Slackers

We went to see The Lion King at the Lyceum Theatre yesterday. It was a generous gift to the family (and the tickets were pricy); nevertheless, it was priceless to see Eddie's face as the first creatures took to the stage in the Circle of Life number. 

The giraffes and the elephant turned his little mouth into a long 0, and though he played it cool afterwards, he was totally engaged in the whole thing. He was especially impressed with the actor playing young Simba, whom he judged to be about his own age. 

On the train on the way home, this got him reflecting about other child stars. Our conversation went something like this:

Eddie: So Michael Jackson was only ten years old when 'Easy as 1-2-3' came out?

Me: That's right: ten years old. Perhaps you're slacking, and should crack on a bit?

Eddie: Yeah well, I don't have a Jackson 5, do I? I think it's YOU that's slacking, Mum. 

Ouch. And that told me!

Bribing My Way Through Lockdown Days

Half term is always expensive, and turns out it still was, even in lockdown during a global pandemic when we can't really live the house, and certainly not the village. 

How, you ask? 

Well, we have a 'rule' in our household of no devices before 3pm. Mornings, without the discipline of homeschooling, became long voids of time. Gertie met a friend to walk around with for an hour each day. Gilby managed a socially-distanced morning of fishing with a schoolfriend, and Eddie, too young to meet up with a friend independently, read quite a lot of Beano. (A subscription has been his lockdown treat.) What we really needed was structure and purpose. 

So I resorted to bribery - always a parenting win - and came up with a series of half-term 'challenges' with a heirarchy of financial reward. (And before I am judged too harshly, they don't yet get pocket money.) 

The list included poetry and Shakespeare by heart, cooking, DIY, writing, music and sport. 

Gertie learned the prologue to Romeo and Juliet. Eddie learned the first part of Hamlet's 'To Be Or Not To Be' soliloquy - though it sounds funny coming from the mouth of a 9-year-old. We had two three-course-meals cooked for the entire family, and the boys collaborated on writing and recording a song about the foibles of various family members. Several 5km runs were completed in increasingly competitive times, and I got a new birdtable. (To be fair, that birdtable required some intervention from Hearth Father as it was a little more complex than I originally envisioned, but still.)

I am now skint. 

The littler people have decided that challenges are an easier way to earn money than chores. It's a crying shame that they require the extrinsic motivation of a financial incentive to do this sort of stuff. I seem to have created some sort of monster. Easter is only three weeks away. Let's hope we have a few more freedoms. It would be cheaper to go to a theme park or eat out every day. And it might have been cheaper to buy a handcrafted birdtable from an artisan online shop, but never mind. 

Currently reading: A Swim in a Pond in the Rain by George Saunders

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.

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

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

School Uniform: The Holy Grail

Smashing parenting today!

This comes with an exclamation mark as it is not a claim I am often able to make. Did I say 'often'? I meant 'ever'. But today is the day.

Let me explain. We are in the final days of the summer holidays and so comes the inevitable uniform buying, gathering, labelling nightmare.

Gertie is going to secondary school which means that she is starting from scratch. Blazer, two polo shirts and the skirt come to eighty quid, and we haven't got as far as shoes or PE kit yet, so this time of year is laden with expense as well as stress. 

The boys won't stop growing, and although Eddie, being number three, essentially lives in hand-me-downs, there is still an awful lot of 'naming' to be done on uniform. This has always filled me with horror. I am not a lover of sewing. The iron-in labels are fiddly and horrible. A biro doesn't quite cut it in the leafy lanes of rural West Sussex. It takes hours and I hate it. Usually. 

But finally, after eleven years of parenting I have made an investment and found the answer. The philosopher's stone, the Holy Grail. It is transformative. Totally life-changing.

This is so not a sponsored post as I am simply not important enough to do that, so I shall refrain from naming the company involved. It wasn't cheap because I had to buy three of them. But I can now stamp their names on to their uniform, This makes it fun. 

Even Gilby's socks have received the treatment. Yes, his socks! Look:

I know. Go me, go me, go me.

Best £44 I have ever spent!

Currently reading:

This is going to hurt by Adam Kay

Girlfriends and Gambling

Eddie had a night out with his 'girlfriend' last weekend.

Yes, Eddie is six.

It gets worse: They went (with her family) to Goodwood and enjoyed an evening of racing. Ahem.  So, he's starting young with the women and gambling. I entrusted five pounds to the care of  Isla's parents so that they could place some bets.

Eddie, of course, won on the first race. £7. So ten minutes in and he has more than doubled his money. Uh oh. He loses on every other race of the night, but is still 'up' at the end. He comes home lofting a precious five pound note high in the air.

"Look at the money I won!" he says.

"And where's the five pounds that Mum gave you to start with?"

"Isla's parents have that. You'll have to ask them. This bit's mine. I won it."

Right.

He had two very late nights in a row. (Well, it's still the summer holidays...) because the following evening he was at a family party. He came home shattered, and, relenting for once, I cuddled him up the stairs to bed. 

"You said I was too heavy to carry up the stairs any more..." he observed, sleepily, cheek pressed into my shoulder.

"Well, just this once, as you are so exhausted," I soothed.

"Yes, I'm much lighter when I'm tired, aren't I?"

Can't fault this boy's logic.




Currently reading: Eileen by Ottessa Moshfegh

LegoPlannedLand

After the hell of Peppa Pig World as a treat for the big kids when Eddie was born, it has taken six years for me to summon the willpower, not to mention secure the finances, to venture to another theme park. 

I hate them. I really do. I hate all the other people who cheerfully go. I hate the herding. I despise the queue 'disguising' (that jaw-dropping disappointment as you turn what you think is the final corner only to find another one hundred people waiting ahead of you). I cringe at the cynical purchase positioning of themed toys at every opportunity, designed to make you look like mean parents for denying. I could easily go on.

So, what we thought we would do is pick the UK's busiest theme park, Legoland, for a visit during the school holidays. Yes, we know how to play it.

So, I had mentally prepared myself for the queues. But at Legoland there was even a queue for the toilets all day long. (In one building two out of the ten cubicles were out of order.)

And a disappointment was that the funicular train ride wasn't operating. A leftover from the Windsor Safari Park days I had a nostalgic desire to travel the hill this way (Worthy of a £5 discount, surely, since everything is commodified? More on that, later, in the 'lessons'.)

We had done quite a bit of research, got there for opening, knew to head to the back of the park first and had a plan of action. Here is what we achieved, in order, with wait times in brackets:  The Dragon (30 minutes), Jolly Rocker (10 minutes), Coastguard (30 minutes), Driving Licence (40 minutes - but we tag teamed the queuing so that these two, which were next to each other, overlapped), Fire Academy (45 minutes), Ninjago (40 minutes), Scarab bouncers (15 minutes) GameZone (10 minutes), Pirate Falls (35 minutes), Viking River Splash (25 minutes), Jolly Rocker (again, 10 minutes), Atlantis (30 minutes), Mia's Riding Adventure (25 minutes), The Dragon (again, 15 minutes), Spinning Spider (15 minutes).

We were there when they opened the gates, and left as they closed them, so of the eight and a half hours in Windor, six and a quarter were spent in a queue.

I am embracing a growth mindset, so this is what I have learned:

Four Lessons of Legoland 

1. Take oodles of snacks and eat in the queue. There's no time for slacking. Or lunch. Through the gate at 10am, by midday we had completed just four rides. If you can keep that pace up all day long then it averages three pounds per ride per person, assuming some vouchers have been used to enter - and as long as you just don't stop. Longest queue in the Easter holidays on a cold and dreary day was 75 minutes.

2. Play the 'no more money' mission. After extortionate admission fees, there are fleecing opportunities at every turn. £6 for the parking. £12 for a photo lanyard upon achieving your 'driving licence' in Lego City. £10 for your photo on 'The Dragon', or any other of the big rides.£12.50 for a refillable drinks bottle on entry. It was a nightmarish consumer frenzy. There are fairground-type stalls where you can 'win' big cuddly things for hooking a duck at £5 a pop. We made it part of the day's proceedings not to spend a penny more than the entrance. (It's obscene that the Ninjago Ride disgorges into the Ninjago shop.)

3. Bring alcohol. It's the only way to survive the hell. Children make good mules as their small backpacks are innocent-looking. Consumption in a queue is frowned upon, however.

4. Bring a supply of plastic covering for the wet rides. (To avoid the £2 charge for a family dryer and £3.50 for a Legoland poncho.) Or, as Gertie put it, "Three pounds fifty for a yellow bin bag? You're having a laugh!"

So, don't tell anyone but I quite enjoyed myself on the Dragon and the Jolly Rocker, and my favourite, Mia's Riding Adventure. And, apart from a slightly stressful moment in the unavoidable Ninjago shop where I had to wrestle some polystyrene nunchaku from a determined six-year-old, the kids were patient and well-behaved throughout.

But my best moment of the day was on departure when Eddie said, "I really did think that there would be more Lego..."

Vicious Viscosity

So, what sadist designed this little package?

John Adams, whoevever he be, has a sense of humour.

Gilby and Eddie were, of course, desperate to get involved in this little box of goodies. And, in a titanically bad bit of planning where I had a double play date for Gertie on the last day of the holidays (and I badly needed to mark books and plan lessons), I agreed. Seven plus. Should be fine for a reasonably intelligent eight-year-old and his six-year-old brother, I thought. How bad can it be? 

Now, I should know by now, that whenever I cheerfully have the 'how bad can it be?' thought, the answer is always, 'Very bad indeed'. I had, of course, neglected to notice that the large '7+' on the box actually had an 'under adult supervision' tag line in the instructions themselves.

Thus far we have fart-powder, snot and tears (though I don't think tears were actually one of the chemical compounds). Not to mention one ruined carpet, towel and washing up sponge. That snot is viscous. Not to mention vicious. And there are still far too many pots and potions and unused things left over for my liking.

Eddie's cuteness whilst wearing the safety goggles, and Gilby's earnestness in correctly following the instructions, are the only reasons they remain alive today.

Currently reading: Crooked Heart by Lissa Evans

Little Mix Up

I thought that, with all the children now settled at school, we had passed the point of major milestones but Gertie achieved one last night with her first 'gig'. We went, (along with most of the primary-aged girls in Sussex) to see Little Mix at Ardingly. Someone was VERY excited about the prospect.

Her mother was, well, less so.

Preparations were extensive: the choosing of the outfit, the hair, the earrings. And of course we bought the t-shirt, which was modeled immediately:

It was a nightmare getting in and out of the ground, and we ended up spending longer in the car park afterwards than the band actually played for; but, logistical gripes aside, I enjoyed the whole thing much more than I thought I would, and mostly I enjoyed Gertie's joy in the whole experience. We went with two of her friends and they danced and screamed and hugged each other all night long.

With all that car park time to kill, the post mortem was extensive, and involved the three girls reliving every word to every song. Which was nice. But Gertie wished that she could have bought one of the lanyards designed to look like a back-stage pass. I pointed out that I'd needed to remortgage to cover the cost of food and their soft drinks, AND she'd got a t-shirt.

"But Jess went to see The Next Step Live and she got a sweat-shirt, a t-shirt, a programme and one of the necklace things," she pouted.

"Lanyard," I muttered, correcting her, and the conversation changed.

Except that, a few minutes later they were discussing another friend of theirs that they thought was a bit spoilt, and I heard one of them say, 'Yeah, she's such a lanyard...'

Hoping for an entry in the next OED.


Currently reading: To Miss With Love by Katharine Birbalsingh

Stumped

Instead of a summer holiday this year we have decided to spend the time at home doing the 'work' that needs doing on the house.

The first job is to construct a home office in the garden. A log cabin is arriving from Holland tomorrow morning (delivered by 'Roger', whom we have now nicknamed 'Roger the Cabin Boy', inexplicably collapsing into laughter whenever he is mentioned). Today's project therefore involved clearing the space ready for its arrival.

At one stage Hearth-Father was being roundly beaten by a stubborn tree stump; he broke a spade trying to dig it out.

Eddie came over to take a look. 'See, what you want to do there, is, you want to bury a bone just beside it?'.  As four pairs of eyes gazed questioningly at him, he patiently explained, 'Well, then Kempy (our golden retriever) will just dig down really hard and dig up the stump for us!' Simple. He gave a detailed description, with some accompanying mime in case we couldn't quite picture his solution.

When I asked how he had come by this idea he told me nonchalantly that he 'read a lot of books'.

This evening we have acquired a digger, so tomorrow should herald faster progress...

Currently reading: Theft by Finding Diaries Volume 1 by David Sedaris

Steven Gerrard Ate My Sausages

Getting to bed at a respectable 2am after seeing in the new year with friends and family, it is fair to say that I was nursing the suggestion of a teensy-tiny hangover first thing.  Given that I was clearly in the lower magnitude on the Richter scale of hangovers, and was not the only sufferer, discussion at the in-laws this morning focused on the merits or otherwise of different hangover cures. It is worth stating here that Hearth-Father visited the opticians yesterday. I am beginning to wish he had had his ears tested instead. For 'bacon sandwich', that well-known remedy, he heard 'baby cabbage'.

Even as a vegetarian I think I know which I would prefer.

The inclement weather meant that this new year's day has definitely been one for 'plotting up', a favourite expression in our household, rather than going out. I have thereby discovered that it is actually fun spending time with members of my family. Eddie has been running round earnestly completing pages of his 'Wreck This Journal', a lucky, last-minute choice by Santa, as it turns out. Gilby, obsessed by the trials and tribulations of Tom Gates has also begun keeping a journal of his own. Today's entry was entitled 'Steven Gerrard ate my sausages' which is an inspired interpretation of the morning's events.

I won't spoil the mystery by explaining exactly how that came about; suffice to say that is is, in a sense, accurate, (not the Steven Gerrard, obvs) and provides an excellent, if somewhat obscure, title for a blog post.

There has been some new year's brotherly love. I'm not panicking, it's bound not to last, but I enjoyed it nonetheless:

I spent two hours in the bath reading Anna Karenina, which means that I might just about have finished it in time for new year 2018 - but what luxury. Turns out you can do that sort of thing on New Year's Day. And Arsenal won, helped by a blinding goal from Giroud. Happy new year one and all.

Quite Nice Children, Really

I have written about this before, but spending time alone with any of my children is a revelation.

Our household is noisy and busy. Mornings are crazy, kit-frenzied affairs. Swimming, dancing, football, multisports, netball - they all feature on different days for different people. Each one requires 'stuff' that disappears somewhere into the ether between the last session and the next. It doesn't matter how organised we are. See my last blog post here for a picture of how organised we are. Breakfast orders are barked out and the breakfast table resembles Picadilly Circus.

And Eddie's voice, as a third child, has, through natural processes of evolution, reached decibels above that of his siblings. Its pitch can be migraine-inducing. Sometimes he makes noises like a Jurassic Park velociraptor just for fun. A genus of dromaeosaurid theropod dinosaur that existed approximately 75 to 71 million years ago during the later part of the Cretaceous Period regularly lives and breathes - and screams - in our kitchen.

The velociraptor analogy is apt because he is also extremely temperamental and you are therefore always only one wrong step or one wrong word away from getting your head bitten off. 'Terrible twos' bred thuggish threes, leading to ferocious fours and now frightful fives.

Ane he is not the only one. Often it doesn't feel as if we are getting actual human people ready for a day's living, but creatures of some sort. It is like herding cats, it is worse than trying to put a lid on a box of frogs, it is minding mice at crossroads and any other similar idioms you care to mention.

So it is refreshing when, in the relative calm of half term, I get to spend time with each of them individually. They are quite nice, on their own. I was surprised. They can talk sensibly without shouting. They are sort of like actual human people. Even Eddie. They have manners and are polite. They can sort of be interesting. Who knew?

Now to figure out how to break the pack mentality...




Currently reading: Nora Webster by Colm Toibin.

Holiday's End

The last day of the Easter holidays. Sigh.

About fifteen minutes ago, Gertie was practising her flute, Gilby had finished some reading (he's been inspired by a Tom Palmer football book) and was working his way through some maths problems (for fun) while Eddie was quietly doing some finger-painting.

"I've nailed this parenting lark," I thought to myself.

You know the rest:  Somehow this all morphed into a game of murdering Ninja death warriors and I now have two broken bits of furniture and one child in tears because they smashed their head into wardrobe doors.

"Best to write a blogpost," I thought to myself.



Currently reading: Virginia Woolf A Writer's Life by Lyndall Gordon

How Not to Receive A Christmas Gift

In the tumble back to school for the new year, we missed a haircut for Eddie.

Consequently he looks like a young Justin Bieber. Never an image I would have consciously sort, and bizarrely inappropriate for a four year old.

But that is the least of my problems.  I know that one of the joys of children is watching them speak their mind, but, when a close family friend arrived at the weekend bearing some late Christmas gifts, the conversation went something like this:

L: Happy Christmas Eddie! (Handing over wrapped present)

E: What is it? (Sound of tearing paper)

L: It's a hat. I thought it would suit you.

E: Ugh. I hate it. (Throws present up in the air and runs from the room)

L: (Laughs, awkwardly)

E: (Running back in) Anyway, are you having a baby?

L: (Shocked) Er...no, I'm not.

E: Oh. Why are your boobies so large, then?


She didn't stay long.




Currently reading: Waiting for Sunrise by William Boyd

Christmas According to Gertie

It began a few weeks ago with the raised eyebrows, mocking tone of voice and fingers making inverted commas around the word 'Santa'. For Gertie, aged eight, some of the magic of Christmas seemed to have been lost.

And yet it has been something of a social whirl since she broke up from school. There have been parties and play dates and sleepovers. In fact, she has barely spent a night at home and when she has it has usually been accompanied by a friend. And many of them seem to be just that little bit less cynical and worldly wise than Gertie; and I imagine that over those late night bonding gossips and midnight feasts (the sweet wrappers and orange peel beneath her bed is a sight to behold) the question of the man in red must have come up.

And there has been a definite shift in attitude in these final few days. So, whether it is posturing for the sake of her younger brothers, a kind of 'Santa agnosticism', or a last ditch attempt to make sure that her stocking was filled - more magical discussion and less eye-rolling has taken place (the Santa-tracker app was also instrumental) and all is well.

Currently reading: The Road That Led To Where by Sally Gardner

Currently driving: Triumph Spitfire in Pageant Blue.  Clever Hearth-Father in his choice of Christmas present! Who needs Santa?

On Dressing Up...And Underestimating Dad

October and November have been turbulent and travel-filled.

I returned last weekend from ten days in Uganda, where I was 'on duty' over half term with a group of Year 11 students.  The trip itself was amazing, but the logistical arrangements to enable it to happen - over a period of holiday for the kids with Hearth-father working - were quite spectacular.

Shaded into the shared google-spreadsheet(!) were the swimming lessons, football club, Irish dancing workshops and nursery sessions with clear instructions about who was picking up whom and when.  Secreted into last weekend with little discussion or preparation was a Halloween Party in fancy dress.

Above is what he pulled off! Most impressive was the make-up. Clearly my services were not required. Note to self: go away more often...

 What a fearsome trio they make!

Eddie insisted on coming to meet me in his full 'bat' gear - which look slightly less devilish at 9am on a bright November morning.

But it was rapid change into the Ugandan away kit, so that the 'Uganda Boys' can continue to train this season:

And later that afternoon, Nano returned from her even more far-flung travels - with some pyjamas from Hong Kong:

 So, my return had a rather theatrical feel to it all.  I wonder where they get it from?




Currently reading: The Paying Guests by Sarah Waters

Eddie the Gangster

The holiday period has made me look at my youngest son in a new light.

In France we were entertained by French friends who invited us 'A la  Bonne Franquette' which, loosely translated (we thought)  is a simple supper, not standing on ceremony.

So we were agreeably surprised to discover that in reality this meant an al fresco five courses of fine food with different wines served at each course.  (Exactly like the simple suppers we have at home...) Conversation was entirely in French which meant much nodding and pointing as far as I was concerned, though my fluency seemed to increase directly in proportion to the amount of wine consumed. Hearth-Father lead the international-relations charge.

It was five hours from start to finish - how splendidly French.  The kids, however, were not as impressed as the adults with the timescale, and were restless after a couple of hours.  Ice cream perked them up for a bit, as did some French television.  Then one of our hosts, Kevin, seeing Gilby in his Arsenal shirt and recognising a kindred footballing spirit, presented him with an Olympic Marseilles teddy bear to play with. 'Say 'merci' to Kevin' chorused the adults. Delighted with his new toy, Gilby marched off to find the others. One can only imagine the scene that took place in the next room.

Eddie, all three years and several teddy-deprived hours of him, marched back outside a few minutes later - to a group of nine adults speaking an entirely foreign language. He stood framed in the doorway, chiaroscuro lighting, hands wrapped around his body, every muscle quietly and dangerously accusing. With a pitch that Marlon Brando would have been proud of, he rasped,

Which one of you out here is Kevin? 

whilst flinging his arms outwards to encompass the gathered diners.

Poor Kevin, with his limited understanding of English, needed no translation to send him scuttling off to find a second OM teddy bear - for the godfather twenty years his junior.

A fait accompli, to borrow a phrase from the French.  Fearless and ready to fight for what he wants. Never shall I worry about the youngest and smallest fending for himself again.

Which one of you out here is Kevin?

Currently reading: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (better late than never)

Carry on Camping

We've bailed out of a camping trip in Dorset because the weather's too terrible and I wasn't born to camp.

We're going to return tomorrow, but I needed a night of hot bath, clean children and just not being damp for a little while.

GCSE results day tomorrow, too, so I have the perfect excuse: I need to be home. So, whilst here, I thought we'd better start on the holiday homework.  I was a good mother; Gilby is researching the Victorians, and we took a visit to the Lyons bookstore and the local library. We worked on how to use an index and created a template for his project together. He has a total of six books, including the Horrible Histories. Sorted. Plenty to keep him busy. Gertie was also busy doing her homework and Eddie was engrossed in Lego. Perfect. Some time for me.  I set them off.  A few minutes later, prompted by Gertie's giggling, I came back to find this:

I think the Victorians probably made me feel like this too until my thirties, so I can't blame the little chap. And he's been sleeping in a tent for the last few nights, so probably a little short of kip...but I strongly suspect he won't win any prizes for this particular assignment.



Currently reading: Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo