Advent Books Adventure

Since Gertie was tiny I have wrapped twenty-four advent books ('pre-loved', in newspaper) and put them under the tree. I can't remember where I first saw the idea and stole it from, but it has become a real tradition in our house.

As they grew up, sometimes Gertie read the books to her siblings, rather than me reading. Last year, all three of them took it in turns to read the story out loud. 

But even Eddie is getting a bit big for picture books now. 

I didn't want to let the tradition die, but I also didn't know what to do to make it work this year. A book a day each seemed ridiculous (that would, after all, mean 72 books. I couldn't find, let alone afford that); and their interests are so different at 8, 10 and 12 years old that I couldn't see a way of pleasing them all with just one. Perhaps I could rotate them? But there still wouldn't be that lovely shared moment.

Suddenly, Agatha Christie books began appearing in the post. Anonymously. I couldn't work it out. Maternal Hearth Grandfather is the only one who sends books anonymously, and so we always know that they are from him. They must have been sent in error. 

But I was around 12 years old when I started devouring them, I realised. As had MHGF. Suddenly I had a little pile of them. And some old Arsenal annuals turned up. Perfect for Gilby.  Random years: 2008, 2013. And some Beano and Dandy annuals. Older, but exactly what Eddie would enjoy. All of a sudden, a book each for every day of December up until Christmas didn't seem so impossible.

So I went for it. A quick trip to the Lions Bookstore (thirty books for three quid) and plenty of newspaper later, we were there.

And then this sort of thing started happening:

I mean, they're not snuggled up together like they used to be, but you can't have everything. 

And this happened, when I wasn't looking and should really have been time for bed:

The only hiccough came when Eddie confessed about a week in that he was 'a bit behind with his advent books'. I think he thought he had to read the whole thing in one day to be ready to qualify for the next one. Whoops. I have reassured him that he can pick and choose.

So, for at least twenty minutes a night, silence reigns in our house. The only sound is the occasional turning of a page. Ssshhhh.

Currently reading: An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

Where's A Masterchef When You Need One?

Food drives me mad at the moment.

There are three fussy eaters to feed; four if you include the German exchange student who is staying with us at the moment; plus one vegetarian (me). That can mean  up to four different dishes being prepared on any given evening.

Eddie and Gilby want bland, bland and more bland. The blander the better. Anything with any kind of flavour is off the menu. Gertie is a little more experimental, finally, having gone as far as a chicken korma. But they don't like the same bland. Although they will all eat vegetables, there isn't a single vegetable that all three will eat.

So mealtimes are not fun.

I think back to my own childhood, where food was definitely not fun either.

My memories may be skewed, but it seems that Mum didn't really cook for us as the primary audience; she cooked for the customers in the pub restaurant. I picture her cooking up batches of shepherd’s pie, browning the mince in enormous industrial saucepans (cauldron-sized to a child) before transferring to individual portions in impersonal, identical, mini brown casserole dishes by the dozen. Or sizzling portions of scampi in lethal commercial deep fat fryers that were NOT TO BE TOUCHED.

There was no sense of finesse. Nouveau cuisine was still a channel away. Making chips for the next few lunchtime and evening sessions could take an entire afternoon (until she was introduced to Mr McCain by Nurdin & Peacock). Everything came in giant packaging from cash and carry: tubs of powdered stock the size of camping gas tanks; shoe-box sixed margarine tubs; blocks of cheese three Encyclopaedia Britannicas thick.

There was an industrial microwave oven, its lights and alarms worthy of a nuclear plant. When it began its incineration of food it sounded like a 747 on a runway.

And then there were RULES. Different coloured chopping boards for dairy, meat and bread. Nail brushes at the hand washing sink, strict temperature controls, certain pans for certain products, a specified number of items that could be dried with a single dishcloth  before bacteria multiplied to epic proportions.

The kitchen was a tense place. My father was once overheard asking through gritted teeth whether my mother would like the kitchen ‘moved two inches to the left’ in a strained impersonation of his comic hero and fellow endurer of the vagaries of the hospitality industry, Basil Fawlty.

Because pub opening times were not really conducive to family life there were not actually mealtimes as such. One had to forage for oneself, while of course maintaining strict adherence to the RULES, and only using food which was no longer any good for customers.

So food was fairly bland for me, too. Pot noodles were good. And I perfected the art of the French bread cheese sandwich. Mostly because it hurt no one, required only two chopping boards and was very filling - if not exactly nutritious. I did have to be ‘trained’ to cut the bread at exactly the right angle, but once I had mastered that I was allowed to use up grated cheese (curling up at the edges and sweating a little having been left out over the busy lunch period).

I therefore arrived in the adult world with a slightly warped perception of what constituted a meal. Food was fuel. It was functional, and economies of scale were more important than taste. Its consumption took place standing up around a stainless steel prepping surface, or a plate might be hastened through a busy bar underneath a paper serviette to be eaten on my lap.  I could happily lay a table but rarely sat down at one to eat convivially; a fact which was brought to the fore when we had to ‘practise’ sitting down to meals as a family before the German exchange student came to stay when I was 15. Thankfully that didn't have to be repeated for the current one. Eddie, Gilby and Gertie can happily sit down at a table; they just might not eat what is put in front of them.

I also had few culinary skills to speak of. The act of cooking was not a thing to inspire love. Mum was certainly not terrifically impressed when she was given a collection of carefully collated kitchen utensils as her Mother's Day gift from me one year. Cooking was all about science and hygiene.

At least until I met and married a Masterchef, who finally revealed its art. He needs to do the same for our children.

Birth Giver

For a long time now I have had Hearth Father in my phone as 'Love of my Life'. This is not some saccharine romantic gesture, more a way of reminding myself when I am answering the phone (through gritted teeth because he is late, or because I want to carry on the morning's row) that I did in fact choose to marry the man and 'love and honour' him for the rest of my life. 

Unfortunately, on my current mobile telephone there aren't enough characters to spell out the full moniker, and so I answer the phone to 'Love of my Lif'.

Which would be fine if it weren't for the connotations it brings of Douglas Adams and John Lloyd's Meaning of Liff, where the word 'liff' is in fact defined as 'a book, the contents of which are totally belied by its cover'. Don't think I want to over-analyse that one.

Anyway, it was only this weekend that I discovered that I, too, was on the receiving end of similar treatment. I was standing next to Gertie to 'WhatsApp' some photos from my phone to hers when I saw that her notification announced a message from 'Birth Giver'. 

Not quite as affectionate as 'Mum'. More sort of, well, functional and arbitrary than that. 

Currently pondering changing my contacts to update her entry as '12 Hour Labour, Induction & Episiotomy'.

More Teething Trouble

It's fair to say that our tooth fairy doesn't have the best record. If she was in my employment I'd probably sack her. She is dreadfully unreliable and sometimes forgets to come on time. Sometimes she is unable to find the tooth and wakes the owner up accidentally during the search. She doesn't often communicate like other tooth fairies seem to, and when she does leave a note, her writing is 'too big' - apparently.

Eddie lost a tooth this week. Hearth mother and father had been busy doing a play while dealing with September, back to school routines, the aftermath of puppy-gate and a new member of the family (we have a teenage German exchange student staying with us).

The tooth fairy was up to her old tricks again.

'She didn't come!' cried a distraught Eddie upon waking yesterday morning.

'What do you mean?' I called, frowning at Hearth-father and fumbling frantically in my purse.

Hearth Father's palm was duly crossed and he took up the, er,  baton. 'Now then, let's see. I bet she did. Nothing there under the pillow? Are you sure? Let's look under the...mattress, just in case.'

Lo and behold: a single shiny pound coin. Magic. Sleight of hand. Disaster averted. Eddie was ecstatic. For a moment.

'But she didn't take the tooth!' he wailed.

'No-o. No, she didn't. Um...Perhaps she was disturbed in the night. Maybe you woke up too soon.'

This was followed by some hasty improvisation of fairy folklore.

'She might come back for it tonight?' He added, rather desperately. 'Perhaps that's what happens in these, um, cases...'

Thankfully, the tooth fairy had a better memory in the evening. But there were whispered discussions across the landing.

'She wouldn't just take it and leave nothing...'

'Do you think she would leave another coin?'

'Well, it has always been a two pound coin for the first big front tooth...'

'Fair enough.'

Some urgent checking of pockets and purses ensued.

'I've only got a bloody two quid coin!'

'Ssssssh. Give it here.'

'But then he'll have had three pounds!'

'Never mind. It'll have to do. So be it.'

Thus Eddie came down to breakfast in jubilant mood this morning, his trouser pockets heavy with gold; and was last overheard in the playground regaling his friends with the story of how he tricked the tooth fairy...

Currently reading: Mapp & Lucia by EF Benson

So Last Century

'The Beatles? Aren't they some old band from last century?'

This year's summer holiday was to Liverpool and the Isle of Man. The weather allowed plenty of swimming in the Irish Sea, and the rare occurrence of accompanying sunburn. The return journey included a stopover in Liverpool.

I thought my offspring would be excited to see the world-famous Cavern Club. Turns out...no. Primark was more exciting, as we don't have one near us. Not only were they not impressed by one of the most famous live music venues in the world  ('Can we go now, it's dark and boring'), we discovered that it wasn't just that they were firmly not Beatles fans, but that they actually didn't know any Beatles songs.

Clearly a case of parenting gone wrong, I sought to rectify this, immediately. I know, I thought, the drive back from Liverpool is a good four or five hours. That will give me plenty of time to educate these poor, deprived children.

Cue rapid download of The Beatles 'Essentials'. Don't worry, I felt the hand of Alan Partridge as we were doing it.

And then I thought, it isn't that they don't know any songs, it's just that they don't know they are by The Beatles. Let's see how many they are actually familiar with!

It didn't go well. Gertie had her headphones in, but she did deign to remove them for the opening few bars of each track to then offer an increasingly frustrated shake of the head to indicate that no, she really didn't know this one either.

Eventually, success!  We All Live in A Yellow Submarine provoked a spark of recognition. 'I thought it was a nursery rhyme.'

And Let it Be was 'vaguely familiar'. Nothing else though.

'Do we have to listen to any more of this OLD rubbish music? Seriously, mummy, these songs all sound exactly the same.'

Eddie joined in with the general malcontent, putting his fingers in his ears and pointedly singing, 'HATE Jude' once he'd mastered the refrain.

It was a very long journey home.

The Birthday Party

Gilby reached the milestone of double figures.

We are a long way beyond the class party these days. Yes, they were horrendous, but at least with the saving grace of being all over and done with in an hour and half. 

But, no. To celebrate, his treat of choice was to:

Take a group of friends to a trampoline park. 

Straight from school on the last day of the summer term. 

A suitably unhealthy burger and chips to follow the bouncing. 

Then all back to our garden for what is breezily termed a 'camping sleepover'.

I try not to begin from a 'deficit perspective' but there seems no other way to approach this given

the significant number of potential, actual and unforeseen pitfalls to this plan.

1. Eight children at a trampoline park.

Now, I don't know what the odds are in relation to number of visitors per injury, but I figured that our chances of ending up in casualty were pretty high. In my head, it was only a question of where the first blow might strike. Our odds were susbtiantially increased because in a fit of what I can only describe as a combination of uncharacteristic generosity and utter madness, I had booked the two hour bouncing deal instead of the single hour option. I had also failed to notice that the 'deal' was actually called 'Hungry Bouncers' and included a 'free' hot-dog. That meant that we were actually filling the boys up with two forms of processed meat in rapid succession. If they weren't going to end up in hospital through bouncing then perhaps the long-term health problems were going to get them there eventually.

2. Decibels

The noise quality in trampoline parks - and I don't mean to do them down specifically; it is generally the same in all 'soft play' establishments - is of a particular quality and timbre that generally leaves me wanting to crawl into a quiet hole after extended exposure to it. Note previous point in relation to the two, rather than one, hour deal.

3. The curse of the Golden Arches.

As a vegetarian I am not generally a big fan of the chains of 'family burger restaurants' with which we are all familiar. I object to the use of the term 'restaurant' when you are required to order at a counter, wait for your food, carry it back to plastic immovable chairs and tables, forage for condiments and then clear up after yourself, even though the person sitting at the table before you clearly didn't. And I object to the term particularly since they are not licensed to sell alcohol at all, let alone in the numbing quantities required to survive this sort of situation. When I say 'situation', I mean the kind of practices that boys eating burgers together seem to enact. Especially when they aren't actually that hungry because they have been bouncing for two hours and been given a giant hot-dog. Gilby is generally the nicest-mannered of my children, but somehow he feels the need to engage in burping, farting, food-throwing, food-wasting and fighting antics that would be unacceptable on any other day of the year, but somehow become tolerated when in the company of other people's children. Which brings me on to point 4...

4. Other people's children 

What is it and what is it not ok to refuse people's children? Three of the boys were very polite. At least to begin with. And three were not. I started getting all judgy at the lack of please and thank yous from the outset. And then there was the asking for things that had not been offered. A round of slushies were included in the two hour deal. I'm aware that I keep using the word 'deal' as though I had obtained some sort of bargain on the day. I would like to disabuse everyone of that idea and explain that in fact, attendance for eight children for two hours at aforementioned  trampoline park was extortionate and virtually required remortgaging. Nevertheless, some rejected the slushies and said that they wanted squash or coke or milk or anything that they could think of that wasn't a slushy. Grumpily, I said no and referred repeatedly to 'the deal'. Dear Jaydn - not quite enough vowels, surely? shrugged off the rejection

5. Sleep

What are the chances of that many boys in a tent, for some of whom it was their first sleepover, actually getting some sleep? The answer is, unsurprisingly, very little. Marshmallow toasting (supervised by Hearth-father while I went in search of the wine that had been so absent from our 'restaurant' experience) went on until quite late, and it seems that an injection of sugar at bedtime is not exactly conducive to 'settling down'. The torrential downpour after days of glorious sunshine didn't help. The fact is they didn't settle down. I sent Hearth-Father out at regular intervals to shush them, with fairly minimal results. The cricket game began at 5am when the rain stopped. At 5.15 the neighbour from two doors down was banging on the front door to complain. Saturday morning did not, therefore, begin in a terrifically positive way, and I did not come out of the exchange terribly well.

6. Inappropriate moral lessons

This one was definitely unforeseen. In an effort to reestablish relations with Two Doors Down, we decided it would be a good idea to send Gilby round the following afternoon with a box of chocolates and a rehearsed apology. Missing nothing, and still in his formative years, we appear to have inadvertently warped Eddie's already fragile moral code. He piped up, 'What? So she gets a present for coming round here and shouting? Are you serious?'

Parklife

I love my morning dog walk. It is a quiet time for contemplation and preparation; some fresh air and exercise; an opportunity to fortify myself for the day ahead. 

Before we moved house a couple of years ago, our walks were in wild woodland. Now that we are back in the village they are in a little public gardens up the road. I thought Kempton, our Golden Retriever and sixth family member (who suffers under the illusion that she can talk like a human), would miss the fields and acres; but actually, the fact that is more of a sociable event since she sees other dogs these days seems to be just as exciting for her. It is me who misses the fields and woods of rural Sussex living.

But Kempy has now found a new way to make what is generally a delightful experience something of a torture.

It has long been her particular mischief to do her morning business right in the middle of the large grassy area in the gardens. Now it's worth saying that this is a minor irritant. In olden days I would be 'wellied-up', (not to mention no £1000 fine for failing to pick up poo - a smart kick into the undergrowth was all that was required). Given that we now go for a walk in the nicely landscaped and pave-pathed park, I'm usually in smart clothes and work shoes. Not sartorial choices conducive to walking across muddy grass in order for one of my first actions of the day to be a poo-scoop.

But Kempy has now taken the 'central vantage point' to a whole new level. Did I mention the nice landscaping? Which has resulted in a giant grassy mound, to mimic the nearby undulating South Downs in miniature, perhaps. This is now Kempy's early-morning-dump spot of choice.

I don't know if you have, by chance, noticed the unseasonably inclement weather this June, but earlier this week it was...persistently raining. Cue me, scrabbling my way up the mound on all fours, mud-splattered and mostly slip-sliding away in an ungainly fashion, just to retrieve a wet turd.

Not exactly the blissful contemplative experience I once enjoyed. Thanks, Kempy.

Just for that, I'm going to include one of you not looking at your best:

Currently reading: Bloody Brilliant Women by Cathy Newman

Confessions about Confession

Today was Eddie's 'Sacrament of Reconciliation' in preparation for his First Holy Communion next week.

He has spent eight months taking classes to get ready, and has completed various chapters of his preparatory book. 

One page asked him to complete the sentence, 'When I grow up, I want to be...' To my surprise, his answer was 'a footballer'. It's Gilby who has always seemed to be the sporting star, and though Eddie is a dancer and a gymnast, he hasn't shown a great deal of football ability thus far. 

But then, underneath, he wrote, 'But my Plan B is engineer, scientist or artist'. Nothing like keeping your options open, or embracing an interdisciplinary approach, then.

He was a little bit concerned prior to the act of confession itself. Understandably so - I mean, this is Eddie we're talking about - but he concluded, 'It was actually fine. Even though Gilby told me it was intense'.  Good older brother. Telling it how it is.

But he also observed, 'It's awkward when you can't think of any more sins to say'. Indeed. Which makes me think that he must have a rather inflated sense of his own goodness. He whispered to me that as well as the penance, the priest had counselled him to 'say more prayers' and 'be a better friend'. 

I have to confess myself that I was a tad disappointed that going to bed when he's told, not answering back, keeping his room tidy, not fighting with his brother and doing what he's told generally weren't mentioned. But perhaps the prayers will help with that.

There was also a rehearsal for the main event. Eddie's thoughts? 'The bread tastes like plastic and the wine tastes like beer'. Not a great vintage, then.

Currently reading: Here Come The Girls by Pat Barker

Silverware Wars and Sporting Firsts

There were proud moments at the weekend, as Hearth-Father and Gilby strode out onto a cricket pitch together for the first time, playing in a friendly game for Ladymead, versus Ockley.

Gilby was a little bit nervous, he confided in me on the way to the match. "And I don't think I want to bowl."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm nine and they're men!"

Fair enough. He did, though, and bowled a maiden for the final over. And at one point there was Hearth-Father, Hearth-Uncle and Gilby all in the slip cordon. Not sure how many more times that might happen.

(Now I'm looking forward to stepping out onto a stoolball pitch with Gertie for the first time ever tomorrow night. Come on the weather!)

(*Edit: This did happen! And we batted out the final overs together, me 26 not out, she 5 not out. Dream team!

)

But the cricket wasn't the best bit about Gilby's day. The best bit was being awarded player of the year for the second year running for his football team. It was totally unexpected - especially as I had been suggesting that since he won it last year they would probably share things about a little to give another player a turn. Apparently not.

When he walked off the cricket pitch after three hours of fielding his little face lit up when he remembered the morning's silverware that he had entirely forgotten about in his state of concentration. It's fair to say he slept well on Sunday evening.

Meanwhile, Gertie and Eddie were in action at a dancing competition on Saturday. For the first time ever, Eddie came home with more silverware than his sister. (She's in the top grade and he's still classed as a beginner, but we'll ignore that...)

A wonderful way to end the half-term break. Roll on summer.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

On Hearths. And Mothers.

I have been parenting for twelve years this week. Gertie will celebrate her birthday with a meal at a local restaurant with friends. Very grown up. Very exclusive. In the sense that no adults are allowed. Only at the end to pay the bill.

It follows, though, a bit of a soul-searching weekend. Eldest Gertie has been unrelentingly stroppy and demanding, middle Gilby seems to be in a permanent rage, and youngest Eddie even more than the usual law unto himself. Where have we gone wrong? There was much handwringing and lament. And some consoling wine.

But yesterday! They were immaculate. All day. Morning and evening and bedtime. Eddie went to his gymnastics class without a single murmur of dissent, and on first asking to put his shoes on. First asking! Gertie and Gilby collaborated on a housework project that meant I walked back into a sweet smelling, vacuumed downstairs, with all the laundry put away. I'd only asked them to clear their things after supper. I quite literally didn't know how to respond. 

So. One whole day in twelve years seems to have gone well. (We won't mention today.) Hooray for parenting! Hooray for Hearth-mother!

I chose the name 'hearth-mother' as a reaction against the earth-mother types that I met when pregnant and when Gertie was first born. The ones who were winning at motherhood: those who managed to breast feed incessantly without any effort, and then shredded roast lamb and purée artichoke for the baby whilst serving up four unmushed courses for their partners; the ones who did complex crafting with their precious offspring with endless calm and patience while playing a musical instrument and learning Mandarin themselves; and, most offensive of all: who always had immaculate make-up. I never really picked up makeup again after childbirth, so how women had time to put on a 'full face' was astonishing to me. They seemed there just to make the rest of us (well, mostly me) feel bad.

Going out, as in 'leaving the house', back then was just - well - too hard. Going out with a baby was a massive mission, a feat well beyond my limited capabilities. It was all I could do to sit by the fire, and er, tend the hearth.

Blogposts over the years have regularly been about the funny, silly, awful, brilliant things that the kids do, often alongside barely disguised allusions to my sustained parenting inadequacy. No doubt research could prove a connection between the two.

But I am currently reading Mythos by Stephen Fry, and in discussing Hestia, Goddess of - well, the Hearth, he explains:

In our less communal age of central heating and separate rooms for each family member, we do not lend the hearth quite the importance that our ancestors did, Greek or otherwise. Yet, even for us, the word stands for something more than just a fireplace. We speak of 'hearth and home'. Our word 'hearth' shares its ancestry with 'heart', just as the modern Greek for 'hearth' is kardia, which also means 'heart'. In Ancient Greece the wider concept of hearth and home was expressed by the oikos which lives on for us today in words like 'economics' and 'ecology'. The Latin for hearth is focus - which speaks for itself. 

So. Turns out Hearth-Mother might be a bit of domestic goddess. Literally. Not this one, obvs, but in name, and, on the eve of Gertie's twelfth birthday, my heart (hearth) is singing.

Currently reading: Mythos by Stephen Fry

Human, or Dancer

At a recent dance performance I failed to recognise my own daughter when we poked our heads backstage to wish her luck.

I only knew it was she since I got a dismissive finger wave from a mascara-clad, crimped, sequinned, gum-chewing pre-teen that I assumed must be her - as we backed hurriedly out of the room.

On stage, I recognised her from her dance steps rather than her face.

And whilst I was proud of her younger brother dancing with all the big kids, it was pointed out to me that he more resembles a table football peg than a boy:

Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan

Do Arms Dream of Electric Whisks?

School Holidays essentially become a daily battle to:

a) see how long we can exist each day without resorting to screens of any kind

b) complete a) in the context of spending as little money as possible.

Today we reached 3pm before the television went on with its infuriating YouTube gaming videos. Apologies if I offend someone who actually produces these, but whilst playing a computer game for hours on end seems to me like an utter waste of life, watching someone else do it feels even less worthwhile. It's one of those generational things where my children turn to me, shake their heads, and tell me that I 'just don't understand'. Quite.

And I managed to do it all whilst only spending £4.42 on baking ingredients. Winning at life. So, today's activities included:

1. A continuation of the comic strip collaboration (between Eddie and Gilby) of Captain Mega and the Alien Invasion  (where the lid of a permanent marker being left off led to the, well, 'permanent marking' of a drying towel.

2. An Irish dancing practice session.

3. Starting the new jigsaw puzzle.

4. A game of chess that turned into who could twirl the pieces on their edge for the longest.

5. Several hours of trampolining. (Because it was a bit damp and drizzly, it required Eddie wearing 11 - count them - pairs of socks to stop his little toes getting wet.)

6. An extra washing load. See 5.

7. A banana cake, made by Gertie and Eddie

8. And, not to be outdone, a rival baking adventure that resulted in Gilby's first Victoria sponge.

The banana cake created the most mess, but also produced my favourite exchange of the day:

Gertie: Oh why is it taking so long to cream the butter?

Eddie: Because we aren't electric.

Currently reading: The Wife by Meg Wolitzer

Literacy and Tulips

Eddie and I went for a walk this morning.  I'd like to say that it was a meandering purposeless walk; walking for the sake of it, but no - we were in a hurry to get to his holy communion class and steaming down the road at a hundred miles an hour running slightly late, but not late enough to take the car for the short distance.

To make up for the relentlessness of the pace, (and in an attempt at 'good' parenting) I tried to point out a few things along the way. 'Look at those budding tulips,' I urged.

At which point we made an interesting discovery.

'Tulip is one of my favourite words,' he enthused. 'You can really taste it.'

Really, I thought. And what exactly does it taste of? Masticated flesh, perhaps? But of course I didn't say that.

'It tastes of air,' he explained. 'But air in a tube.'

Oh, right.

Turns out that we may have a little synesthete on our hands. Later on we were talking about whether he preferred Maths or Literacy at school.

He physically shuddered at the word 'Literacy' - though it is one of his favourite things.

'I am probably better at literacy,' he explained, but I hear and sort of feel the whoosh of the paper-cutting thing when you say it.'

'The guillotine?' (Not to brag, but I have quite an impressive one in the study: it was one of my favourite Christmas presents last year.)

'Yes, that.'

At bedtime I did another little check. What colour is 'A', I wanted to know.

'Orange,' came the reply. Without any hesitation. C is blue, and S is red, apparently.

OK. So my friend Google tells me that apparently four percent of the population experience this phenomenon of experiencing a cognitive intertwining of sensory perception. But common amongst writers and artists.

Ergo, he'll probably grow up to be a poet or a novelist. Obvs.  Except that 'literacy' and a guillotine is a slightly unfortunate association...



Currently reading: Bookworm by Lucy Mangan

Accidental Kissing

Sunday. 

As a treat I nipped into the supermarket and bought some branded ice creams for after lunch. As I returned to the car holding the box aloft there was excitement and jubilation (which rather belies how infrequently I do such spontaneous treat-buying.) Eddie, acting without thinking, embraced his brother in delight. 

Gilby was utterly horrified - and outraged. "Uggh! Mum! Eddie just kissed me on the cheek!"

"Well," I countered, "I think that's a rather lovely thing for a brother to do to a brother."

"No it isn't," squealed Eddie, wiping his lips. "I'm totally never doing that again!"

Oh. Brotherly love, then.

Currently reading: Winter by Ali Smith

Growing Vocabulary

Last day of the holidays and an unexpected treat: tickets to the Arsenal game at home to Southampton; courtesy of friends of ours who were unable to go. So big sister was bribed to look after Eddie - while Gilby and I skipped up to London. A packed lunch to eat on the train, and a £2 child train ticket (get in, half-term economy financing!)  and we were on our way. Even the rail replacement service (and the lack of parking at the station we drove to in order to avoid the  rail replacement) couldn't stop us from being in plenty of time for the game. Pocket money was proudly spent on purchasing a programme: A momento of Gilby's third visit to the Emirates and second premier league match.

Unlike on Gilby's previous two visits, the Arsenal scored first: a Lacazette flick just six minutes in. Hooray! And they played beautifully for the first half, with a second goal coming from Mikhitaryan about ten minutes later. I was rubbing my hands together. This was going to be an easy afternoon of joyful football-watching.

But even though it was the holidays, it definitely managed to be an 'educational' visit. Because it is, well, rather sweary in that North Bank. 

Gilby's vocabulary, therefore, has expanded in some unfortunate ways.

He now knows all sorts of ways to describe the ref's parentage and sexual inclinations, as well as some adjectives to describe some issues with his eyesight; not to mention some synonyms for various body parts belonging to the opposition players.

Hey ho. That's football. I dread to think what words he might have learned had we gone behind. 

Final score two nil. Somehow. The less said about our performance in the second half, the better. Which made it all the swearier up there in the North Bank. So. All good for increasing the word bank.



Currently reading: The Book of Dust by Philip Pullman

Half Term Plate Spinning

The character of half term definitely changes as the children get older.

For starters, I get disproportionately cross at the wheedling morning conversation that begins, What are we doing today?

'Nothing' is apparently not a satisfactory answer to this question. And supervising half term basically requires a qualification in plate spinning.

Because, after shooting myself in the foot by starting the week with the surprise 10am big screen showing of Spider-Man Spirals into the Super Spiderverse - might have got that title wrong, it was something like that - first thing on Monday morning, I seem unable to top the wow factor.

(There was an ulterior motive to this uncharacteristically generous and thoughtful surprise though; it bought me two hours of precious scrapbooking time with a fellow mum while they were safely ensconced in the cinema with secreted home-made popcorn. Oh, and the tickets were less than £3 each.)

Since then I have tried to avoid a descent into the eleventh circle of hell (death by screens and devices) by: attempting to make homework 'fun' (that didn't turn out terribly well), encouraging drawing and doodling with actual pens, supervising fudge-making, driving eldest on a five hour round trip to visit her cousins, and even dragging out the unbelievably faffy chocolate coin maker of a few Christmases ago which tries my patience entirely since there are 35 steps to make a single sodding coin.

And it's only Wednesday! Happy half term.

Currently Reading:

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

Droning On

Today hasn't gone terribly well, thus far.

I woke up with a horribly stiff neck causing a lot of pain whenever I turn to my left hand side. An old netball injury occasionally requires expensive trips to the osteopath. I'll get my wallet. 

Note to self: remove superfluous magazine-style cushions and pillows that have been artfully arranged across the bed before going to sleep. 

I came downstairs to be confronted by a utility room that was decorated in mountains of 'loose' dog poo. Not to be outdone, the cat seems to have joined in, for good measure. The description that I gave to a sleeping Hearth-Father was a little less measured, but probably not fit for blog post publication. 

Note to self: do not feed leftover chilli to the dog.

But the big story of the day came just after breakfast. Here is a picture of a sad little boy, holding an empty box:

Yesterday he enjoyed the rare treat of a visit to the toy shop. After much deliberation he chose to spend all his Christmas money on a drone. Said drone disappeared this morning on its maiden flight. Very possibly, it is perched atop our roof, or stuck inside our chimney. Looking upwards and searching the skies has done little to help my neck pain.  The strategic deployment of neighbours at upper storey windows has failed to yield any results. It is like it has disappeared into thin air. (Please let there not be any untoward activity at nearby airports this afternoon.)

Note to self: ensure seven-year-old has achieved full license before allowing solo drone flying.

Just about to attempt to cook roast lunch in an attempt to restore family harmony. What could possibly go wrong?

Currently reading: Roar by Celia Ahern

It's All Greek To Me

It has been a busy old week with regards to the combined demands of primary school and social commitments. Monday was 'Superhero Day' for Year 2. Eddie hasn't worn a superhero costume for a couple of years, so some improvisation was needed. 

Yesterday was 'Forest Schools' followed by a party at a local farm park. This required the sorting out of a present for the birthday girl - on a school night - and, with an after work meeting and ferrying the kids to clubs until 9pm, I left Daddy in charge. He surpassed himself. I had expected a tenner stuffed in a card, but the present was thoughtfully chosen, wrapped and delivered on time.  

Today was 'Greek Day' for Year 5, so, following the success of mid-week birthday-gate, Hearth-Father was promoted to costume design for the first time. With hindsight, I don't know why I have found the last few years remotely stressful. I should have handed over responsibilities a long time ago. I may be about to announce my retirement. Somehow he managed this:

And is utterly forgiven for raiding the wardrobe for my sandals and destroying a pillow case. I have no idea about the authenticity, but am overwhelmed by the commitment. After nineteen years I have discovered my husband's secret dressmaking skill. The needle and cotton are his domain from now on.

Currently reading: The Mere Wife by Maria Dahvana Headley