Everyone needs someone like The Hat in their lives.
The Hat always arrives at a party; she is the party.
Aged 60, blonde, beautiful, swathed in painted mixes of tawny velvets, sparkling silks, embroidered canvas, she comes to dinner tonight, with us, and makes us special.
She dances into our house, bringing from her swinging catch-all handbag made of multicolours, exotic gifts for the children garnered from Kuwait, Iran, Japan. And with her comes all rich and complex wonders of the world - philosophy, literature, art, and culture, brought to us. And then she will cha cha cha in our kitchen.
She unfolds everything in her that is warm and wonderful, transforms our meal of left overs and last week's vegetables with a rich exotic sauce, brings warm raspberries and fresh clotted cream ice-cream. Our kitchen warms with her generous heart, kind words, and all of her humanity.
If she suffers loneliness or insecurities, it never shows. The Hat shows us only what is possible; all happiness, possibility, all embrace.
The Hat arrives. Here is the Hat. Cha cha cha.
Showing posts with label The Hat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Hat. Show all posts
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Sunday, 28 December 2008
Thank you, Hat
The Hat arrives for dinner. Thank God for The Hat. I can be on my knees with the tolling of Christmas and in she breezes, distributes three tins for Shark, Squirrel and Tiger and saves us all.
The tins, stored in her cupboard, flew in years ago from Iran, Iraq and IKEA in London. They each contain the same assortment: a Chinese Christmas tree ornament, an M&S body lotion, a thick chocolate biscuit, and a hand-sewn bag from Kuwait. With that eclectic mix the gritlets are absorbed for hours, putting the bauble in the bag, taking it out again, nibbling the biscuit and smearing body lotion on their heads, thinking it is exotic hair oil.
Bringer of gifts, bringer of cheer on cold winter nights, and delightful dinner guest, even with lentil slop and peas. The Hat claps her hands at her plate with an expression like I just served Raymond Blanc's finest, so good natured, warm and delightful she is.
She leaves us about eleven o'clock because she says tonight she's going to bed. She's had too many late nights. I don't really want The Hat to go. She reverses her car, crashes into the Vauxhall behind, lunges forward, crashes into the Citroen in front, swings out into the road, wildly waves out the window, and is gone, Happy New Year! ringing down the street.
2009 she says is special, because it's her 60th. She's right. Special.
The tins, stored in her cupboard, flew in years ago from Iran, Iraq and IKEA in London. They each contain the same assortment: a Chinese Christmas tree ornament, an M&S body lotion, a thick chocolate biscuit, and a hand-sewn bag from Kuwait. With that eclectic mix the gritlets are absorbed for hours, putting the bauble in the bag, taking it out again, nibbling the biscuit and smearing body lotion on their heads, thinking it is exotic hair oil.
Bringer of gifts, bringer of cheer on cold winter nights, and delightful dinner guest, even with lentil slop and peas. The Hat claps her hands at her plate with an expression like I just served Raymond Blanc's finest, so good natured, warm and delightful she is.
She leaves us about eleven o'clock because she says tonight she's going to bed. She's had too many late nights. I don't really want The Hat to go. She reverses her car, crashes into the Vauxhall behind, lunges forward, crashes into the Citroen in front, swings out into the road, wildly waves out the window, and is gone, Happy New Year! ringing down the street.
2009 she says is special, because it's her 60th. She's right. Special.
Monday, 24 December 2007
Is it Christmas Eve?
A party! A party! Grit and Dig and all the junior Grits have been invited to a party! Quite frankly, this is amazing. We never get invited anywhere and, if we are, Tiger is sick down the back of someone's leg so we never get invited again.
But this party is The Hat's hosting, and she's more sanguine than most about sick stains. She's also kind hearted, laid back, and forgiving: qualities which are essential when dealing socially with la famille Grit and Dig on a night out.
The first thing la famille Grit and Dig need forgiving for is arriving over an hour late thanks to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger refusing to be peeled off the sofa during Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
The second thing we need forgiving for is the cat. Sorry about the cat. I apologise for this wherever we go. Dogs too. It's just a mass hysteria thing. Please forgive us. Just get rid of the cat on the stairs licking its bum. Get rid of it now or we're going to scream and stampede. Yes. Right now. Or else.
The third thing we need forgiving for is the rag tag of presents we come equipped with. For example, Shark offers home-made soap put in a box formerly used for office equipment. The box bears the bar code and label which reads OfficeConnect Power Adapter (UK). This temporarily confuses The Hat who might think we have brought her some form of office electronics. The stink which arises from the box when she opens it tells her otherwise. 'That's Shark's' I say by way of explanation. 'And that's the result of our chemistry lessons this term' I add. And not exactly with pride. Fruit-flavoured rose-scented purple soap with gravel in it. Can't think why it's not been marketed professionally.
Then we need forgiving because we are there, actually at the party in someone else's house. Squirrel, Shark and Tiger are suddenly very shy. Squirrel, Shark and Tiger do their hiding behind each other routine. This takes place in a small front room with a lot of people looking on in bemusement. Today the hiding routine takes the form of Squirrel, Shark and Tiger going round and round in a tight little circle paying special interest in the carpet and pretending not to hear anyone say hello or how are you.
Then of course we need forgiving for mummy Grit's awkward attempt at overcoming this slightly difficult social situation by ushering Squirrel, Shark and Tiger straight into the kitchen where there are grapes. After five minutes we have polished off the grapes and need forgiving about that. Then we start on the bread. And the cheese-topped potato. And the crisps, fruit salad, and lemon tart. Sorry about that everyone. Please forgive us.
Then when the food's cleared, we need to forgive mummy Grit for saying 'Not bloody likely' when the musical instruments come round. Apparently the front room is now full of musicians who are going to play a spot of live music so it's time to join in. This is typical of The Hat. Just when you thought you'd sussed it, out comes the Vietnamese frog and the triangle and, by the way, you're dancing. Do forgive me for clinging to the wall like that.
Finally, I apologise to Moss, who is The Hat's husband and who now lives in Oxford and Kuwait instead of Oxford and Iraq. If you're wondering where your 2003 Chateau Laroque Grand Cru Saint Emillion went that you hid behind the fridge, apologies. It was me.
You see, it's that time of year. Forgiveness is all.
But this party is The Hat's hosting, and she's more sanguine than most about sick stains. She's also kind hearted, laid back, and forgiving: qualities which are essential when dealing socially with la famille Grit and Dig on a night out.
The first thing la famille Grit and Dig need forgiving for is arriving over an hour late thanks to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger refusing to be peeled off the sofa during Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
The second thing we need forgiving for is the cat. Sorry about the cat. I apologise for this wherever we go. Dogs too. It's just a mass hysteria thing. Please forgive us. Just get rid of the cat on the stairs licking its bum. Get rid of it now or we're going to scream and stampede. Yes. Right now. Or else.
The third thing we need forgiving for is the rag tag of presents we come equipped with. For example, Shark offers home-made soap put in a box formerly used for office equipment. The box bears the bar code and label which reads OfficeConnect Power Adapter (UK). This temporarily confuses The Hat who might think we have brought her some form of office electronics. The stink which arises from the box when she opens it tells her otherwise. 'That's Shark's' I say by way of explanation. 'And that's the result of our chemistry lessons this term' I add. And not exactly with pride. Fruit-flavoured rose-scented purple soap with gravel in it. Can't think why it's not been marketed professionally.
Then we need forgiving because we are there, actually at the party in someone else's house. Squirrel, Shark and Tiger are suddenly very shy. Squirrel, Shark and Tiger do their hiding behind each other routine. This takes place in a small front room with a lot of people looking on in bemusement. Today the hiding routine takes the form of Squirrel, Shark and Tiger going round and round in a tight little circle paying special interest in the carpet and pretending not to hear anyone say hello or how are you.
Then of course we need forgiving for mummy Grit's awkward attempt at overcoming this slightly difficult social situation by ushering Squirrel, Shark and Tiger straight into the kitchen where there are grapes. After five minutes we have polished off the grapes and need forgiving about that. Then we start on the bread. And the cheese-topped potato. And the crisps, fruit salad, and lemon tart. Sorry about that everyone. Please forgive us.
Then when the food's cleared, we need to forgive mummy Grit for saying 'Not bloody likely' when the musical instruments come round. Apparently the front room is now full of musicians who are going to play a spot of live music so it's time to join in. This is typical of The Hat. Just when you thought you'd sussed it, out comes the Vietnamese frog and the triangle and, by the way, you're dancing. Do forgive me for clinging to the wall like that.
Finally, I apologise to Moss, who is The Hat's husband and who now lives in Oxford and Kuwait instead of Oxford and Iraq. If you're wondering where your 2003 Chateau Laroque Grand Cru Saint Emillion went that you hid behind the fridge, apologies. It was me.
You see, it's that time of year. Forgiveness is all.
Monday, 9 July 2007
Seven women in a house
Dig has pushed off to Heathrow on the train to jump on his flight to Brazil. He says that's not a holiday. I notice he's packed his lumberjack shirts though, which doesn't look like business to me.
Dig leaves behind his three daughters Tiger, Shark and Squirrel, his sulky-Grit-wife, his sister who we call Aunty Dee, Ermintrude the au pair come to teach us French, and The Hat, who's coming to visit for tea. That makes seven females, and no grumpy male stomping about the house grumbling because he cannot find the computer cable he always takes and now look, why isn't it here, on the pile of old Malaysian newspapers scattered over the hall floor where he left it two weeks ago?
When The Hat arrives, the partying soon starts. Squirrel gets on her Cloud costume, Shark dresses up like a blue glitterball, and Tiger goes for a medieval princess look. I wear stained charity shop jeans that are torn thanks to a collision with the oven door, so I am wearing sad poverty look.
And we have party food. In honour of The Hat's arrival, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger have co-opted Aunty Dee and Ermintrude into helping them cook this afternoon. This means making French apple tart, cake, biscuit and blancmange. I've tried turning the blancmange experience into a home education 'History of Blancmange' lesson thanks to Wikipedia and the blow-up globe, but no-one is much interested because Tiger has made pink sugar biscuits and Ermintrude has brought little sugar flowers to decorate them.
We have presents too, courtesy of The Hat. She has brought some little Russian dolls which she brought back from her last visit to Iran, where she has family. Each little doll wears a painted burqa so they are mostly black, except for a pair of painted gloved hands and a pair of tiny painted eyes that peer through a narrow slit.
These dolls puzzle me hugely. Are they intended for little girls? Or are they to make sure that little boys, who might try and curiously lift the burqas, may discover only another one underneath? Or perhaps they are just for tourists. Or perhaps men might glimpse something not allowed in the wooden dolly world, so they must be covered up. Anyway, you can't see anything that might be thought of as immodest or provocative, unless the painted eyes count.
And so the party goes on. The evening is lots of fun with a lot of jolly talk and laughter. We all eat tarte aux pommes, cake, biscuits and blancmange, and listen to Bollywood music from India thanks to the Internet radio. Tiger has made too many biscuits so The Hat promises to take some home and we put the rest in a tin.
Then it's 10pm so it must be time to get Shark and Tiger and Squirrel up to bed. Aunty Dee waves story books about and The Hat, who probably has another couple of parties to get to yet, is gamely clambering into Shark's top bunk, shouting 'I've been in one of these before!' However, she seems to forget that this was probably in 1962 and then needs to help to get down again.
After a very noisy hour, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are safely in bed, still chattering; Aunty Dee sits down with a fairy story; Ermintrude makes off to call Francois; The Hat kisses everyone and slips off to her next engagement, and mummy Grit slumps into a bedroom chair with the remainder of a bottle of Italian wine. And the little Iranian ladies are safely put away in their presentation box for the night. Tomorrow, I resolve, we will talk about the rights and responsibilities of women. Probably when we've shared out Tiger's biscuits for breakfast.
Dig leaves behind his three daughters Tiger, Shark and Squirrel, his sulky-Grit-wife, his sister who we call Aunty Dee, Ermintrude the au pair come to teach us French, and The Hat, who's coming to visit for tea. That makes seven females, and no grumpy male stomping about the house grumbling because he cannot find the computer cable he always takes and now look, why isn't it here, on the pile of old Malaysian newspapers scattered over the hall floor where he left it two weeks ago?
When The Hat arrives, the partying soon starts. Squirrel gets on her Cloud costume, Shark dresses up like a blue glitterball, and Tiger goes for a medieval princess look. I wear stained charity shop jeans that are torn thanks to a collision with the oven door, so I am wearing sad poverty look.
And we have party food. In honour of The Hat's arrival, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger have co-opted Aunty Dee and Ermintrude into helping them cook this afternoon. This means making French apple tart, cake, biscuit and blancmange. I've tried turning the blancmange experience into a home education 'History of Blancmange' lesson thanks to Wikipedia and the blow-up globe, but no-one is much interested because Tiger has made pink sugar biscuits and Ermintrude has brought little sugar flowers to decorate them.
We have presents too, courtesy of The Hat. She has brought some little Russian dolls which she brought back from her last visit to Iran, where she has family. Each little doll wears a painted burqa so they are mostly black, except for a pair of painted gloved hands and a pair of tiny painted eyes that peer through a narrow slit.
These dolls puzzle me hugely. Are they intended for little girls? Or are they to make sure that little boys, who might try and curiously lift the burqas, may discover only another one underneath? Or perhaps they are just for tourists. Or perhaps men might glimpse something not allowed in the wooden dolly world, so they must be covered up. Anyway, you can't see anything that might be thought of as immodest or provocative, unless the painted eyes count.
And so the party goes on. The evening is lots of fun with a lot of jolly talk and laughter. We all eat tarte aux pommes, cake, biscuits and blancmange, and listen to Bollywood music from India thanks to the Internet radio. Tiger has made too many biscuits so The Hat promises to take some home and we put the rest in a tin.
Then it's 10pm so it must be time to get Shark and Tiger and Squirrel up to bed. Aunty Dee waves story books about and The Hat, who probably has another couple of parties to get to yet, is gamely clambering into Shark's top bunk, shouting 'I've been in one of these before!' However, she seems to forget that this was probably in 1962 and then needs to help to get down again.
After a very noisy hour, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are safely in bed, still chattering; Aunty Dee sits down with a fairy story; Ermintrude makes off to call Francois; The Hat kisses everyone and slips off to her next engagement, and mummy Grit slumps into a bedroom chair with the remainder of a bottle of Italian wine. And the little Iranian ladies are safely put away in their presentation box for the night. Tomorrow, I resolve, we will talk about the rights and responsibilities of women. Probably when we've shared out Tiger's biscuits for breakfast.
Sunday, 17 June 2007
Ermintrude
It's 10 o'clock in the morning and Dig says that the au pair is arriving on the train at 10.30, so get down to the station and pick her up, because he needs to get his trousers on. I say I'm not changing our day's plans, so there. It's a full day ahead for Shark, Squirrel and Tiger, what with the free curry and the music festival, so the au pair will just have to join in.
Actually, I've been up since 8, trying to make us look presentable. I've put out the rubbish, swept the schoolroom floor, changed a spare bed, done the washing up, redistributed the laundry and ejected a penguin and two dolphins from the kitchen. I found a dinosaur and a zebra under my chopping table. Squirrel's taken to stuffing her cuddly toys under there in the mistaken idea that she has found a new squirrelling hole.
This is not a new squirrelling hole, I tell her. This is a deeply irritating place to stuff them, so stop it. For a start, they don't fit, and when you've squeezed them under there, they squeeze themselves out again and I trip over them. And when they do come out they are covered in fluff and bits of chopped onion and celery because they are under my chopping table. Now make them disappear and do not stuff them, like last time, behind the curtains/ under the computer table/ down the sofa/ behind the bookcase/ in the oven/ in the place where I keep the big bowls/ in the fridge. Believe me, I will find them.
Well, by the time I do pick up the au pair, all I know, apart from the fact that she speaks French, is her name. It is a very pretty name. Like the au pair. She is also very pretty. Now Grit is a mature lady and not at all threatened by having a very pretty au pair in the house with a very pretty name, all suddenly dropped out of the sky on her by a husband who is barely here and when he is here, spends his life wrapped round his computer. No, I am not at all threatened. I will give the new au pair the blog name Ermintrude to do her justice. I'm sure you'll agree Ermintrude is a very pretty name.
The first thing we are booked for today is a hippy festival in one of our local parks. This happens every year, and the Buddhists mastermind it. The Buddhists make sure everyone is nice to each other. There is a bit of chanting and speeches, and afterwards we get a plate of curry and a cup of tea. We are definitely going. I can teach the children about how to be nice to each other. And the curry and cup of tea are free.
This is Ermintrude's first introduction to us. After picking her up, we all clamber in the car to get off to the Buddhists. Shark and Tiger start fighting and slapping and howling as usual. Squirrel is worried about missing the curry and keeps asking 'have we missed the curry?' I tell her to be quiet about that because the free curry is not the only reason why we are going. We are going because the Buddhists are nice and we might get some ideas from that. I have to shout this bit so I can be heard above the screaming and crying.
By the time we get out the car, Shark and Tiger have been given a very big talking to about being nice to each other all day long. And, after the Toddington incident, I have confiscated all the picnic baskets. Squirrel leaps out the car and starts running up the hill towards the Buddhists shouting 'Hurry mummy! We'll miss the curry!' I have to follow with my eyebrows raised like I do not know what she could possibly be talking about.
I sit Ermintrude down on the picnic blanket. I think with all that blonde hair and fair skin she possibly looks a bit peaky, so point her in the direction of the sun. Because my nose always catches the sun first and goes bright red, I make sure I slather on a lot of nose sunscreen. I apologise, Ermintrude, for forgetting to offer you sunscreen for your nose.
When we've all done a bit of chanting and had the free curry, we can leg it over to the next festival happening in another part of town. This is brilliant. It's a proper music festival with proper bands and it's free. We're there in fifteen minutes flat and immediately get down to the stage where we see The Hat cavorting about, dancing with lots of people just like I would expect The Hat to do. I get Ermintrude to take Squirrel and Shark off to do some serious jumping about while Tiger refuses to join in because she has seen a dog somewhere, so I have to stay out of the fun and dance on my own. I look at Ermintrude and think she's a little bit thin. I make a mental note to put four large packs of Green and Black's in her room. I am sure they will be a lovely welcome present.
By the time we get back home it's 7 in the evening. The children are all exhausted and shouty. Squirrel has a big weep. Shark has a big shout. Tiger growls and slams a few doors. Dig makes himself scarce. I suggest to Ermintrude that she might try out her 'I like children' skills. With six weeks au pairing to go for the Grit family, Ermintrude looks like she's wondering what she's let herself in for. And as I keep my eye on everyone, I'm wondering as well, what we've all let ourselves in for.
Actually, I've been up since 8, trying to make us look presentable. I've put out the rubbish, swept the schoolroom floor, changed a spare bed, done the washing up, redistributed the laundry and ejected a penguin and two dolphins from the kitchen. I found a dinosaur and a zebra under my chopping table. Squirrel's taken to stuffing her cuddly toys under there in the mistaken idea that she has found a new squirrelling hole.
This is not a new squirrelling hole, I tell her. This is a deeply irritating place to stuff them, so stop it. For a start, they don't fit, and when you've squeezed them under there, they squeeze themselves out again and I trip over them. And when they do come out they are covered in fluff and bits of chopped onion and celery because they are under my chopping table. Now make them disappear and do not stuff them, like last time, behind the curtains/ under the computer table/ down the sofa/ behind the bookcase/ in the oven/ in the place where I keep the big bowls/ in the fridge. Believe me, I will find them.
Well, by the time I do pick up the au pair, all I know, apart from the fact that she speaks French, is her name. It is a very pretty name. Like the au pair. She is also very pretty. Now Grit is a mature lady and not at all threatened by having a very pretty au pair in the house with a very pretty name, all suddenly dropped out of the sky on her by a husband who is barely here and when he is here, spends his life wrapped round his computer. No, I am not at all threatened. I will give the new au pair the blog name Ermintrude to do her justice. I'm sure you'll agree Ermintrude is a very pretty name.
The first thing we are booked for today is a hippy festival in one of our local parks. This happens every year, and the Buddhists mastermind it. The Buddhists make sure everyone is nice to each other. There is a bit of chanting and speeches, and afterwards we get a plate of curry and a cup of tea. We are definitely going. I can teach the children about how to be nice to each other. And the curry and cup of tea are free.
This is Ermintrude's first introduction to us. After picking her up, we all clamber in the car to get off to the Buddhists. Shark and Tiger start fighting and slapping and howling as usual. Squirrel is worried about missing the curry and keeps asking 'have we missed the curry?' I tell her to be quiet about that because the free curry is not the only reason why we are going. We are going because the Buddhists are nice and we might get some ideas from that. I have to shout this bit so I can be heard above the screaming and crying.
By the time we get out the car, Shark and Tiger have been given a very big talking to about being nice to each other all day long. And, after the Toddington incident, I have confiscated all the picnic baskets. Squirrel leaps out the car and starts running up the hill towards the Buddhists shouting 'Hurry mummy! We'll miss the curry!' I have to follow with my eyebrows raised like I do not know what she could possibly be talking about.
I sit Ermintrude down on the picnic blanket. I think with all that blonde hair and fair skin she possibly looks a bit peaky, so point her in the direction of the sun. Because my nose always catches the sun first and goes bright red, I make sure I slather on a lot of nose sunscreen. I apologise, Ermintrude, for forgetting to offer you sunscreen for your nose.
When we've all done a bit of chanting and had the free curry, we can leg it over to the next festival happening in another part of town. This is brilliant. It's a proper music festival with proper bands and it's free. We're there in fifteen minutes flat and immediately get down to the stage where we see The Hat cavorting about, dancing with lots of people just like I would expect The Hat to do. I get Ermintrude to take Squirrel and Shark off to do some serious jumping about while Tiger refuses to join in because she has seen a dog somewhere, so I have to stay out of the fun and dance on my own. I look at Ermintrude and think she's a little bit thin. I make a mental note to put four large packs of Green and Black's in her room. I am sure they will be a lovely welcome present.
By the time we get back home it's 7 in the evening. The children are all exhausted and shouty. Squirrel has a big weep. Shark has a big shout. Tiger growls and slams a few doors. Dig makes himself scarce. I suggest to Ermintrude that she might try out her 'I like children' skills. With six weeks au pairing to go for the Grit family, Ermintrude looks like she's wondering what she's let herself in for. And as I keep my eye on everyone, I'm wondering as well, what we've all let ourselves in for.
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