On being Shrek
At the bottom of a garden in a picturesque village in Wiltshire, beyond the apple and plum tree and behind the dark leyandi bushes that demarcate the garden’s end, is a place where the dragons used to live. Whether they still live there or not I have no idea since Mum and Dad moved away five years ago, or so.
Bedwyn, in the heart of the west country, is a particularly quaint and peaceful picture box village with thatched roofs and the smell of burning log fires in the autumn. On summer evenings the soft tap of the cricket ball against the bat, followed by the gentle clapping of those fed on cucumber sandwiches, can be heard wafting across the canal.
When we lived there, sometimes, not all the time of course, but sometimes, that peace could be interrupted, shattered rather, by a vast amount of noise that emanated from beyond the hedge. “Dragons at the bottom of the garden” Dad termed them and the phrase stuck. The dragons were, in fact, a large local family.
Mum and Dad knew the family but I was never home long enough to get to know them myself. All I did was to, well, hear them. From what I could gather though, the children liked nothing more than to tear wild around their garden and scream and shout. They were magnificent, masters par excellence, at winding their parents up.
“Will you come off that F….ING tree!”
“Arggghhhhhh Daddy Noooooooo Dadddyyy. Leave me aloooooone. Argghhhh.”
“Come down here you F…ING idiot. Get off there NOOOOOWWWW!”
“Argggghhhh. Arghhhhhh!!! No leave me alone, leave me alone…. Don’t hurt me!”
Mixed in with this was the noise of a baby wailing in the background and the mother shouting from the kitchen window.
“What the bleeedin’ hell is going on out there. Will you leave him alone. And get off that tree will you. Oi! You put the washing line back up now or I’ll come and get yer! ”
“Argghhhhh! Argghhhh!”
And so and so forth. Sometimes they could be a very cheery family. The dragons, not unsurprisingly and a bit like us, used to barbeque when the weather was nice. Only we did ours without the stereo bit. The dragons, on the other hand, did. The stereo would be turned on full volume to Radio 1 and there would be singing and dancing, hearty laughter and hearty banter on the other side of the leyandi hedge. Sometimes it would spill over into a brawl or two and then the dragons would be off again and the screaming would begin over who had burnt the sausages.
When it got really bad I would sometimes say to Mum and Dad, “Shouldn’t we call someone?”
“No.” Mum would say. “Leave them. They’re harmless.”
At the pompous age of twenty or so, I thought, though never verbalised, that they were a really vulgar family and shuddered at the thought of hearing them when I was comfortably reading a book underneath the apply tree.
And here I am fifteen years later reminded of the dragons. Why?
Because of the BBC’s Dragons Den. No.
Because J. is potty about Potter and has already pre-booked J.K. Rowling’s final instalment. No.
Because I read about Saphira the dragon in Eragon with J. every night. No.
The reason, I am sad to say, is that there are times when I feel as though this household is as good as, if not better at being, the dragons than the “dragons who lived at the bottom of the garden” were – or are. They might still live there.
No, never in a million years did I think that the shrieks and screams, the howls and growls, the hysteria and hysterics that emanate from our household would be comparable to the Wiltshire dragons. The only difference is that we live along a busy street with many passers by and we do not have a front garden and we have single glazing meaning that all the students who walk by on their way to the station can share in J.’s fury at being asked to come off the computer for the tenth time, in K.M.s indignant screeches when she can’t get her own way, in L.s howls when R, whom she has pushed, pulls her hair, or R.s (worst of all) terrible two toddler tantrums. I should hasten to add at this stage that we do not do the F word nor do we play music full volume (that will probably come still). For the rest, it shames me to say, we are a noisy vulgar dragon family.
And, as if arguing wasn’t bad enough, J. who is full of nervous energy likes just to squeal, full volume, for no particular reason other than, I guess to let off steam. He’s not necessarily angry or frustrated – he just likes to squeal, high pitched. These squeals are very random and can come at any time and in any place – though generally they appear mostly at bedtime when I am trying to settle the little ones. He already does swimming, karate, piano lessons and sport at school. How much more energy does the kid need to get rid of?
I once heard Archbishop Desmond Tutu say:
“My father always said to me: Don’t shout. Refine your argument”
How wise. I implore the children not to shout. I plead with them not to scream for no reason. I beg them to stop it. Hopefully one day they will calm down.
In any case, there may be some truth in the suggestion that we live in some kind of pseudo fairy-tale world. One Saturday morning, a few weeks ago, L. crawled into our bed at some ungodly hour. After sitting quietly for a few minutes, she looked at me intently and said:
“Mummy. Sometimes, early in the morning you really remind me of Shrek”.
Great: Green ogre spawns dragons.
Bedwyn, in the heart of the west country, is a particularly quaint and peaceful picture box village with thatched roofs and the smell of burning log fires in the autumn. On summer evenings the soft tap of the cricket ball against the bat, followed by the gentle clapping of those fed on cucumber sandwiches, can be heard wafting across the canal.
When we lived there, sometimes, not all the time of course, but sometimes, that peace could be interrupted, shattered rather, by a vast amount of noise that emanated from beyond the hedge. “Dragons at the bottom of the garden” Dad termed them and the phrase stuck. The dragons were, in fact, a large local family.
Mum and Dad knew the family but I was never home long enough to get to know them myself. All I did was to, well, hear them. From what I could gather though, the children liked nothing more than to tear wild around their garden and scream and shout. They were magnificent, masters par excellence, at winding their parents up.
“Will you come off that F….ING tree!”
“Arggghhhhhh Daddy Noooooooo Dadddyyy. Leave me aloooooone. Argghhhh.”
“Come down here you F…ING idiot. Get off there NOOOOOWWWW!”
“Argggghhhh. Arghhhhhh!!! No leave me alone, leave me alone…. Don’t hurt me!”
Mixed in with this was the noise of a baby wailing in the background and the mother shouting from the kitchen window.
“What the bleeedin’ hell is going on out there. Will you leave him alone. And get off that tree will you. Oi! You put the washing line back up now or I’ll come and get yer! ”
“Argghhhhh! Argghhhh!”
And so and so forth. Sometimes they could be a very cheery family. The dragons, not unsurprisingly and a bit like us, used to barbeque when the weather was nice. Only we did ours without the stereo bit. The dragons, on the other hand, did. The stereo would be turned on full volume to Radio 1 and there would be singing and dancing, hearty laughter and hearty banter on the other side of the leyandi hedge. Sometimes it would spill over into a brawl or two and then the dragons would be off again and the screaming would begin over who had burnt the sausages.
When it got really bad I would sometimes say to Mum and Dad, “Shouldn’t we call someone?”
“No.” Mum would say. “Leave them. They’re harmless.”
At the pompous age of twenty or so, I thought, though never verbalised, that they were a really vulgar family and shuddered at the thought of hearing them when I was comfortably reading a book underneath the apply tree.
And here I am fifteen years later reminded of the dragons. Why?
Because of the BBC’s Dragons Den. No.
Because J. is potty about Potter and has already pre-booked J.K. Rowling’s final instalment. No.
Because I read about Saphira the dragon in Eragon with J. every night. No.
The reason, I am sad to say, is that there are times when I feel as though this household is as good as, if not better at being, the dragons than the “dragons who lived at the bottom of the garden” were – or are. They might still live there.
No, never in a million years did I think that the shrieks and screams, the howls and growls, the hysteria and hysterics that emanate from our household would be comparable to the Wiltshire dragons. The only difference is that we live along a busy street with many passers by and we do not have a front garden and we have single glazing meaning that all the students who walk by on their way to the station can share in J.’s fury at being asked to come off the computer for the tenth time, in K.M.s indignant screeches when she can’t get her own way, in L.s howls when R, whom she has pushed, pulls her hair, or R.s (worst of all) terrible two toddler tantrums. I should hasten to add at this stage that we do not do the F word nor do we play music full volume (that will probably come still). For the rest, it shames me to say, we are a noisy vulgar dragon family.
And, as if arguing wasn’t bad enough, J. who is full of nervous energy likes just to squeal, full volume, for no particular reason other than, I guess to let off steam. He’s not necessarily angry or frustrated – he just likes to squeal, high pitched. These squeals are very random and can come at any time and in any place – though generally they appear mostly at bedtime when I am trying to settle the little ones. He already does swimming, karate, piano lessons and sport at school. How much more energy does the kid need to get rid of?
I once heard Archbishop Desmond Tutu say:
“My father always said to me: Don’t shout. Refine your argument”
How wise. I implore the children not to shout. I plead with them not to scream for no reason. I beg them to stop it. Hopefully one day they will calm down.
In any case, there may be some truth in the suggestion that we live in some kind of pseudo fairy-tale world. One Saturday morning, a few weeks ago, L. crawled into our bed at some ungodly hour. After sitting quietly for a few minutes, she looked at me intently and said:
“Mummy. Sometimes, early in the morning you really remind me of Shrek”.
Great: Green ogre spawns dragons.
posted by Kathleen at 1:32 AM
5 Comments:
:-) re : Shrek : that was before your morning tea , surely (afterwards you look like Heahter Graham) .
Re : refining argument : have renwed my own Lent intention of doing so and not get overanxious about kids... G
Do you notice passers bye using the oposite pavement?
ahh yes... i remember now... those heady days when all one had to do was lie in a hammock under the apple tree reading.... did I really ever experience a life like that? It seems so long ago now I can hardly believe it :)
If it makes you feel any better Alex said to me once after a shopping trip, with his wonderfull Canadian accent, "you know, you really remind me of that woman from Absolutely Fabulous at times.."
"Who, Patsy?" I ask feeling bizarlly smug..
"No that other one, Eddie - esp. when you where shouting at Esmée who was dressed as a fairy and waving her wand to the accompaniment of furious screeches at the Leclerc checkout, 'Mummmy's coming darling, Mummy's coming!!!"
GREAT!
Welcome to the dragon/ogre club. Its not that I'm into oneupamship - but I also clearly remember Daddy (also in Leclerc funnily enough) saying "Its no wonder J. can scream like a hag - he learns it from his mother" !!!?????!!!!
...by the way Beccy when are you going to update your blog. I want to read it!
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