Early Morning

I set the alarm this morning for 5.45 in a bid not to repeat last week’s mistake and get up too late. I had R. lying next to me east/west rather than north/south. G. was away in Trier for the night so there was enough room in the bed and I didn’t mind him being there. Unfortunately the little blighter had fallen asleep on the sofa yesterday afternoon at around 4.30 p.m. and must have slept for at least half an hour before I spotted him and woke him up. As a result R. was awake for half the night and in no mood to “go to sleep” at eight o’clock, at nine o’clock or even ten o’clock. Annelies, who came to babysit whilst I went to yoga, looked distinctly harassed by the time I came home. Hope we’re not going to loose her – she’s such a good babysitter. Must have a word with L. and tell her not get all uppity when I’m away.

In any case at around half past nine last night R. drove J. into the visitors room with all his jumping on beds, playing with electronic toys and turning lights on and off. When I went to go and check on R. at 10.15 p.m. he asked “Is it time to get up now Mummy? Are we going to school?”. Later just as I was about to nod off I heard him switch all the lights on and come down the stairs on his bum, bumpity bump.

“Mummy can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

It just seemed like too much of an effort to refuse and so he ended up sleeping next to me. He was still fiddling around when I dropped off at around eleven. Guess the Gods only know what time R. finally dropped off to sleep but when the alarm went at 5.45 a.m. he didn’t wake up. Phew. Nor did he wake up when I crept downstairs to make a cup of tea, nor when I opened the curtains and window to let in the cool morning air and early dawn light, nor when I turned by bedside lamp on and poured the tea. Fantastic – because this very early time in the morning when everything is still and quiet is my absolutely favourite time of the day and I don’t want it to be spoilt with early morning toddler demands and tantrums.

Outside the rain was pouring silently but heavily and the birds in the trees chirping like mad. I enjoyed the early morning gloom and dim light. In any case having got up early I still had time to read my book: Night Sky by Clair Francis. Now I know this is not high-brow literature but I am just loving the plot. Its such a good yarn that I can’t wait to pick it up again and go on reading. For such a long time I feel as though I’ve read so many books that I simple have to put down and forget about and not get beyond the second or third chapter. My shelves are littered with the wrecks of half read and discarded books – mostly Pulitzer and Booker prize novels. So, what with the weather being wet and damp, and R. sleeping soundly next to me, and having a warm pot of tea close at hand and some biscuits on the bedside locker I had a wonderful early morning reading about trying to pick up airmen along the Brittany coast in cold stormy conditions.

Once the household was woken up the kids behaved really, really admirably. I think this evening I might award them a medal for prompt and efficient morning services. They all helped out – well the three eldest did. R. had a go at a tantrum but stopped when I gave him a third biscuit and later let K.M. get him dressed. So, what with one thing or another we actually got off on time and were outside the school gate with three minutes to spare. Today, my friends I fitted into that size 8 corset. Yeay! Only thing is that that rain that was so cosy and beautiful at 6 a.m. was a right nuisance by the time we set off. We all got pretty wet on our bikes. Still, its pretty warm and muggy outside so I hope the kids dried off pretty quickly.

In other news:

Belle ran off with J.’s schnitzel when J. had his back turned to go and get a drink. I threw her into the garden for such a misdemeanour. However, when she stood at the door, licking her chops with a “What d’you mean buddy? You would have done the same” look on her face we had to laugh. She was in the dog house for a while though. I don’t want her to get into any nasty habits.

I later went to the gym smelling like a Wiener Schnitzel. Honestly, fried oil really does cling and I felt sorry for the lady standing next to me. With every swing of the arm I could smell fried schnitzel.

On Sunday I took the three eldest to Takako’s piano concert. It was attended by six or so other families whose kids take lessons with Takako. K.M. and L. played really very well and J. played “raindrops” with his Beckham shirt on.

G. went to run the 20 km up in Brussels with 25 000 other participants on Sunday afternoon. He ran it in 1 hr and 40 min. Not bad – but he did say it was very hot and his felt a bit creaky for a few days afterwards.

Jan has finished off plastering the old kitchen. It looks amazing. Now I just have to find time to paint the room and go to IKEA to buy some shelves. We intend to turn it into a play-room. It is tiny 2m x 4 m – still I’m fed up with all the toys littering our lounge. Time for a change. As usual we have no time to paint and I can’t see a spare afternoon coming up anytime soon.

This week-end we have the school fete, where the children will be taking part in a “talent show”. K.M is practicing her steps in the kitchen all the time. G. has volunteered to help out with the clearing-up afterwards and on Sunday we go to Tante Heleen and Nonkel Nick for a birthday party.

The fine art of being five minutes late.

Being five minutes late, I’ve come to realise, is quite an art really – especially in these parts where “being on time” is a given. In my new “yoga-Zen” like state, I’m trying really hard not to get troubled by things that, in a house with four children, are beyond my control – like scuffed, scratched and chipped freshly plastered walls, grubby finger-prints on walls or R’s special “dinning room” graffiti.

As part of this new me I’ve come to the holistic realisation that being five minutes late is not really a problem. I’m trying to teach this concept to G – but given that he has even more Germanic genes in him than I he is finding it hard to understand. For example, just as it is becoming totally obvious that we will not be able to reach the allocated departure time, he begins to tense up, clench is hands into a claw and develop a crazed look in his eyes – a look that K. and L. (it has to be said) are very good at imitating.

“We’re going to be late again. We’re going to be late again.” he mutters - more to himself than anyone else since no one is listening.

In any case, I’ve decided that being five minutes late is an innate and inalienable part of being me. Even if we were to live on the school’s doorstep we would still be five minutes late. The 8.25 start is just too much for us – a bit like trying to squeeze into a size 8 corset. Possible, possibly, with much taking in of breath, discomfort and high blood pressure. Successful, perhaps 10% of the time. For the rest too much of a challenge.

In any case being five minutes late, I’ve convinced myself, is elegant, tasteful and respectful. Personally I love it when people give me a five minute margin – its amazing the things one can pack into this time frame. Tidy up the kitchen, put a laundry on and even have time for a cuppa. Those who turn up on the dot, however, may find me totally and utterly unprepared.

Being fifteen to twenty minutes late, though, is taking the biscuit, bordering on the rude and inconsiderate – and taking the biscuit is exactly what happened to me this morning.

G. had to be in Brussels early this morning. To avoid the predicted jams he woke me up with a flask of coffee at 5.30 a.m. saying:

“I’m off now. Shall I call in half an hour to wake you up?”
“No” I mumbled “I’ll be alright. Thanks for the coffee. Drive carefully.”

Two hours later I was woken up with a:

“Mummy, I didn’t do pippi in my bed. R. is a really big boy. Cooool.”

Through one bleary eye I registered that R. was leaning over me with just his pyjama top on. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 7.21. I managed to gulp down a mug of coffee, which was very reviving, and left R. in our bed, happily munching on a biscuit.

Upstairs the other three woke up slowly and began getting ready. R. on the other hand, who had settled comfortably in our bed was having nothing to do with getting dressed and made a perfect nuisance of himself. Every time I put a sock on he would pull it off and when I tried to put his top on he’d go as stiff as a plank making it impossible to progress.

Realising that this was a situation “beyond my control” I decided to come back to it later and headed downstairs where K.M. had laid the table but was bickering with L.

“Mummy, L. showed me the finger AND she said the F. word.”

“Yes, but you hurt me K.M. You pushed me against the wall.”

“L. you know that the F. word is an ugly word and we don’t use it ever in this house. Do you ever hear Mummy and Daddy using that language? Hmmm? K.M. try not to hurt L. I have seen you push her quite a lot recently.”

L. crossed her arms in a humph and stuck her tongue out at K.M. In the meantime I started to make sandwiches for L. and R. The other two could order sandwiches at school – as long as we got there before 8.25 when they stopped taking orders.

“Mummy I don’t like those biscuits with chocolate bits on them. Can I have a different one for school.”

“Well, I’m not sure if I have enough of the other ones – honestly its difficult to cater for all your biscuits. We always seem to run out.”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re asked to provide you with two snacks a day – so four times two is ..”

“Eight.”

“Good and eight times five is …”

“Forty …

“Good and forty times four is …

“Err .. 160 …!”

“Correct so in a month we have to buy 160 biscuits for you that come in packs of two. Quite a lot huh.”

“Yes”

“K.M. would you mind running upstairs and seeing what R. is up to. He’ll have missed breakfast by now.” In the background the church clocks were chiming 8.00 a.m. – always the sign for us to hurry up.

Five minutes later K.M. came down:

“Mummy R. has done kaka but its all over the floor. I think he had an accident and is trying to wipe it up.”

“Oh no! J. would you mind putting the biscuits and sandwiches into the bags for me while I go and clean upstairs.”

Upstairs in the bathroom it was like a scene from a horror movies. Brown kaka everywhere. R. to be fair had tried to do it on the loo but only a fraction of it had landed where it was supposed to – the rest was just about everywhere else – on the toilet seat, down his leg, on the floor, on the wall by the toilet paper, on his hands ...

By the time that I had showered him down and put fresh clothing on we were already 15 minutes late. Downstairs J. had forgotten to put the biscuits and sandwiches in their satchels, the dog was barking frantically by the back door and L. still hadn’t put her shoes on.

“Mummy where are my black winter boots? I want to put those on today.”

“L. they have been put somewhere in the cellar – heavens knows where and its not that cold today. Can you please just put your brown shoes on?”

“Mummy!” L. said in exasperation and close to tears. “Its freezing cold outside. I need my winter boots.”

“L. – its May and although cooler it is not freezing. Just put your brown shoes on please. We are already horribly late. If we don’t make it on time. J. and K. won’t be able to order their sandwiches for lunch.”

In the meantime I busied myself trying to get R.s shoes on and help J. get the satchels ready for school. Phew nearly all ready. I saw L. stubbornly refusing to put her brown shoes on and certainly not ready to get out of the door.

“Mummy. Mummy. K.M. was saying in the back ground. “Belle has chewed through the strap on my satchel so I can’t carry it properly.” I saw that her really expensive school satchel (a gift from her Godfather Uncle Ronald for her communion) was frayed and broken at one end. “Honestly – that dog …..”

The stress of getting up late, dealing with bickering kids, cleaning up a smelly R., seeing K.M's bag horribly mutilated by Belle, L. refusing to put her shoes on and being fifteen minutes late got too much and the new yoga-me just collapsed.

“Of for F….’s sake L. – we are already horribly late. Just PUT your brown shoes on. NOW!”

I grabbed her, rather ungently and carried her towards the front door where her shoes were lying. As I did so I tripped up on the wheel of the buggy and just about managed to prevent us from crashing into the wall.

By this time L. was wailing and saying:

“I hate you Mummy! I hate you Mummy!”

In the end we were fifteen minutes late. This was not elegant, tasteful or respectful. It was a nuisance for all concerned. Still, R. going upstairs to do his big job was beyond my control – if he had come downstairs I could have prevented the accident. In any case J. and K.M. still managed to put an order in for the sandwiches.

As I was dropping her off L. looked at me and said “I’m sorry Mummy” to which I replied. “No I’m sorry L. Mummy shouldn’t have lost her rag.”

When I walked back into the kitchen, in between all the mess, I saw L.s lunch pack sitting on the side. We must have forgotten to put it in her satchel in all the kafuffle.

The Apprentice Haggler

Wednesday night is Apprentice night. After I’ve stretched and bent my body in amazing positions as well as balanced on one foot in really weird postures at the yoga class I return home grab something to eat and plonk myself in front of the telly.
“This is not a game” Sir Alan Sugar barked at the contestants at the beginning of the 2007 series. Oh come on – who are you kidding. This show is just one big game. Only it goes under the name of “serious business” meets “reality TV”. In fact I would like to take part in it just for the fun of it. Certainly not because I’d want a job with the bearded one.
The contestants want to win because they are competitive. The egos selected have no interest in a poxy job working as SAS’ side-kick. They all fawn, promise they’ll be his most loyal doormat, guarantee they’ll move heaven and earth to make him lotsa of the filthy stuff but I don’t believe it for a moment. They don’t want his job. They want to come out on top. The thrill, after all, is beating the other contestant – the job incidental.
You can see their minds racing.
“I must survive this board room grilling because that bitch/bastard/wanker accused me of …., which is totally untrue, and in any case she/he is a wimp, and useless, and a waste of space ….whereas I, I did my best and am in any case, better, cleverer, much more competent than her/him with a much better business acumen …and I have an MBA”
Makes for good telly viewing and as G. and I sit on the couch we of course know exactly how we would handle the task, what the best strategy would be – and oh no what a clanger! We would never do that.
Getting a Moroccan butcher in the non-Jewish quarter of the Marrakesh souk to chant halal, halal over a chicken that was supposed to be kosher has got to be one of the biggest clangers in the Apprentice – and that from a guy who studied classics at Edinburgh and who is half-Jewish.
So last night’s episode was all about buying ten specific items in Marrakesh and haggling the price down. Whoever paid the least amount would win the task. Penalties would be doled out on the purchasing of incorrect items. This was one task I would have relished. Surely I would have helped the team to win on this one. Surely.
Now, I like to think that I can haggle with the best of ‘em having had a jolly good bash at it in various parts of the world less subject to regulation than the EU such as Asuncion, Bangkok and Tangiers. Its impossible to haggle and negotiate prices in, say, Zara or Ikea. So having the chance to haggle like a fish wife straight out of an Astrix and Obelix cartoon on a truly open and unregulated market is a fantastic opportunity.
It was easiest in Bangkok. Almost too easy. There the market vendors seem to be genetically handicapped to “sell at any price”. The opening bid is something ridiculous like £200 for a T-shirt. The trick is to well, just walk away. The market vendor will then follow you desperate for a sale:
“Give me a price. Give me a price.”
“OK £ 1”
“Hmmmm, too low, too low.”
“OK £ 1.50 and that’s my final offer”
“You kill me but OK, OK.”
In the end it was so easy and efficient I developed a guilt complex and a social conscience. I had to remind myself that my budget could actually accommodate more than 50p for a silk scarf and that the scrawny guy desperate for a sale probably had a family to feed.
In last night’s episode one of the contestant bought a cow-hide off a man with a wracking cough for just £15. Sir Alan, the greedy old goat, was delighted and even mentioned it in the board room – but come on! Please. The seller had a wracking cough, had probably been working in a dodgy tannery with dodgy chemicals since the age of five and was quite possibly on his last legs. In spite of this, and in the interest of winning the task, all the rich SAS contestants wanted to offer him was £15 . Surely they could have bumped the price up a little bit or given him something extra for a good drink on the way home and still won the task?
Before G. dropped off to sleep last night he mumbled.
“I want one of those green alarm clocks that wakes you up to the sound of an imam calling you to prayer.”
“OK – you can have that on condition that I can have a Philips alarm clock I read about that imitates the rising sun and birds calling. Its great for in those horrible long winter months.”
“Waste of money. Stupid idea – why on earth would you want something as wamsy pamsy as a “fake sunrise” alarm clock.” G. retorted – but if he’s getting an alarm clock from the souk then I want my sunrise lamp as well.
Now there’s an amusing thought. G. stirring awake to the call for prayer whilst I, Zen-like and peacefully, awake to a fake rising sun and canned birdsong. You can tell which of us does yoga – and yes, I agree I don’t think that Philip will negotiate the price down even though it is probably manufactured in Asia for the half the price it retails for.