2. The children all distract me from my great purpose of scrutinising the wardrobe with a stiletto. They bicker, pointlessly, about pointless things. Like raspberries. We haven't got any raspberries. Pencils. We have 200 of those (mostly on the floor). And pasta, when I am not cooking pasta and, by the time they have finished, have no intention of cooking pasta ever again. I retaliate by becoming shouty and obnoxious and sulky and passive aggressive while hitting a chest of drawers with a pair of loafers, and it is not even lunchtime.
3. Depart house in a froth of outrage. Take up residence in garage. Start throwing away stuff in a burst of satisfying spite. If only I could eject moths and children and all conflict! Basically I am unable to handle any of those unless I am winning.
Actually, 'throwing away stuff' is a bit far. I pile up stuff so that the resultant heap looks temptingly like a bonfire. When I am discovered, the froth has subsided a bit and become self-pity and martyrdom, so I claim this is for everyone else's benefit not mine and that I am clearing out the garage so it can become a craftroom from which I will not benefit.
4. After lunch, take resentful, awkward children to park to meet lovely friends. Observe how everyone else's home educated children are socially well-balanced, delightfully happy and playful. Mine are sulky, awkward, and refuse to talk to anyone. Every fifteen minutes one of them appears at my side demanding to go home. No. We are staying. Home is a pit of moths, a stew of bicker, and now, thanks to my efforts, a pile of junk in the yard. We are staying here, in the park, where we may all be miserable but the sun is shining, the sky is blue and the grass is green.
Hmph. On consideration I think I'd better quit while I'm ahead and not explain what Day did next when it handed round the cheese and tomato pasties.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
To do
Spend the day wandering around, off my face on anti-allergy meds, the type that say Do not drive, Do not drink machinery, Do not operate on anyone while incoherent.
I am keeping to all that advice except the drinking. One glass has minimal effect on me. But the operating is right out. I studiously looked the other way when Dig was smacked in the face by a holly tree. I told him, I am not operating today. Don't hope I'll nurse your forehead. You will have to wear the pin-pricks. Anyway, the puncture marks and blood looks convincingly tribal, like you have been in a street brawl. I bet if you wear them round here, you get some appreciative glances from the ladies.
But it is true that these anti-face-inflationary tablets are leaving me a little forgetful. Just at a crucial point when I need to remember stuff. A list comes in handy at times like this.
1. I must remember that I am going through a cleansing process. A key part of the cleansing process is Freecycle. We have four vacuum cleaners, two of which do not work. I am sure someone round here would like a non-working vacuum cleaner. I must be sure to look at all the messages that pour in from all the takers.
2. I must remember that I am not taking anything to the tip because I just had the car valeted. And I must very firmly repeat the rule No Eating In The Car. (An occasional ice cream licked neatly by the driver does not actually break that rule.)
3. I must remember to cut the brambles back because they are grown all over the paths. And the gardener is coming. Thanks to the brambles he will forget where any path goes and simply chainsaw his way about until he bumps into a wall. I must help him navigate his way so he does not accidentally remove my choisya forever, like he did with the wisteria. (I never completely forget he is not a proper gardener, he is just a bloke with a chainsaw, but he's the only one I can get.) And I will not be too cruel on the brambles. We have waged a long war. Maybe we will pip the Thirty Years war soon enough. I have a sort of grudging respect for them.
4. I must remember to wear long sleeves after I have cut back the brambles. Last time I forgot and went out with my bare arms revealing the battlescars. One woman asked me in a concerned voice, 'Have you been playing with a cat?' The only cat I could possibly have been playing with to acquire strips like that would be a panther. But that's the type of polite thing the English say. Really she wanted to say 'Good God! What happened to you?'
5. The Mads Awards. Sally says I have been nominated for some parenting blog PR thing. I suspect she did it herself, out of pity. I am too late for it already. Anyway, I don't do anything that is required in the great world of promoting one's own blog, or pursuing any course of action likely to lead to success in anything. I am hopeless at it all. Last year I wrote two articles and forgot to invoice for either of them. I think I will strike number 5 from my list and try again.
5. But it has reminded me about parenting. I must remember to do that, while freecycling vacuum cleaners and pruning (brambles are very good to protect your garden from burglars). Looking at my children will also be some sort of educational monitoring, should anyone ask me, so two birds with one stone. Yay me. I haven't really looked at the children since we got back, because they have been very quiet. Two of them have been on a lake ten miles away, which might explain it, but generally there has been no need for intervention. Reading, probably.
6. In a sudden and brief spirit of cooperation between me and my lovely reader, you can tell me in the comments anything you had to remember two Sundays ago, then I can forget them as well.
I am keeping to all that advice except the drinking. One glass has minimal effect on me. But the operating is right out. I studiously looked the other way when Dig was smacked in the face by a holly tree. I told him, I am not operating today. Don't hope I'll nurse your forehead. You will have to wear the pin-pricks. Anyway, the puncture marks and blood looks convincingly tribal, like you have been in a street brawl. I bet if you wear them round here, you get some appreciative glances from the ladies.
But it is true that these anti-face-inflationary tablets are leaving me a little forgetful. Just at a crucial point when I need to remember stuff. A list comes in handy at times like this.
1. I must remember that I am going through a cleansing process. A key part of the cleansing process is Freecycle. We have four vacuum cleaners, two of which do not work. I am sure someone round here would like a non-working vacuum cleaner. I must be sure to look at all the messages that pour in from all the takers.
2. I must remember that I am not taking anything to the tip because I just had the car valeted. And I must very firmly repeat the rule No Eating In The Car. (An occasional ice cream licked neatly by the driver does not actually break that rule.)
3. I must remember to cut the brambles back because they are grown all over the paths. And the gardener is coming. Thanks to the brambles he will forget where any path goes and simply chainsaw his way about until he bumps into a wall. I must help him navigate his way so he does not accidentally remove my choisya forever, like he did with the wisteria. (I never completely forget he is not a proper gardener, he is just a bloke with a chainsaw, but he's the only one I can get.) And I will not be too cruel on the brambles. We have waged a long war. Maybe we will pip the Thirty Years war soon enough. I have a sort of grudging respect for them.
4. I must remember to wear long sleeves after I have cut back the brambles. Last time I forgot and went out with my bare arms revealing the battlescars. One woman asked me in a concerned voice, 'Have you been playing with a cat?' The only cat I could possibly have been playing with to acquire strips like that would be a panther. But that's the type of polite thing the English say. Really she wanted to say 'Good God! What happened to you?'
5. The Mads Awards. Sally says I have been nominated for some parenting blog PR thing. I suspect she did it herself, out of pity. I am too late for it already. Anyway, I don't do anything that is required in the great world of promoting one's own blog, or pursuing any course of action likely to lead to success in anything. I am hopeless at it all. Last year I wrote two articles and forgot to invoice for either of them. I think I will strike number 5 from my list and try again.
5. But it has reminded me about parenting. I must remember to do that, while freecycling vacuum cleaners and pruning (brambles are very good to protect your garden from burglars). Looking at my children will also be some sort of educational monitoring, should anyone ask me, so two birds with one stone. Yay me. I haven't really looked at the children since we got back, because they have been very quiet. Two of them have been on a lake ten miles away, which might explain it, but generally there has been no need for intervention. Reading, probably.
6. In a sudden and brief spirit of cooperation between me and my lovely reader, you can tell me in the comments anything you had to remember two Sundays ago, then I can forget them as well.
Saturday, 23 April 2011
We all have our secret desires
Shark, Squirrel and Tiger have been asking for months for this experience. So today I let them have it. Aerial Extreme, Willen Lake. (Satisfying.)
Of course I am motivated not by the education or socialisation on offer, but by self-interest.
While the offspring are twenty foot up, and cannot do or say anything to stop me, I run off to the big city. Sue the make up lady peers at my face and nods, consolingly, then sells me some mascara.
Completely bewitched and in thrall to the solutions for premature aging offered confidently by a woman with neat hair, a label, and a tub of white stuff that looks like PVA, I make an appointment to be completely done over and lose ten years.
(Shut up. Let me keep my fantasies intact. I know them for what they are. I have worked hard to get them, they are mine, and I don't want anyone robbing them from me now.)
Sunday, 10 April 2011
Sunday same old same old
Spend the day fretting, in varying order, on the following:
1) Shark. Gone. Disappeared for le weekend. Not a word. She is staying en famille elsewhere.
This is all due to Shark's new island friend Louise who has arranged with her le sleepover.
Really, it is all thanks to Louisa's maman, whom I immediately adore on the fact that she can sort it so my daughter disappears to have fun for 24 hours.
Slightly alarming is I'm not sure how to get Shark back thanks to Louisa's maman also disappearing. When I finally find her (phone not working, email bounces) she shows not one jot of concern and I can't help but fall in love with her a little bit more. She merely raises a perfect eyebrow and says, in an English accent tinged with French, They slept and now I think they are at the beach uhu?
I am trying to emulate Louisa's maman. I am going all insouciance while practising my languid uhu? Soon I will enthusiastically adopt all the accoutrements of foreign louche to complete the picture. Of course I will get it horribly British wrong, and turn up at our next appointment wearing a smoking jacket and dangling a novelty rhinoceros horn cigarette holder between my Yardley stained lips.
2) My thighs. They are not looking too bad if I get them in the right light and squint at the knees.
This brings both sadness and delight. Delight because the up-down Hong Kong hills regime has given me a pair of elasticated long doings, stretching twixt knee and hip, the like I haven't seen since aged 23.
Yet, sadness. In a way, I am nostalgic (cue soulful music and out of focus gaze). It has been my privilege to wear a true pair of wobbly English thighs for over a decade. Now they are melted, lost in the mountain tracks of Hong Kong, I feel sentimental for the old strawberry pink wobblers. Somehow, fattened thighs define an English girl. I am sure they could have carried that look of smoking jacket and rhinoceros horn.
3) The tree. I am obsessing over this. Circling it, both mentally, and physically, round and round the torn up trunk. I fretted this the other day.
They chopped down a tree. Now I see a notice is pinned to the end of the path, some forty metres away, reminding all law abiding citizens that destruction of woodland carries a squillion dollar fine. I stare at it glumly while Dig comments matter of factly how very Hong Kong this is. He adds how no one does anything until after the event when someone puts up a notice, saying You can't do that, and this merely shows what a non-politicised population is here. He does not know my tortured soul. Silently, I regret the lack of chains last Friday.
Thus, apart from fretful circling, nothing achieved.
1) Shark. Gone. Disappeared for le weekend. Not a word. She is staying en famille elsewhere.
This is all due to Shark's new island friend Louise who has arranged with her le sleepover.
Really, it is all thanks to Louisa's maman, whom I immediately adore on the fact that she can sort it so my daughter disappears to have fun for 24 hours.
Slightly alarming is I'm not sure how to get Shark back thanks to Louisa's maman also disappearing. When I finally find her (phone not working, email bounces) she shows not one jot of concern and I can't help but fall in love with her a little bit more. She merely raises a perfect eyebrow and says, in an English accent tinged with French, They slept and now I think they are at the beach uhu?
I am trying to emulate Louisa's maman. I am going all insouciance while practising my languid uhu? Soon I will enthusiastically adopt all the accoutrements of foreign louche to complete the picture. Of course I will get it horribly British wrong, and turn up at our next appointment wearing a smoking jacket and dangling a novelty rhinoceros horn cigarette holder between my Yardley stained lips.
2) My thighs. They are not looking too bad if I get them in the right light and squint at the knees.
This brings both sadness and delight. Delight because the up-down Hong Kong hills regime has given me a pair of elasticated long doings, stretching twixt knee and hip, the like I haven't seen since aged 23.
Yet, sadness. In a way, I am nostalgic (cue soulful music and out of focus gaze). It has been my privilege to wear a true pair of wobbly English thighs for over a decade. Now they are melted, lost in the mountain tracks of Hong Kong, I feel sentimental for the old strawberry pink wobblers. Somehow, fattened thighs define an English girl. I am sure they could have carried that look of smoking jacket and rhinoceros horn.
3) The tree. I am obsessing over this. Circling it, both mentally, and physically, round and round the torn up trunk. I fretted this the other day.
They chopped down a tree. Now I see a notice is pinned to the end of the path, some forty metres away, reminding all law abiding citizens that destruction of woodland carries a squillion dollar fine. I stare at it glumly while Dig comments matter of factly how very Hong Kong this is. He adds how no one does anything until after the event when someone puts up a notice, saying You can't do that, and this merely shows what a non-politicised population is here. He does not know my tortured soul. Silently, I regret the lack of chains last Friday.
Thus, apart from fretful circling, nothing achieved.
Monday, 14 February 2011
No comment
Humph. Valentine's Day isn't synonymous with any vice activities round here either. Not at all.
Pity.
Pity.
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