Tales from the middle

M

2009-09-03T00:50:00.000-07:00

I’m not really sure how Stéphane Beel sleeps at night. I’m sure I’d be wide awake in the wee hours of the morning tossing and turning and worrying about when exactly the right time would be to hang up all the pictures and if the paint will be dry on time and whether the frontage would look presentable enough to welcome all the visitors. I dare say he might just feel the same way that I did when I had left the writing of my Master’s thesis a tad too late and as a consequence spent four nights awake writing up the final pages in order to meet the deadline. When I had finally handed it in I was so relieved that I laughed hysterically for about half an hour at a “knock knock” joke that someone happened to tell me. Will Beel do the same I wonder on 21 September 2009 when the whole shebang is over and “M” can finally be declared officially open? Laugh at a knock knock joke that is?

On the other hand if Architect Beel is as cool a cucumber as his buildings are I’m sure he’ll pull the show off with aplomb. And speaking from a personal point of view I have to admit that I loooove what he’s done. The building is amazing and sits comfortably in the heart of historic Leuven – what’s even more exciting is the fact that little ‘ol Leuven will be the proud owner of such a swanky cultural museum. “Do you think it’ll have a café?” K.M. asked me yesterday when we walked past the building site. She’s obviously heard me ask that question quite a lot over the past year. I hope the planners thought of a drinking hole since I rather like the idea of “hanging out” in such a cool space with so much natural light. But then again this is Belgium not the UK where every attraction, be it the indoor play park in Bexhill-on-sea or the National Academy in London serves up refreshments to visitors in the form of flapjacks and a cup of tea. There certainly won’t be any flapjacks on offer and if there is a café (which I hope there is but I’m not sure about) I have no doubt that it will not serve up PG Tips but only the finest variety of delicatly flavoured organic tea from Japan. Oh I so love the idea of this “M”.

“I don’t know K.M.” I answered “but the building looks great doesn’t it – as though is should belong in Paris or Moscow rather than Leuven.” Anyway 20 September is the official opening of “M” – only seventeen days to go! Yet, every time I walk past what is still effectively a building site I wonder how on earth it’s all going to be finished on time. Doors need to be installed, facades painted, windows put in place, the tills installed etc. etc. On the other hand Stad Leuven has probably credible building contractors not like some of the clowns we had to chase up all the time when we were dolling up Maria Callas. Still, I wonder when on earth they are going to find the time to hang up all those amazing Rogier Van der Weyden pictures that are about to arrive in Leuven from across the globe – the Flemish primitive artist (1400 -1464) that is going to launch M onto the cultural map of Europe.

Well, good luck Mr Beel – the VC-G’s wish you all the best and sure hope that you meet your deadline on time. It would be great if I could get an invite to the opening party of M – I promise I won’t make any comments about unfinished finishing touches, nor will I make any snide comments about Van der Weyden’s Madonna hanging a bit wonky, nor will I make any silly knock knock jokes that might just make you loose your cool on the evening when you want to show-case your amazing creation to Leuven’s illustrious burghers – because I really, really do believe that M is going to be a great asset to Leuven and I can’t wait to hang out there.

Zumba

2009-05-07T02:34:00.000-07:00

You may be forgiven for wanting to hide at the back of a Zumba class – but in reality it’s not such a good idea. Especially if the Zumba class is packed because it is being led by a sexy little lady going by the name of Rosie who just happens to be half Brazilian and gyrates to the beat of a mambo drum ten times faster than any of us can ever dream of mustering. Rumour has it that the manager of the gym went down on bended knees and begged Rosie to give Zumba lessons at our club. She’s so popular and is in seriously hot demand the length and breadth of The Middle so that we in Sportoase are seriously privileged to have the likes of Rosie teach us Zumba. Guess our manager has a lot of charm because Rosie now comes at least three times a week and her classes are booked out weeks in advance. I was amazed, therefore, that there was still a spot available in Rosie’s’ class on Tuesday evening from 19.30 to 20.30.

Not sure if any of you have heard of Zumba. It really is the latest craze in the world of fitness. I know, it’s so sad to write about fitness crazes – have any of you seen the film “Perfect” with John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis where Travolta plays a Rolling Stone journalist who completely trashes the world of fitness gyms in the early 1980’s? It’s a great film. As a result whenever I talk about the gym I feel just a tad sad. Still I enjoy working out at the gym ... and so I shall recount my Zumba experiences.

Zumba, the absolute latest in gym-speak, hit our consciousness here in The Middle a few months ago. Even K.M. had heard of it and began showing me how to swing the hips sideways whilst waving arms high in the air. “They were showing it on KetNet Mummy,” she told me. “You must go – it comes from Brazil.”

In fact before Rosie’s class on Tuesday I had actually been to one Zumba class given by Ann. I was amazed to find that Zumba was nothing more than a Latin American work-out. Amazing what marketing and re-branding does – it creates a whole knew concept out of what is already bog standard and pretty well known. I quite enjoyed Ann’s class though. The music is fun and the moves great. But Ann is not Rosie. I just had to try out Zumba with Rosie at her Tuesday evening class.

Anyway, coming back to this hiding at the back of the class business. I know it’s a bad idea because I did just this on Tuesday evening. I arrived five minutes late and the class was already in full Zumba swing when I came in. Before I had even performed a neat little Meringue or punched my fist in the air with Latin American zeal I could feel the sweat forming in between my shoulder blades. The heat in the airless room from all the dancers was overwhelming. I’ve never seen a class so full. This suited me fine. I wasn’t exactly in the mood to stand at the front. Not in Rosie’s class.

It didn’t take me long to realise though that trying to be unobtrusive was a mistake. From where I was standing I couldn’t see what I was supposed to do. Above the top of other people’s head I could see Rosie up on the podium giving a fantastic performance. The girl can dance – just like in all those promotional Zumba video’s we’ve seen over the past couple of months. No doubting that Rosie is straight-up the real thing, she’s the McCoy alright with her long dark hair, amazingly toned Latino body, friendly grin and dance moves – but she is half Brazilian and has a huge advantage over the rest of us cold blooded northerners.

There is some family talk that great Grandmother Isabella Garnett née Brown was half Spanish because she too had long dark hair that, in the old sepia photo we have of her, she wears high in Spanish combs. She was born on a boat off the coast of Galway when her father, get this John Brown, was on his way to India. No one rally knows the name of her mother other than that it too was Isabella. So perhaps, just perhaps there is some kind of family Spanish connection going way back when – not that any of it has been passed down to me. No Sir. I look as though I was born to Morris Dance.

Give me a couple of sticks, tie a few bells around the ankles and I might just be able to kick my knee into the air with some authenticity. Sadly, am not sure I can cha-cha-cha with any great authenticity. I look around the heaving room. Ninety percent of the dancers look like me, not quite Morris Dancers but certainly NOT Latin-blooded lovers either. Involuntarily I think of Breughel. Scenes of jolly outdoor feasts come to mind with frothy beer spilling out of huge tankards and onto wooden trestle tables and plump breast spilling out of tight lace corsets. OK, so if one follows the logic that I was built to Morris Dance then surely the locals were meant to clog dance. There you have it. Our heritage: Morris Dancing and Clog tapping. All a million miles away from the cha-cha-cha and mambo. Can we overcome our heritage though and move beyond Morris/clog dancing I wonder?

Since I’m not really following Rosie I follow what her audience are doing. Most of them are giving it their all. Some look great, other’s look confused, most of us look like clog/Morris dancers. Well who wouldn’t when Rosie is standing on the stage looking like she’s just sashayed out of the Coco Cabana. The other’s seem to know the dance moves by now and unlike me are able to mimic, if not quite replicate, Rosie’s routine. As soon as one song finishes there’s spontaneous applause and then everyone, led by Rosie, launches themselves into the next Zumba jive. Rosie is giving it her all as though she’s performing for the Brazilian football team before the opening of the World Cup Final against Germany. Or perhaps she’s performing for Ronaldo – or perhaps just for us. She grins friendly at the class and encourages us all on to greater mambo heights.

Perhaps she is unaware that some of us are not following. She doesn’t bark out any instructions at us such as: meringue left foot; meringue side-ways; forwards; back-wards; four-step forwards; wave the arms up, wave the arms down; cha-cha-cha – one, two three. After the third dance I give up and decide to leave. I weave my way through the room and all the dancers doing their four-steps arms held high and waving to the beat.

Yesterday I went back to Ann’s class. I like her. She looks more like us: a clog dancer with a sweat band who knows the steps and shouts them out to us. The room is full but not as packed as Rosie’s so at least we can breath. I stand at the front. This way I can watch the moves closely. I get a good workout and feel well trained at the end of it. At one point I look at myself in the mirror doing a cha-cha-cha and think I see a faint glimpse of Isabella Garnett as I gyrate my hips. In Ann’s class I can just about believe that it is possible for me to move beyond Morris Dancing. With Rosie I just look like a lost cause.

In other news: J., who turned eleven yesterday (yes eleven!) is still football crazy. G. is delighted. I am resigned. We are both thrilled that J. is enjoying playing foot-ball. He’s a lot less “icky” then he used to be and has, almost, abandoned the shrill shrieking and yelling he so favoured. Training twice a week and playing football on Saturdays releases all his energy. This is fantastic. Am seriously concerned now that the football season has stopped and he won’t have anything to do until August. I have to get used to the fact though that most Wednesday’s are now foot-ball night. Reluctantly I vacate the lounge and find comfort in our bedroom in order to escape the sound of endless football commentaries. Motherhood is all about sacrifice and I have accepted that I have to sacrifice part of this household to football. Luckily G. enjoys talking footie to J. and so the names of Lampard; Ballack; and Rooney are seeping into my consciousness.

K.M and L. have their big ballet show this week-end. Mum is coming by train today for the week-end to watch them. They have been preparing for it twice a week since November. The girls are delighted. L. told me she will be wearing glitter in her hair so can we please not wash it on Sunday so that she can show it off to her friends on Monday morning. Can’t wait to see it. Before you all think I discriminate – I also enjoy watching J. play football on Saturday when I have the time.

Grass is growing brilliantly. Still have one or two dodgy patches. Only one more week and then I think we’ll let the kids loose on the lawn. No need to worry anymore about flowers being trampled to oblivion. They’ve all gone.

Monday morning

2009-03-30T01:20:00.000-07:00

Monday morning and I have to say I’m not exactly feeling top of the world. Probably all the champagne we were served last night at Christine and Nick’s followed by a rather splendid red wine. Should have refused all those top ups – but you know what its like. Have had a pretty hectic two weeks. Its hard to say no when the setting is comfortable, the canapés are delicious and there are no kids around to worry about.

Didn’t sleep brilliantly last night though. Alcohol plus food repeating itself and discussion on euthanasia spinning through my semi-conscience state. Was pleased when G. woke me up at 6.15 with a cup of tea. I’d been dreaming that it was already 8.20 a.m. and none of the children were getting up for school and that the dog had stolen R’s bed covers and was making a little nest out of them downstairs in the kitchen. Was so relieved that it was, in fact, just past six and not past eight o’clock and that I still had plenty of time to get the whole show on the road and that Belle had not chewed R's bed covers and made a nest of the remains.

Before having supper at Christine and Nick’s we’d driven to Tongerlo to visit Stefanie and Stijn. Our previous tenants who are getting married in May and who’ve bought themselves a wonderful new house in Tongerlo. We went for a sunny walk to the twelfth century Norbentine Abbey. Belle bounced and bounded all over the place and it took us a while to coax her away from the local football club once she’d spotted the ball. We walked past lots of newly built houses, fields with horses (including a massive Shire Horse) and across a stream and a wooded area.

I kept having to repeat to R. over and over again that “no we are not going for a walk. We are going to feed the goats in the abbey.” R. has taken a distinct dislike to the expression: “going for a walk.” Every time he and L. hear it they protest and make a fuss about how they are staying at home.

In the distance over the fields was a new development. Stefanie pointed it out to us. “That development was in the news recently”, she told us. Apparently, in all of the twenty or so new houses, every family is expecting a child this year. Flanders is a confident society.

J. and K. want to move to Tongerlo. They saw other kids out on their bikes and mucking around in the Giro to a loud disco beat. (Giro is a bit like the Flemish equivalent of the boy scouts) Gotta love the Flemish – they have no hang-up or anxiety about suburbia or youth movements. Rather, they embrace it; make the most of it; and exploit it’s many advantages. Safe streets, wide open gardens, light filled houses, no renovation hassles, great youth clubs that play football and basket ball on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I doubted that we would come across a street dubbed Revolutionary Road. Nor did I spot Kate Winslet sulking behind netted curtains; angry and resentful.

Last week I spent every single day in the garden dig, dig, dig, dig, digging. On the first sunny week-end of the year I saw the kids run into the garden, kick a ball about and trample all over my flower beds. Valerie came to play, as did Ivan, and I was constantly knocking at the window telling the kids to “get off of the flowerbeds.” I then had a sudden epiphany. Why not just turn the whole of the garden over to lawn. Tom and Ben have done the same and their lawn looks great. So, last week out went the rosemary, the lavender, the sage, the alliums, the African lilies and much much more. It was terribly sad and I really had to grimace as I dug up healthy plants that were just beginning to show signs of life after a harsh cold winter.

On Saturday G. helped me clear away some of the garden waste. We began work in the pouring rain at twelve and didn’t stop until well past six in the evening. Nothing like comfort food and lots of mugs of hot tea to keep one going under late March conditions. Needless to say though I was exhausted come Saturday night and went to bed at nine already.

Anyway, hang over or not, I must now go into the garden and begin to rake the ground one last time before sowing the grass seeds. Our next real challenge will be to keep the kids off the lawn for the next six to eight weeks before the grass is strong enough. This is going to be hard. Yesterday, at around nine thirty in the evening, as I was choosing another choice piece of meat to dip into the bubbling fondu I suddenly saw Thomas whizz by, followed closely by J. and then K.

"G." I said, "are those our kids whizzing past? Aren't they supposed to be in bed by now? Tomorrow's a school day."

Unbeknown to us the little blighters had escaped the house, clambered over the garden wall and taken up with Thomas. To do so they had to walk all over my newly prepared soil. Inna was busy putting R. and L. to bed - but apparently knew they were with us.

Coming Out

2009-02-12T01:29:00.001-08:00

In the new spirit of openness, liberalism and hope I think the time is right for G. and I to come out. I’ve been dithering about whether I should do this privately or make the big announcement publicly. Our family, of course, have already guessed what our inclinations are and it has been the matter of considerably discussion over late night whiskey sessions in Montaut. In the end, I’ve decided that telling my friends through my blog is by far the easiest route to confirm our inclinations. Its going to be controversial so brace yourselves.

OK, here goes: we supported the aims of the Iraq war.

Oh God! What a relief. I’ve said it. Phew! Its been, like, our little secret for such a long time now that I can hardly believe I’ve had the audacity to spell it out. On the other hand if we’re supposed to have the audacity to hope surely we can then also have the audacity to confess? Mentioning support for the Iraq war is not exactly the kind of thing one wants to talk about in polite company. Polite company normally chokes on its canapé when such views are aired.

The last time I had the guts to discuss this openly was in April 2002 – shortly after the Iraq invasion. It caused so much upset that I felt as though I was doing my hostess a disservice by allowing the conversation to turn into a fist fight. (Not literally of course). A normally placid, easy going and lovely ex-Spanish colleague of mine almost spat at me in anger and resentment when we discussed some of the advantages of getting rid of Saddam Hussein. Ever since then G. and I have decided just to keep schtum whenever the Iraq war is mentioned. Its better all round and no one gets upset.

Its not that G and I are neo-cons. I hate the NRA; totally oppose the death penalty; consider Cheney a snake in the grass; believe in the redistribution of wealth and not in the trickle down effect; hate the free market and can live comfortably within a regulated society. My views on Bush are set out in “Where were you” so I won’t repeat them here. Suffice it to say here that I agree with most of the globe that George Bush Jr is a real dumbo. The only good thing coming out of Texas is Tex-Mex and finally I fully support the Kyoto Protocol and believe in climate change.

Having got that political credo off my chest I shall now continue. Why do I bring this up now? Why should G. and I come out in February 2009? Mostly because Father Pat gave such a good sermon a couple of Sunday’s ago on speaking with moral authority. Without wishing to go into detail the general gist of his sermon was this: its not because one is in a position of authority that one speaks with moral authority. Father Pat gave the example of a Head teacher to whom none of the children in the school wanted to speak to at a time of bereavement. Instead the pupils turned to the teachers who, although they held no particular position in the school, were considered more comforting at a time of crisis precisely because they spoke with “moral authority”.

A couple of weeks ago the BBC news had an item, number three on the list I think, about elections in Iraq. It wasn’t head-line news but it was really good news. The Iraqi’s had gone to vote in their masses and there had only been one small incident of violence. From what I could understand, the Sunnis and the Shia’s had all come out to vote as did the residents of Basra that, only a few months ago, had been in the grip of militias. I felt very happy for the Iraqi’s and I really wish them a peaceful and prosperous future.

I’m by no means an expert but I think one of the main aims of the invasion was to secure “regime change” and create democracy in Iraq. We know that the first aim was achieved. Thank goodness. Saddam Hussein was a mean, brutal, cruel and truly evil dictator. What he did to his citizens was horrendous. Why would one not support the removal of Saddam Hussein? In fact I wish someone would do the same with Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe.

The second aim: to create democracy has been much harder. The Bush administration were completely naïve in assuming that democracy would somehow miraculously appear on its own. I guess at the end of the day neo-cons are isolationists who are to idle and to arrogant to do their homework properly. They failed to understand that not everyone is as enamoured with the principles of freedom as the founding fathers were two centuries ago. Still if democracy succeeds in Iraq, and based on elections a couple of weeks ago let us hope that it does, then what it there to argue about? Shouldn’t we all in the West, especially those in polite society, applaud the end of tyranny and oppression? If we don’t then I worry about the future.

On the way back from mass I said to G. “Can’t you just see it now. In a years time, possibly, we’ll have pictures of Barak Obama in Bagdad, signing the official document withdrawing all coalition troops from Iraq once and for all. Hopefully by then there will be long lasting peace and security in Iraq and the Iraqi’s will be able to build themselves a prosperous future. How the neo-Cons will choke on their canapés when they see Obama take all the credit.”

Failing to speak with the correct moral authority was Bush’s, Cheney’s and Rumsfeld’s biggest failure. I still believe the aims of the Iraq war were correct. It was the way in which the message was given that was all wrong. Obama, on the other hand, now there’s a guy who can talk with moral authority.

That’s the beauty of democracy though. Leaders can be held accountable and changed if they are seen to fail. How the world rejoiced when Bush Jr was finally forced to leave the White House. They have to win the election and it is constitutionally written that a President can serve no longer than two terms. Even the neo-Cons respected that. Unfortunately for the Iraqis the only way they could even dream of ridding themselves of their unelected President was by relying on something that has gained such disrespect from many: regime change.

Revolutionary Road vs Maria

2009-01-27T00:54:00.000-08:00

We went to bed at two a.m. last night after two glasses of whiskey. As G. and I sat slumped in our armchairs, chatting peacefully, I looked around our house and positively embraced Maria Callas. I gave her two massive big smakeroons on the cheek, dusted down her skirts and straightened her hair. I even lit a scented candle in her honour. Last night, in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning in late January, I positively loved my mistress and promised that no expense would be spared on her beautification. “Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you,” I said over and over again to her, “for sparing me a life in the suburbs. I know you and I have had our moments over the past five years but we’ve weathered the worst and being together was, absolutely the right thing to do.”

Why this sudden fondness for Maria Callas? Well, because G. and I had just come back from watching a late night showing of Revolutionary Road with Kate Winslet and Leonardo di Caprio. Veerle sent us a rather unexpected e-mail yesterday asking if we would like to have a couple of spare tickets she had for the cinema that needed to be used by the 26/01? We were pleased to accept and, in the absence of any other film that looked interesting, decided to go and see Revolutionary Road. G. had to pick J. and Tuur up from footie at eight so an early showing was out of the question. Luckily we have Inna these days so, unlike a few months ago, a late night trip to the cinema is perfectly feasible.

Kate Winslet and Leonardo give a great performance – more like a stage play than a big Hollywood movie. What is it, I often wonder though, about the suburbs that brings out the ire and frustration in script writers? This is the second Sam Mendes film deriding the suburbs. Betjeman began the trend in the 1930’s when he sneered at suburban conventionality. What, though, is wrong with wanting to live in a green, spacious, safe, comfortable environment? In our first grim year of learning to live with Maria Callas, when the hall-way peeled, water dripped onto the kitchen floor and the house lay in disarray I could think of nothing nicer than coming home every day to a clean, perfectly finished house at the end of a driveway.

I can still see K.M, age four, crying on the stairs saying she hated our house, questioning why we had ever sold the Pieter Coutereel and vowing to go live with her best friend Marie because they had a nice modern house. The worst part was I couldn’t blame her. Looking at the filthy state Maria Callas was in then, the even filthier state of our finances and the never ending round of petty disagreements with contractors, I too was wondering whether I could go live with Marie and escape Maria Callas. I fantasised about selling our mistress and handing her demands over to someone with a bigger wallet than ours – but who would buy a mistress in such a distressing state?

Hey and you guy’s should have seen Kate and Leonardo’s house on Revolutionary Road – it was just amazing! I can’t rave enough about their furniture, artwork, style. The windows! The light! It looked like something out of an Elle photo-shoot. I would have been first in line for their garage sale before their big move to Paris. I had my eye on quite a few of their table lamps which I just can’t seem to source anywhere around here – plus their kitchen chairs, and that pale green sofa in the living room …. and the bed room furniture … but I digress.

When the credits began rolling I looked at G saying, “Geeeee, G. aren’t you glad we opted for Maria Callas rather than a comfortable house outside of the town? We could be divorced, or worse, by now if we had settled for a suburban solution.”

It was tough getting up this morning though. Am glad I didn’t opt for the third whiskey as I was seriously tempted to do. We still have a busy week ahead of us. Now, we must get round to calling contractors to get the best price for painting the front of our dame.

Where were you?

2009-01-22T00:27:00.000-08:00

So, yesterday was inauguration day and boy didn’t we know it. All the hype. The media was in a total frenzy days before the event. The Times had a “countdown to the inauguration” link on its front page, the BBC promised “live coverage” throughout the day, Anja held an inauguration party and Becky and Erwan popped open a bottle of champagne. I missed the speech and Obama’s fluffing of the oath since I was putting kids to bed so I picked up on the BBC’s live coverage as Obama was in the middle of his inauguration lunch. Outside the massed media looked frozen as they stood in the cold January air. Who was it that chose 20th January as the official inauguration date? June or July would have been much better. Something to do with the Revolution no doubt.

The BBC journalists were pukka and doing their best to look enthusiastic and cheery as they shivered outside on the mall; their smiles about as frozen as their noses. “He’s been delayed,” they said graciously as they awaited for the Obama/Biden cavalcade to come down Pennsylvania Avenue – but one could see them wishing the Obama’s would “hurry-up for f…’s sake. It’s freezing out here….” Hugh Edward’s eyes were squinted up as he tried to stay warm under one miserable looking blanket and one could feel his discomfort at having to give an enthusiastic running commentary on the BBC’s roof top in temperatures close to freezing.

“In years to come people will be asking – where were you when the first black-African American President was sworn in?” Hugh gushed as his hair was whipped up by the lovely fresh breeze. Sitting on the sofa watching in the warmth of a cosy sitting room waiting for G. to come home from Munich is the answer. Much as I am a sucker for historic houses; films; books and events – I’m not that much of a sucker to want to spend a day in the freezing cold to catch a “glimpse” of the Obama’s as millions of Americans were doing.

Funnily enough my mind was cast back to what many would regard as being a non-event - where was I when President Bush was declared the official winner of the 2000 campaign. I was standing in the kitchen of the Begijnhof listening to the World Service incredulous that enough people had actually voted for him. Somehow that event sticks in my mind more than Obama’s inauguration. At least Obama talks sense of course he should have won the election – but Bush? I couldn’t then – and I still can’t quite fathom how on earth the American electorate, the very same that voted in Obama, managed to vote in a twit such as George Bush – and this was even before 9/11 or his by now infamous remarks such as: “the problem with the French is that they have no word for entrepreneur.”

I remember feeling vaguely disturbed at the thought that America was going to be run by a guy who looked, well, dim. Its not that I hold politicians in particularly high regard nor is it that I expect them all to be hugely intellectual academics but they must at least look as though could write a moderately good thesis on Keynesian economics if they really had to. Well, phew, yesterday, we said good-bye to all that and welcomed in a new era. Huge sigh of relief all round. HOPE in desperate times. Just what the doctor ordered after eight years of sitting on the edge wondering what gimmick George W Bush was going to pull out of his hat.

Now, I have to say that under any other circumstances I would look at a guy who pulled in such a huge crown with scepticism and cynicism. I mean Hitler rallied adoring crowds like that in Nuremberg right? Or the Ceauşescus who relied on “rent a crowds” to wave flags and look adoringly at them. Such big crowds are normally the preserve of nasty dictators – not democratically elected Presidents. Its very hard to be sneering or cynical about Barak Obama though no matter how hard one tries. He seems genuinely nice. A cool head on strong shoulders. A wise guy. A man who looks as though he’s really concerned about the good of all and not just the good of vested interests. In any case his wife looks lovely and the girls adorable – so perhaps it really is the dawning of a new, hopeful, era.

No doubt the crowd will go on loving the guy even after he retires from politics. I wonder how long the media’s love affair with him will last. The parallels with Tony Blair are striking – he too won the election in 1997 with a huge majority. Adoring crowds lined the streets leading up to 10 Downing Street. They cheered and waved as he stood outside the front door with his young photogenic family. He went on to win two more elections credibly. Even after he had committed British troops to Iraq he still went on to deliver Labour a credible majority in Parliament. The voters still liked and trusted Blair. Even now though the media deigns not to cover Blair’s achievements – only his mistakes. We’ll see how long this hero is reduced to zero by the media.

In post script I have to add, the one thing I love about the Obama campaign – more so than all his moving speeches and soaring rhetoric - and for that alone I would have probably voted for him, superficial girl that I am, is his iconic HOPE poster by Shepard Fairey. Its fantastic artwork combining Andy Warhol pop art with art deco design. Obama’s a good looking guy and his face lends itself to such graphic imagery perfectly. I’m seriously tempted to hang it up in the house – not because I’m such a slavish fan of Obama, you understand, but because I think the poster would look nifty hanging in the hall way somewhere.

The stamping of heels

2008-12-08T03:37:00.000-08:00

The Maria Theresiastraat. Such a pretty name. Kinda chic. How elegant to live on a street that is named after the Empress Marie-Therese; mother of Marie Antoinette. So, when G. and I moved into this house on 1 November 2003 we decided to christen her “the good ship Marie-Therese”. She was an honest, god-fearing, vessel that would carry us on our life’s journey with a merry band of happy children in tow. We spoke fondly of “a house we can grow into” and “it’ll be perfect” and “can you imagine how much the kids are going to enjoy the space” and “the structure is so sound all it needs is a lick of paint.” I don’t think we quite appreciated the journey of discovery we were about to embark upon. We were so sure we’d thought of every eventuality and had every thing covered.

The house seduced us when we bought her on that beautiful sunny, summer, evening in July. She had seen better days of course and nothing had been done to her in thirty years. She needed new electricity and plumbing. She needed a new kitchen downstairs – but budgeting for a new kitchen is fun. Right? Her ceiling roses winked at us as we entered the salon; the art nouveau stained-glass window in the dining room smiled charmingly at me; the large spacious rooms lured us in; the walled-in garden whispered gentle promises in our ear of fine summer evenings and long rows of fine smelling lavender. We were bewitched. She was a sleeping beauty that needed to be gently re-awakened.

Having lived here for five years now though I’ve become more hardened, more cynical, more smart-arsed. Oh yes, my friend, I’ve wisened up to what we have let ourselves into. We awakened her alright. I now, though, dub my house the "Maria Callas". Gone is all that tripe about vessels and merry children and sweet smelling lavendar. I swear I can hear the clicking of castanet’s as I close the cupboard doors, the stamping of high-heeled leather gypsy boots on the nineteenth century tiled floors in our hallway and the flicking of dusty red silk skirts as I walk into the dining room. Our house is not a “good ship”. She’s a mistress, par excellence.

Like all good mistresses she has expensive tastes. “Plastic windows!” one can hear her almost screech. “I will NOT have white PVC windows! What was good enough for the Pieter Coutereel* is not good enough for me.” So, G. and I obligingly go out and order fine, exquisite hand-crafted, wooden windows that are in keeping with our mistresses’ taste.

“A pine wooden chest in my hallway! Away with it – it looks cheap.” So, G. and I concur that although it did look so nice and sweet in our kitchen in Brussels when we were just married its just isn’t in keeping with the landing here. We all agree a stylish, retro Danish cupboard from the 1950’s would look great, or alternatively an antique French armoire - but we wring our hands over how on earth we can oblige Maria Callas.

“Cement bricks for the garden terrace – have you gone completely mad?! Can you imagine how tacky that will look.” So, G. and I opt for the dark grey slate tiles that look a lot my stylish and come with a much higher price tag.

“When you finally get round to replacing my soaked and leaking roof, do me the honour of using hand made clay tiles as originally crafted in the late nineteenth century. Cement tiles are so heavy, they go so green and quite frankly they look so nouveau. Put enough Velux windows in to light up my darkened interior. The guttering will have to be of zinc not roofing and replace the pvc cladding with the ornate carved wooden one underneath in the same green that you have chosen for the windows. It’s the one I wore when I first débuted this street in 1888. I have such a nostalgia for those days. You will have to paint it every six to eight years but that grey grimy pvc cladding simply has to go.”

As far as I’m concerned there is only one mistress in this house and that should be me. No! No! No! I simply don’t want to be paying those kind of invoices. Trinkets for me? Forget it. Ever since J. and his buddy Louis decided to spray half a bottle of my Channel perfume randomly around the house whilst I was bringing L. to ballet I haven't bought myself a replacement bottle. Money has to be saved to serve our mistress. I call G. up at work from Bordeaux to ask if I can buy a dress from Zara. "Can we afford it - shouldn't we be saving?" is his usual response. Yes, saving for Maria Callas, our exotic and sultry mistress.

Can someone please stop this woman. Can someone save us from this seductress. Damn it – G. and I work our buts off – is there no respite? We’re raising four children in this house. Its me that should decide the budget and not Maria Callas – but somehow she always gets away with it. She’s right. She’s far too stylish to settle for “cheap and cheerful”

Were we to put in pvc windows it will make our house look like a tart dressed up for a night out on the sea front. Put concrete tiles in the garden and she’ll look less than a million dollars. Go for concrete roof tiles and we’ll lower the tone of a great beauty. The pine chest, we bought so proudly in Brussels, has been moved. It just didn’t look right on our grand landing having spent yet another fortune on painting the stair-well.

Today though is a big day for us. Today our expensive new windows are being installed. We are within an inch of taming this shrew; within an ace of calming her ruffled feathers. Maria Callas you will tread the boards again in silks and satins and dripping in jewels. You will look stunning. G. and I may have aged in the process – but you, yes you will be a stunner once again.

There is still much that needs to be done, most notably and most expensively the roof – but we are close to completion. The spirit of Maria Callas still mutters and tut tuts occasionally about wonky skirting boards and some unpainted radiators – and she’s not overly impressed that her painted walls bear R.’s "kribel-krabel" on them. Nevertheless, the end is in sight and I may just be tempted to think fondly of my house again - viewing her more as wonderful vessel in which to sail rather than a temperamental mistress who I resent and dislike.

*The Pieter Coutereelstraat was the address of our first house. A lovely small, terraced house that I, and J and K, still think of with great nostalgia.

For whom the poppies grow

2008-11-17T01:20:00.000-08:00

Belle was waking us up all night. I’d fallen into a deep peaceful, comfortable sleep at around 11.30 p.m. - and then Belle began to yelp and whine. She did so at 1 a.m., at 2.45 a.m., at 3.30 a.m. and then at 4.15 a.m. when I finally let her out into the windy, stormy night. In between I would fall asleep to the sound of an Atlantic gale battering Leuven.

As Belle rushed into the garden at 4.15 a.m. I saw, in the dim light of night, that all the leaves had been swept up along the left-hand side of the garden wall. “Well that’s handy at least,” I thought as I gave a yawn and called for Belle to come back inside. She had ran off into the deep shadows of the garden where I couldn’t see her and seemed in no rush to come back inside. The wind blew around my pyjamas and made me shiver as I called out to her again. “Bloody dog – I can’t believe she’s not coming inside!”

G. mumbled something under his breath about “crazy dog” when I finally crawled back into bed and tried to go to sleep for the fourth time that night. I too was pretty fed-up. The following day, 11 November, was a public holiday but we were planning an early morning start. As I dozed off I heard the rain arrive and pelt down against the leaves in the garden. It helped me to drift off to sleep once again.

“Wake up kids – I know its early and not a school day but we have to leave now. We’re meeting Rowena in half an hour.”

The children all crawled deeper under their covers and pretended not to hear me. It was only 6.16 a.m. but we really had to get a move on if we wanted to make it to the Menen Gate on time. I’d already put the coffee on. We finally had the kids dressed and ready to go when Rowena texted.

“Heavy rain – still sure you want to go? I an fine either way, but you the main driver so if not good conditions then we can organise another time. Its just down the road in autralian terms!”

“You kidding G. We’ve just got the kids all ready and its only 7. 30 – we’re going. In any case this will give us a good idea of how God awful conditions were on the Western front.”

It was still dark outside and although the wind had subsided somewhat the rain drenched us as we made a dash for the car. Ten minutes later and we picked Rowena up outside the Faculty Club by which time it was getting vaguely light – dawn almost.

“Such a great idea of yours to do this Rowena,” I said. For as long as I can remember G. and I have been talking about “going up to” Ypres – (or Ieper as its written here) to visit the war graves but had somehow never found the initiative. Armistice 2008 – ninety years after the end of the First World War seemed liked a good occasion to make the trip.

Heading off in the pouring rain after a night of storms and a howling hound put me at least in the mood for the gloom ahead. J. was excited. He’s becoming really quite knowledgeable about the First World War.

“Yes, Mummy, I know that Gallipoli was not Churchill’s finest hour …” J remarked nonchalantly as I bantered with Rowena about Mel Brooke in the film Gallipoli.

We stopped at a petrol station along the motorway for R. to have a lavatory break., at which stage from one flat Flemish horizon to another, there was nothing in the sky to be seen but indigo blue and the bright light of the late autumn sun. The wind had stopped. The rain had stopped and the golden light of autumn filled the C8.

By the time we arrived in Ypres we had an hour to spare before the last post was to be played outside the Menen Gate. Rowena, who is a girl after my own heart, had the wise idea of bundling all four children into a warm looking café cum patisserie on the road leading to the town square. There we feasted on sticky donuts, lollipops, iced cakes and hot chocolate. It was all very cosy and cheery and not at all like the trenches.

Outside the crowds were gathering. There were Brits in uniform and Brits in “mufti”; there were Canadians and Americans and New Zealanders and Australians and there were Sikhs and there were Belgians and there were French. And last but not least there was at least one German that I could mention (but more on that later).

We headed as far towards the Menen Gate as we could before being forced to stop due to the sheer number of people. J, K.M, and L., under the watchful eye of Rowena squeezed their way towards the barriers where they had a great view of the troops marching past. The blue sky had gone to be replaced by clouds but it stayed dry.

From October 1914 British and Commonwealth troops began to march through the Meenenpoort gateway from the city of Ypres along the Menen Road and into the gruesome battlefields of the Ypres Salient. The remains of over 90,000 soldiers of the British and Commonwealth armies, who lost their lives fighting in and around Ypres have never been found or identified. They are, therefore, buried somewhere in the Ypres Salient with no known grave.
The site of the Meenenpoort, known to the British Army as The Menen Gate, was considered to be a fitting location to place a memorial to the missing British and Commonwealth soldiers. Inscribed over the gate are panels reading:

TO THE ARMIESOF THE BRITISH EMPIREWHO STOOD HEREFROM 1914 TO 1918AND TO THOSE OF THEIR DEADWHO HAVE NO KNOWN GRAVE

In 1928 the then Superintendent of the Ypres Police had the idea of sounding the Last Post on a daily basis – the traditional salute to the fallen warrior - in recognition of those soldiers lost fighting for Ypres’ freedom and independence.

From 11 November 1929 the Last Post has been sounded on the eastern side of the Menin Gate every night and in all weathers. The only exception to this was during the four years of the German occupation of Ypres. On the very evening that Polish forces liberated Ypres in 1944 the ceremony was resumed at the Menin Gate – in spite of the heavy fighting still going on in other parts of the town.

At exactly 20.00 hours, every day regardless of weather, season or visitor numbers, up to six members of the regular buglers from the local volunteer Fire Brigade step into the roadway under the memorial arch to play the Last Post, followed by a short silence, followed by the playing of the Reveille.

On 11/11 it is supposed to be played at 11 a.m. exactly to mark the signing of the armistice - but, as with all ceremonies, there were delays and lengthy speeches and prayers in Dutch and in English. Just as the first speech was beginning the heavens opened and the precipitations of early morning returned. Luckily we were standing next to some very tall Dutch men who had bought big umbrellas with them so we stayed dry. R. was warm and comfortable on my arm and just as the Last Post was finally played he looked sleepily into my eyes and zonked out on my shoulder.

The crowds, the distance and the rain tap tap tapping on umbrellas muffled the sound of the bagpiper playing “Amazing Grace” but the mournful, haunting wailing of the pipes carried through the air adding to the sense of sadness and loss. The Last Post was then sounded but by this time I was anxious to get going since the rain was getting heavier and heavier and I was beginning to wonder how we would exit the crowds without losing the children and carrying a heavy and sleeping Richard on my arm.

Later that day, once the crowds had cleared, we moseyed down to the Menen Gate to look at all the wreaths of Poppies that lay there. The rain had subsided but a cold chill wind blew under the arches.

Men were beginning to clear away the stands which had housed the dignitaries earlier on in the day. I looked down onto the cobbled floor underneath the gate and noticed that the rain water running into the gutters had turned blood red. The die from thousands of poppies placed by the gate was intermingling with the rain water running into the drains. It stuck me that this was a more vivid, more powerful reminder to the fallen than anything else I had seen or heard that day – almost as if, on this their remembrance day, the blood of the fallen was allowed to wash once more into the Ypres Salient, as it had done all those years ago.

And now I will, briefly, return to the one German who I know attended the ceremony. As I exited the entrance to the museum “In Flanders' Fields” I noticed that Rowena was taking photos of K.M. and L. standing next to a Scottish highlander. The same guy who had played “Amazing Grace” under the Menen Gate shortly before the sounding of the Last Post.

“I think your skirt is really, really pretty.” L. told him enthusiastically as Rowena positioned them for the photo shoot.

They both looked very proud.

“Is that the Cameron tartan?” I asked before moving on.

“It is indeed,” he replied.

“Did you know he’s German?” Rowena asked me.

I didn’t but we both laughed. At the same time though it seemed very fitting to both of us that ninety years after the collision of two juggernaut armies a German should be chosen to play the bagpipes under the symbolic Menen Gate. Ninety years on and Armistice is a day to remember all the fallen, whether German or British or Russian or Italian or Australian or Austrian or Canadian or New Zealander or Sikh or Turk, all of whom at the end of the day, were mere pawns to the ambitions of mad hereditary monarchs, aristocrats and out of touch generals.

Later, we decided to visit a museum in Zonnebeke – a village which at the end of the war(judging by the photos of the time) was but a mere mud field with all but the church steeples standing out against the horizon resembling a pair of rotten fangs amidst all the destruction. Now, it’s a typical built up, slightly dull looking Flemish village. Its only a fifteen minute ride from Ypres.

The fields, en route, were all water logged notable only for the large gleaming puddles that shone in between the cut off tops of the summer’s corn. Not the kind of place you would like to bunker down in at the best of times. I felt cold imagining what it must have been like to sit in a trench or dripping dug-out with a heavy, almost certainly wet, army uniform on and a barrage of sniper fire, shrapnel, artillery fire and noxious, nauseous gas being thrown in my direction.

After visiting the Chateau at Zonnebeke – a great museum with underground trenches which the children enjoyed running through we emerged to see a blood red sun set.

“Passendael is a five minute ride from here,” Rowena told us. “Shall we just drive past Toy cot Cemetery to have a quick look before heading home?”

Passendael – a name with such resonance in the UK; always said aloud with awe, sadness and respect. Its part of our national consciousness and here we were just five minutes drive away. I had no idea it was such a small unassuming little village. Somehow I had imagined something bigger. Something more spectacular. Something more, well, fitting to the symbolism of useless warfare and death.

Above Toy cot cemetery a full moon shone high up in the Eastern sky, whilst to the West – lighting up the Western Front the sun began to tip towards the horizon, the beams of which highlighted, in sharp relief, Flanders’ wet, muddy, water clogged fields. It seemed a fitting end to a day that had begun stormy, then turned wet and ended bright and clear. Well, at least on 11/11 and 11 a.m. we did as all the Poppies placed along the Menen Gate had asked us to do:

“At the going down of the sun and in the morning. We will remember them.”

In praise of hypocrisy and other news

2008-10-07T02:59:00.001-07:00

I remember reading once, don’t ask me where, that one of the vices most despised by those surveyed was: “hypocrisy”. I have a very different view on this vice – I think a certain amount of hypocrisy is both necessary, desirable and completely forgivable. “Principled” morons who follow a particular path in life without looking “left” or “right” are far more annoying than hypocrites. If there is one expression that gets right on my nerves it is “I won’t do it on principle.” Normally, this expression means “I am too dim and lazy to try and come to a conclusion on this tricky choice I have to make and so instead I will pretend to be a man/woman of “principle”.

At least hypocrites are, mostly, transparent and everyone can form their own judgements and conclusions. The principled lot are just a pain to have around. I mention this because I am really beginning to appreciate Victorian hypocrisies. They’ve been slammed for so long now I shall become their apologist. It is of course true that most Victorian hypocrites claimed to be principled – so its all a bit confusing really but I shall have a go.

Last Sunday evening, I watched the last episode of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. I sat alone, G. having decided to give this one a skip, and wept as Angel St Clair (the principled idiot) wept for his beautiful Tess. I have never read the actual book but seen Roman Polanski version a couple of times – years ago. Had forgotten most of the plot. In fact I missed the first episode – thought it would be yet another BBC period drama. Yawn. It was fantastic though. Great actress and actors.

In the same way that I am a firm believer in allowing a little bit of cheese into ones everyday life, so I am a firm believer in the Victorian novel. Its impossible, nowadays, to write such high drama. Self-sacrifice no longer exists and yet it is precisely the denial of temptation that creates the passions for a wonderful story. It would, for example, be impossible to write a tale about lovers denying each other physical and emotional love because the protagonist had been seduced by a monster, had mothered a child with said “monster” and was, as a result, no longer “pure”. A lengthy period of separation and hardship ensues resulting in tragedy.

Victorian morals may have been hypocritical; they may have been stifling; they may have been misjudged – but they did allow for superb drama. Katherine and Heathcliff have got to be one of the all time greatest passionate lovers – and this was written by a spinster who had lived a sheltered life in the Yorkshire moors with nothing to inspire her other than wild weather and a great imagination of what life could have been like.

“Great” contemporary literature centres around protagonists wheedling their way out of responsibility and no plot is complete without marital infidelity. G. bought me a copy of Fiona Neill (aka Lucy Sweeney’s) “Diary of a Slummy Mummy” a few months ago when he returned from a trip to the UK. Sweeney’s “slummy Mummy” column in The Times is hugely popular in the UK given that she is supposed to represent the slightly whacky contemporary middle-class Mum.

It began rather promising and her description of domestic life looked horribly familiar to our own. I gave up half-way through though when she makes a “secret” arrangement to meet “sexy domestic Dad down the pub” of all places. Where, I ask you, is the romance in that? I also got fed-up when she began to describe how she saw her husband, shortly before they got married, having sex with a girl in someone’s front garden. How on earth she went on to marry the man after such an experience is quite beyond me.

OK, a slummy Mummy diary isn’t exactly high-brow literature nor is it intended to be – but give me Victorian drama any day over and above such tat. I can just imagine the publisher of a “Slummy Mummy” insisting that her book will not sell if there is no illicit activity outside of the marital home.

In other news:

I should probably try my hand at writing “tat” and see if I can make a nice little earner out of it. Our roof is leaking – again and it looks more than likely that we will have to replace it. Its been leaking, in different patches, every winter, spring and autumn since we bought the place. So far we have managed to make local repairs but I wonder if this winter is the winter where we need a complete over haul.

On Friday Inne is arriving from the Ukraine. She has no military training but we are in negotiations with Sir Alan Sugar about finalising an expensive training programme called MET (Military Endurance Test) whereby future spies and SAS grandees come to live with us for a whole month to see if they can survive the mental anguish. G thinks this will be a lot more profitable than my tatty novels and help pay for the leaking roof.

J. is loving his football. He’s such a happy little boy and has become a lot calmer now that he spends six hours a week running around a field and getting completely exhausted. On Saturday he scored three goals. The team lost 6-5 but we were, needless to say, very proud of him.

Yesterday was teacher-training day so I had the kids at home. We were joined by Charlotte, Nicholas and Thomas. It was full house but lots of fun. The kids kept themselves amused which meant I could get on with other things.

Bear goes on rampage in fairy-land

2008-09-29T01:51:00.000-07:00

"You’re making it all sound far more simple than it actually is.” That’s what someone, who works in a bank, told me at a party, late on Friday evening, following some thoughts I had on the $ 700 billion bail-out. She was a legal advisor to this big bank, you see, and I thought, “Now hold on a moment, here’s a lady who might actually know what is going on out there in finance land.” I’ve asked loads of people who work in banks, or the financial sector, or who seem to be cleverer than me when it comes to the money markets, to try and tell me what has caused this problem. I always get a different answer.

Its something to do with buying debt. (People actually buy debt?). Or its something to do with toxic assets (People invest in assets that include the word toxic?). Or its something to do with a bank that used to be a building society that goes by the name of, check this out, Fanny and Freddie (Incredible but true). Or its something to do with buying too many derivatives. (What are they again?). I am, as you understand, still mightily confused about what all the fuss is about. I thought it had something simple to do with reckless bank managers, under pressure from the top, lending too much money to those who would never be able to pay it back.

As far as I can tell there is some sinister phantom force out there referred to as “the markets” that seem to be sending the shivers down the spine of every global banker from New York to Tokyo from Beijing to Frankfurt. At the time of the last great recession Franklin Roosevelt said so famously, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself” – but then you have George W. Bush II, looking into the camera like a frightened rabbit and you wonder what lessons have been learned.
“Well, we’re not overly worried,” G. quipped in “we owe the bank “loadsa” money and have no savings what to speak of so if the banks go belly-up does that mean we can keep our monthly payments?” Its no wonder the lady-banker thought we were simple idiots but there was a sense of schadenfreude in seeing a banker squirm.

Yeah, OK, I know I’m just a simple dumb blond who can’t get her pretty little head around all these important issues but I can’t help thinking that if the banks had behaved a bit more like dumb blonds and kept their affairs simple then none of this would have happened in the first place. No one, as far as I can gather, is able to get to the bottom of this, because the whole financial sector has been given free reign to create a vast set of rules, counter-rules, over-riding-rules, and new rules that are about as impossible to unravel as the Gordian knot. Derivates, short-term selling, bonds, futures, credit bonuses, share options, going public etc. It’s the beauty of the “free market” apparently. Markets, The Economist and some extreme Republicans would have us believe, are pure as the driven snow. I can't help wondering though whether bankers and markets wouldn't be getting their knickers in a twist if they hadn't got their Derivatives into such a twist.

In fact I even took time out last week to read The Economist because I thought now here is a weekly rag that will undoubtedly inform me about what is going on. The Economist said: “There is no faulting Europeans for consistency when it comes to distrusting financiers, liking businesses that make things you can touch and looking to regulators to keep markets in good moral order.”
There you have it. “Europeans” are simple. Just like me. A dumb blond who likes “to touch” something to believe it. Not like the clever guys in The Economist who can understand nebulous, abstract markets that one can “sense” rather than “touch”.

Have any of you played Pokémon cards with an eight, nine or ten year old boy? Well let me tell you I have and I can’t get to the bottom of that either. The rules of the game are about as absurd and unfathomable as the financial market. They keep changing depending on the intuition of the ten year old kid.

There can, therefore, be but one conclusion: only ten year old boys are truly capable of understanding the rules of Pokémon and only the select few who work in finance are truly capable of understanding the little “risk” games that they have been allowed to dream up over the past ten years. If you happen not to be a part of the financial cabal then you are just too dumb to understand.

One thing I am sure of though is that were I in a position to decide on this $ 700 billion bail-out I too would say an emphatic. “NO”. I mean really. The United States’ Treasury Secretary getting down on one knee to literally beg for a blank check makes me thing that this is more theatrical farce than serious money matters. Were my kids to do that to me I would smell a rat. The way I, dumb blond, see it is: a whole loada money is going to be given back to the very people who lost the whole loada money in the first place. Would you give money back to them? Are they, err, reliable?

If G. and I don’t meet our monthly payments, regardless of whether our bank topples over the abyss or not, someone, somewhere will come and collect the money. No bail out for us home-owners. Only financial ruin. Complete and utter.

“Didn’t you get given some shares in the Halifax some years ago Dad when they went public,” I asked him last week when Lehman Brothers crumbled under the weight of its absurd “risk” taking.

“Oh yes,” he replied. “I got given some shares. It was worth around £ 1000 at some point. I gather its only worth around £ 200 at the moment.”

“Aww shucks that sucks.” I replied.

“Not really,” he answered “Its all fairy money anyway.”

Must be of a cheerful disposition – preferably with military training

2008-07-23T03:54:00.000-07:00

“K.” Rebecca said to me “you have to watch Nanny McPhee. I’ve brought the DVD with me. You’ll love it!”

No doubt I will do – but the DVD player packed up within a couple of hours of us arriving in Maison Loubes. Very kindly, Mum and Dad took the old one (under guarantee) back to Leclerc in Dax and exchanged it for a EUR 99 one, which works. Well it works after Daddy spent at least six hours burning the midnight oil trying to figure out why we could only get a picture in black and white and only after the electrician from St Sever turned up to sort it out for us. So, perhaps this evening once the “little ‘uns” are settled I will be able to sit down with Becky and the “big ‘uns” to watch Nanny McPhee.

Now, I know that a bunch of unruly kids makes for a great little yarn: take The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins and Peter Pan as an example. You know the story line – no one can keep wild kids under control until some super-nova nanny/au pair/child-minder turns up who “understands the kids” is perfectly able to keep “all of them entertained at the same time regardless of age or sex” is skilled enough to “make clothes from old curtains” and one who has the ability “to fly them to some cartoon-world where they can sing with the penguins”. The reality, sadly, though is that these kind of things exist in fairy-tales only. The nanny’s that is.

“The problem with our kids,” I said to a friend the other day “is that they are a bit like the von Trapp family. Fun, wild, adventurous but its impossible for us to keep good babysitters. They come once and always have excuses why they can’t come the next time.”

Nevertheless one lives in hope. G. and I have taken the decision to try and get an au pair for September. Trying to jig the needs of four kids with differing ages and sexes is a challenge that is increasingly beyond me. What with J. taking up football when we get back from our holidays in August and what with K.M and L. having ballet lessons on different days and at different times and what with G. being away a lot of the time and what with me trying to go to the gym at least twice a week; and what with me last but not least having to work – having an au pair seems like a very sensible albeit pricey solution.

It was with much excitement, therefore, that I got an e-mail from G. last week telling me that an agency, which came highly recommended, had sent us the details of a girl from the Ukraine who had chosen our family. Yes, she had actually chosen our family. I suppose we had dressed the "job discription" up a bit to make it look very attractive. She looked lovely. Kind, sweet and eager. She only weighed 54 kg (seemingly they have to fill that kind of info in) and had some experience working with young children for the past two years. Upon further inspection though Anastasia had only worked for families with one cute-looking little girl; had only been responsible for taking an aged looking dachshund for a walk in the afternoon and came from a small family with one (sensible looking) older brother – photos were included.

But how was this young slip of a thing going to cope with "Do you want to die R?! Do you want to die?" and "I'm going to kill you! I'm going to kill you". This is typical J. speak when he's bored and has nothing better to do than yell nonsence. Or how would she cope when one of the kids plays up and is bolshy because they are tired after school and don't want to eat soup. Or how would she cope having to call them away from the TV to tell them that supper is ready. How would she cope with our early morning routine described elsewhere in this blog?

“G,” I said “this girl is great but I’m not sure if it will work for our family. She looks lovely but has no experience of dealing with four demanding kids and looks as though Belle will pull her over when she goes for a walk. Within two weeks of arrival she’ll have her bags packed and her eyes trained East for the return journey. Doesn’t this agency have some Ukrainian candidate whose a bit tougher – you know preferably one whose had at least two years training with the Ukrainian paratroopers and comes from a large family of seven kids? ”

Seemingly though those kind of people don’t apply for au pair jobs. Such a shame because there are no convents in the vicinity with any novices to spare and lets face it Mary Poppins is not going to glide down in front of our house the next time the wind changes and tidy up rooms with a “spoon full of sugar”.

Wish us luck – I’m sure there is someone out there “with a cheerful disposition” who would really, really love the challenge of working with four loveable and attentive little VC-G's. Its great fun really – and no L. doesn’t go all wild before she goes to bed. Oh and R. does go to sleep the moment he’s tucked in. Oh and J. is as good as gold once he’s behind his PSP. Oh and you can always rely on K.M. to keep the whole house cheerful. Any candidates? Any one?

Football talk

2008-06-17T01:27:00.000-07:00

J. was on the box yesterday evening. When I picked him from school it was the first thing he told me.

“Guess what Mummy. I was interviewed for a TV programme. Its on at twenty to eight. Can I watch it?”

I rarely watch the local programmes – certainly not at that time. Too busy putting kids to bed or tidying up or something equally dull. Yesterday, though, G. and I made the effort and managed to find a spare tape from somewhere to tape our son’s debut on the screen.

It was a five minute snippet where the producers of the programme showed around ten kids extracts from the previous day’s news. One item concerned the legalisation of homosexual marriages. Interesting topic. J. who was sitting with three of his friends didn’t answer this one. He was trying too hard to keep a straight face and not to giggle. No matter. His class mate answered eloquently and tolerantly enough to do the school proud.

The second snippet on the news was to do with Euro 2008. “Who won the football match last night and what did they score?” the producers asked the kids. All of them got it wrong. Answering: Turkey v Switzerland. Wrong. One even said it was Turkey v Anderlecht. Only one said that Turkey had won (correct) – but that they had won against Switzerland.

Not so J. His response was broadcast last. One could see he couldn’t control his excitement at being asked this question.

“The match was Turkey v the Czeck Repbulic and Turkey won scoring three goals in the last sixty minutes.”

Spot on. (Actually it was in the last sixteen minutes but I know that’s what J. meant to say) Well done son . Of course we’re all really proud of you – and your performance was exemplary.

Spare a thought for me though, his poor mother, will you? Can you imagine what it is like in this house at the moment? If England are playing then watching football can be quite good fun. Go on lads. Score for England etc. etc. Normally you might get three, possibly four good games out of the England team before they are kicked out of the competition. With England having failed to qualify though I’m not particularly interested in how Italy is doing. Or Holland. Or Romania for that matter.

Not so, J. He is trying to watch every single match – regardless of nationality. France v Romania; Italy v Holland; Austria v Croatia; Portugal v (I can’t remember). He’s got the Euro 2008 sticker book and knows every player in every team off by heart. Their strikers, goal-keepers, mid-fielders. He likes to shout “off-side” at the screen and give a running commentary of the match. At a bbq the other day he was trying hard to join in a conversation with two father’s about football. When the conversation turned to football in the eighties he drifted off to bounce on the trampoline – but watch this space. His next specialisation will probably be Belgian football 1980 – 1992.

Football conversations, I have to tell you, bore me to death. Its fine for a few minutes. After that I’ve seriously had enough. Now my own son is talking nothing but football. G. of course is delighted. He gets to watch endless football on telly in the evenings.

It doesn’t stop there though. No matter how hard I have tried to resist, lure J. into tempting alternatives, argued my case before my husband, I know that I am, eventually, going to have to bow to the inevitable. Next September J. will join the football club and stop karate. Such a shame he is so good at karate. G. promises me it will all be OK that we will find the time for it.

Its not that I’m against the sport – its all good physical exercise and that – and I know that little boys like to play football. All of that I can understand, its just that they take it all so damn seriously here. Training Wednesday night and Friday night six thirty to seven thirty and matches on Saturday. This is quite a commitment. Especially since J. is the oldest and I will have to drag three younger siblings to hang around a soggy pitch on Friday evenings in late January when its dark. I would rather be getting them ready for bed on a rainy Friday evening when its dark so that I can switch off.

The trainers are probably desperate to find some hot young talent and put lots of pressure on the boys to perform well. All the boys want to be selected for the team but most won’t. Its not just a gathering of boys who can have fun kicking a ball up and down the field on a Saturday afternoon. Oh no there’s a world of premier divisions; second divisions; third divisions; fixtures and timetables. Matches in Germany and Holland; fixtures here there and everywhere entailing Saturdays driving across the continent just so that a ten year old can “play” football. I shudder at the thought.

No doubt there are many mothers who dream about their boys being a professional football player. Not so I. My oldest son, on the other hand, is completely caught up, wrapped up and pulled in to the dream that is football. He’s supporting Portugal just because a certain Cristiano Ronaldo is Portuguese.

“When I start playing football with OHL Mummy we're all going to be so good. We’ll be the best team because Ivan and Tristan and all my friends play for OHL.”

Well, I guess he might as well learn the limits of his abilities on the football fields of Flanders.

Early Morning

2008-05-29T03:52:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-20T09:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-09T00:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Happenings at Finlay Cottage

2008-04-15T00:46:00.000-07:00

Saturday, 22 March 2008

According to the papers this is the earliest Easter in 95 years and Easter will not fall so early for another 200 and something years. I now understand that the dates for Easter are determined by the full moon and when it falls after the equinox. Given that the equinox is always the 21 March, I can see that 23 March is indeed very early. In any case the weather, as we cross the channel is very equinoxical. There’s a gale force wind blowing outside so we do not dare to venture on deck to watch the white cliffs of Dover. The Norfolk Line ferry, Dunkirk to Dover, lilts and lolls, sways and rises in a very untasteful manner meaning that J., K.M. and myself lie down in order not to feel sea sick. G., who would have thought it, has sea legs and stays standing keeping an eye on R. and L. who also seem oblivious to the motion of the boat and carry on bouncing themselves full force around in the “Little Nippers” play area.

We find Finlay Cottage without too much difficulty. It is attached to a grander farm house called “Parsonage Farm”, which is an Edwardian “gentleman farmer” affair. I love it. It looks a bit run down though and the children, who are used to the ways here, consider it ugly because there is lichen on the roof and the windows look like they could do with a lick of paint – no sense of romance. Tya!

The cottage itself is lovely. A nice big country kitchen, lots of sash windows letting in light. Small and comfy. Only problem – we have no electricity. One of the lines further up has come down in the gale. No electricity also means no heating. As we open the car door to unpack we all nearly get blown away in the heavy winds and the gate keeps crashing shut making it difficult for us to lug luggage inside.

Not to worry. We are all in high spirits and excited to be away and on holiday. We first go to Hastings to stock up on food for the week and conveniently find a big Sainsbury. Next we go to Rye to book a table for Easter lunch and find out where the catholic church is for mass the following day. Rye’s high street is lovely but is not pedestrianised and the pavements can only fit two people comfortably. This makes it tricky when R. decides he’s fed up, has a tantrum and refuses to move forwards, backwards or upwards on to our shoulders.

When we get back the electricity is still off but the Wheelers come round with stack loads of wood and coal and manage to get the old Raeburn up and running again. I get the impression it hasn’t been used in years and I look at it wearily wondering if I can at least boil some water on it – by this time I’m frozen to the bone and would love a cup of tea and some heat in the house. I manage to make a haddock stew on the Raeburn of which I am immensely proud and then the lights came back on again, and the heating, and all is well.

Easter Sunday, 23 March 2008

We wake up to a freezing cold day and snow falling outside. Our room is warm and comfortable. Thank goodness we got heating back again yesterday. “Merry Easter G.” I call out in a cheerful, jolly Santa Claus, sort of way. The kids are up at 6 a.m. since they are still on continental time. It doesn’t matter. They find their way to the TV and watch Cbeebies happily enough. It also means we are on time for once and pack in a wintry Easter egg hunt in the garden before heading off to mass in Rye. The church is packed and we have to stand but it was a nice mass and afterwards we head of to the Vine Hotel Restaurant on the high street. The young American owner, wearing bunny ears, greets us with a big smile and takes us out to the back room, which is oak panelled from top to bottom. The kids really enjoy the roast lunch and tuck in with pleasure and gusto. All things considered they were very well behaved.

Later we decide to go to Camber beach for a long walk. Being prepared I have bought a change of clothes and wellies. It takes the girls and I a good half an hour to get changed in the back of the car, whilst the boys rush off to look at the beach. As we walk on to Camber Sands the arctic wind whips our faces and penetrates straight through us. R. doesn’t look like he’s up for a walk, whilst J and K have discovered the waves and rush up to them.

“This isn’t Biarritz in August kids. Come out of the waves you’ll get all wet!” I shout at them but my voice gets lost in the wind and the sound of the waves crashing on the beach. In any case its too late. A wave has caught J and he is wet up to his waist. If J. is not to die of instant cold we have to head back now. So we only manage a five minute walk on the beach and paid £ 2 for parking! As we get to the car G. took J’s wellies off and poured out half a ton of the English channel on to the car park. It’s a good thing we head back when we do.

“Sorry” J. mumbles from the back seat.

We later try a walk along some of the fields by the farm but give up. The wind is just too cold and R. looks miserable.

It’s nice returning to a warm comfortable cottage.

Monday, 24 March 2008

Weather still not good but the kids managed to spend the morning bouncing around on the Wheeler's fantastic trampoline. We decide to go into Hastings to buy some cheap, second hand books in charity shops but they are all closed, it being Easter Monday. Waterston’s is open though and we buy J. three of the Spiderwick Chronicles and K.M some “Horrible Henry” books, which she likes.

Later we take them to “Cromer’s” indoor play park, which we saw advertised in one of the brochures. It costs us £ 26 for the whole family – by far the most expensive excursion of the whole holiday. We are used to paying EUR 2 per child here in The Middle, with parents going for free – or at least having “large family” discounts. The kids have a great time though and it is a good way to kill a rainy afternoon and get the children tired.

Later that evening, J. finishes the first of his Spiderwick Chronicles. I was hoping that the three books would keep him going all holiday. Not since the final Harry Potter was published last July has there been a book that seems to have inspired J – although I have been trying to entice him to read lots of different books. Spiderwick, declares J., is as good as if not better than H.P. I promise to read Book 1 so that we can talk about it since I haven’t the foggiest what the Spiderwick Chronicles are all about. Later I realise that Holly Black and Tony whatshisface, and their publishers have ripped us off. Their stories and illustrations are fantastic but any other decent author would have put their story into one book and not five charging £ 4.99 a pop. J.K. Rowling would never have done that. Nope she gave good value for money. You buy a book and you’re going to get a good long yarn out of it.

On the other hand …. it does get J. reading again. Even K.M is stuck in her Horrid Henry book. Honestly, is there something in the blustery English air that gets them to read? I can’t get them to stick their noses into books for love nor money back home …

Tuesday, 25 March 2008

Spent the morning back in Hastings and buying loads of cheap books. For £ 21 we managed to buy around thirty books. J. and K.M. turned their noses up at most of the books on offer in Oxfam, though we did buy R. a Noddy book and L “Sleeping Beauty”. We don’t linger because Mum, Dad, Aunty Bea and George are arriving for lunch.

G. goes and picks them up from Rye where they are staying the night at a B&B called “The Apothecary” and brings them all back to Finlay Cottage for a spaghetti lunch. Coming from London, they really enjoy seeing the countryside. Dad sits in the sofa with the view over the Wheelers magnificent garden and declares that he has not intention of going back into Rye that afternoon – he’s very happy where he is! Who can blame him – it is lovely being out in the countryside and why rush the whole family into Rye when we have the whole of tomorrow to do things.

Mum arrives with loads of chocolate Easter eggs for the children and agrees to buy J. the last two Spiderwick Chronicle books for his birthday – better than that she gives him £20 as a birthday present. With the £5 that Aunty Bruni gave them all as a present he is swimming in cash and is a very happy 9, nearly 10 year old boy. “Please can we go to Waterstone’s now and buy the last two books?” he begs. But now is not the time to be getting into the car and driving all the way back to Hastings.

After lunch, Mum, Aunty Bea, George, G. and I go for a walk along the farm. Although still cold it is not nearly as windy or chilly as on Easter Sunday. The two boys have a great time holding sticks and pretending to be pirates. R., who has no idea of danger tries to stare a young ram down holding his stick aloft and shouting “NO!” to the juvenile ram. To our amazement the ram backs off but still follows us as we walk along the fields.

After supper G. drives them back into Rye and we agree to meet up the following day.

Wed. 26 March 2008

Am so, so, so enjoying this holiday. I sleep well, I have time to read, the kids are happy (no quibbling), breakfast is unrushed, the kids run outdoors a lot to bounce on the trampoline, look at the lambs or stroke the dogs. We manage a very relaxed morning before heading into Rye at around 11.00 to meet up with Mum and Dad, Bea and George. They seem to have had a good night in the B&B and, like us, are in good spirits. We decide to do a little “walk around” Rye to admire the medieval architecture and views. Later we have lunch in a small place the name of which I forget – I do remember it was named after a contemporary play-right of Shakespeare and Marlow. After lunch we head off to Hastings to buy J. his books, whilst the others take the train to Battle, where we will meet up later.

Trip to Battle great fun. Very powerful in fact. I find myself later thinking a lot about William slaughtering Harold and his army. They have a brilliant visitors centre. J. loves this kind of stuff and we walk around a relatively compact, though at this time of year very muddy, field. Close on a 1000 years ago epic, decisive, battles were obviously small-scale and the story not overly complicated: On top of the hill was Harold (significantly not on horse back): Below was William: To the left the Bretons and Flemish (yes Flemish!): Early in the morning William’s cavalry charged uphill but were repulsed etc. etc. By the time we reach the top of the hill where the Abbey stands and the daffodils grow we have reached the spot were Harold was shot through the eye with an arrow – William gave permission to Harold’s mistress “Edith Swanneck” later to identify his body parts for Christian burial in an unidentified grave. ‘twas a pitiful end to Anglo-Saxon rule and changed the course of English history.

The Abbey, built by William to pay penance to God for the battle and to thank Him for the victory, is strangely dark and sinister. Its now a boarding school. I ask J. if he would like to go it to which he emphatically says “No”. Can’t blame him – there is something about the Abbey that makes me shiver too. Too many ghosts I suspect. At any rate before the holiday the kids had never heard of 1066. They have now.

Thus 27 March:

The kids protest. They swear they will not budge an inch. They accuse me of being too bossy. G. begins to take their side.

“We did promise them a quiet day today. No visits, that kind of thing.”

Its 11.30 a.m. and the kids have been taking it easy all morning – playing on the trampoline, looking at the lambs, stroking the dogs. R., however, is a tad too young to go off on his own and has spent most of the morning behind the box and I sense that unless action is taken our afternoon will be spent zapping channels. It’s the first day of some sort of sunshine and I’m not about to let one single day of our holiday descend into “box” viewing when we could be “castle” viewing.

“Come on kids – the brochure looks great. Look! It’s a medieval castle built by a knight made rich by fighting in France and bringing his loot home to England.”

“No!” they shout back. “No more castles. We hate castles. They’re booooring”.

G. and I get some sort of a picnic together for eating in the car when we get there. Somehow we manage to force four bolshy kids into their seat belts and head off through the East Sussex countryside. Showers with intermittent sunshine mark the 40 minute journey as we head towards Bodiam Castle. We eat our sandwiches and scones in the car as rain pelts the windows. By the time we have finished the sun is out full force and the kids spill out of the car in a good mood.

Bodiam Castle is truly amazing with all the exact proportions, designs and moat of a children’s text-book illustration. We love the moat, the draw-bridge, the portcullis, the “murder” holes to kill off any invaders who dare try and enter the central court. J. and K. enjoy the fifteen minute “film” that we watch in a damp dark room just next to the castle’s entrance although R does get fidgety at some point.

“This is really good fun Mummy.” K.M says as we scramble up some more steep, windy steps to yet another tower.

Why, I wonder, does it always have to be such a battle to get them out when I know they enjoy it once we’re there?

We leave the parking at around three o’clock and the sun is shinning. It’s the first bit of sun we have seen in a long, long time.

“Shall we go to Whinchelsea beach?” I suggest since the afternoon is still young.

“No Mummy. No! We want to go home.”

“But the weather is so nice still and its not that far from here. Why don’t we just go and have a look before we head back?”

“No. No.” they all shout back at me.

We end up going. I must be a very forceful kinda girl to still get away with it in spite of all the opposition. Later when I ask the kids what they thought the best bit about the holiday was L. says “Going to Whinchelsea beach and collecting sea shells.”

Friday, 28 March

Its already been planned for a while and the children have been warned so they do not protest too much when we head off to Chartwell on our final day. In any case the rain has returned again full force and its pouring down outside. Not much chance for trampolining, walking or anything else really. It takes us a good hour to get there along the clogged A21. Once again we have a picnic in the car watching the rain trickle down the steamed-up windows.

I just had to go and visit this place having nearly finished reading the abridged version of Winston Churchill’s “The Second World War” – a fantastic read by the way and by no means a high falutin’ affair. It’s a privilege to read since one hobnobs with only the highest ranking figures of the second world war – Roosevelt, Eisenhower, Monty – oh yes and dear old Uncle Joe as well. Fascinating and fantastically anecdotal.

The kids behave themselves remarkably well in Chartwell and luckily non of the great man’s possessions are knocked over or otherwise damaged by a horde of Van Calsters running along Chartwell’s corridors or elegant drawing rooms. G. keeps a beady eye on R. who discovers a fish-tank in Churchill’s study where some of his most notable thoughts and speeches were written. The fish keep R. happy while I take the other three around.

By the time we have finished the rain has stopped and I plan a walk around the gardens but this time there is really very little willingness to do so from the rest of the family and I concur having got away with a lot already. In any case it’s a good thing to get home early to begin the process of packing everything up for the return journey.

My J.B. week-end

2008-03-18T06:15:00.000-07:00

Until a couple of weeks ago I had no idea what a “Maxi” dress was. I do now though and I love them – especially if they are made by H&M, are labelled size 38, and I fit into them with ease. Its all thanks to Becky that I was able to wear a long dress and look glamorous in it – so thank-you La_Bec_Star. Mwwaaaa xxxx.

1970’s chic was the leitmotiv of our J.B week-end. We even had two alter-egos: our mother and her younger sister: Angelika and Annette. Becky being dark was Angelika of course. I being blond was Annette. I can still see my Aunty Ness, staring in a silent cine-camera video on her honey-moon in 1975. She steps out of a silver Porsche Boxer, having driven along the French Riviera, wearing a mini-skirt, long blond hair tied in a low pony-tail and a middle parting, and looking out over the beaches of Monte Carlo.

And then I can picture a photo of Angelika holding her ski’s aloft outside an Alpine Hut with long dark hair, tied back in a low pony-tail and middle-parting, sporting a red and beige stripped jumper, taken on a family skiing holiday in around 1978. If we were going for 1970’s chic it was obvious that they were to be our inspiration.

So, Becky came down by train from Amsterdam on Friday evening, just around the time we had the children settled, which was perfect timing given that Aunty Becky was still able to go up and give them a good-night kiss, before coming down to have a “grown-up” supper with G. and I and polish off a bottle of red-wine.

We had plenty to talk about – not least our hero of the moment: Mr James Blunt. Ahhhhhh – ex-army officer, talented musician, educated heart-throb. We like the video of him “turning in his sheets” J. G., who is my real hero of course and a perfect gentlemen, suffered with grace and good humour, our ramblings all week-end.

On Saturday evening, G. fell asleep on the sofa next to us (and he wasn’t even drinking anything having given up alcohol for Lent) as Becky and I watched endless James Blunt videos on You Tube, giggled, laughed and gossiped. At around 11 p.m. G decided to call it a night and headed off to bed – but Becky and I, what with a bottle of Rioja to polish off, decided it was time to prepare a dance for the concert. Becky, you see, had a theory that we would be invited to the “after concert party” and meet the man himself. We are so sure he would like us.

Apparently a brother of one of Becky’s friends went to school with James and hits the town with him regularly – and because this is not an urban myth, honestly, and because we had this tenuous connection, and because we were going to be all dressed up in Maxi dresses and wear our hair like a Charlie’s Angle, and finally because we were going to bring along the Union Jack tea-towel that someone once gave me, and hold it aloft to “Your Beautiful”, we were bound to be spotted and invited to the “after concert” party.

“K. you just have to believe it and it will happen.” Rebecca assured me.
“I’m a believer. I’m a believer.” I promised.

In any case having laughed, swooned and drank two glasses of red-wine both, both of us were in a very silly mood on Saturday after G. went upstairs to bed and so we put on the “All Lost Souls” Album and decided to do some karaoke in front of the gold-mirror above the mantle-piece. We were just amazing! Yep ladies and gentleman, La_Bec_Star and I choreographed a fantastic dance to 1973 which, were we better known, I am sure would become iconic. We performed it the following day to all four little VC-G’s and they were quite impressed.

“I want to come too.” K.M., age 8, pleaded.

“How does Erwan feel about you having such a teen-age crush on J.B.?” I asked her.

“Oh he just says its “Becky world” and knows its just for a bit of fun.”

We both agreed, however, that if either Erwan or G. watched You Tube videos of a cute, talented, and curvaceous female folk singer, before they set off to see her live in concert, we would be just a little bit peeved and probably not speak to them for a while. Double standards hey.

The baby-sitter came with her boyfriend at 6 p.m. Getting ready, as always is one of the best parts of a night out, so by the time we got into our C8 (not very glamorous I admit but better than taking public transport ) we were on quite a high already and singing along to “Shine On” at the top of our voices.

Poor G., who is still recovering from a nasty “meringitis bullosa” ear drum infection that has left him temporarily prone to hearing everything double in his left ear, took it all in his stride.

“Are you going to feel self-conscious when we turn up Becky? I mean, I’m sure that we’ll be the only ones wearing long dresses. Bet you everyone else will be wearing jeans.”

“Remember the “dare to wear” movement you and I have started K. Tonight we dare to wear.”

G., what a sweetie, dropped us off outside Vorst National in the pouring rain and went off to find parking. He was gone for what felt like a long time and only found parking, a good 20 minutes walk away, from the venue. Given that it was bucketing it down outside, Becky and I were delighted to have been dropped off. Poor G. turned up later looking just a little bit wet around the shoulders.

Whilst I was waiting for G. inside the lobby I did not feel self-conscious. I felt great, glamorous and gleaming. Ohh the pleasure of being 38 and not 28 when self-consciousness inhibits one’s true self-expression.

The Hoosiers, kooky and whacky, were the support band for the night and we quite enjoyed them. Mingling at the back of the pit in front of us were quite a few Brits including a “ballet dancer” called Claire who introduced herself to us. She was impressed when we told her that we had a special dance that we were going to perform to 1973. “Can I join in too?” she asked “Sure” we replied delighted to have met a kindred spirit and impressed that a ballet dancer might actually consider us any good.

We liked Claire. She was taking the evening about as seriously as we were. For the rest, the crowd were pretty tame. Mostly couples, hugging each other back to back, and swaying to the music in a very dull way - and G. was worried that it might be full of giggling female teenagers throwing their knickers on stage. J.B. could only wish.

Becky and I were having a whale of a time. We were moving our arms in the air, swaying our hips, tossing our Charlie’s Angels hair from side to side and sashaying to “and we’d both go out to the morning light. Singing here we go again!”.

Having listened to “All Lost Souls” so often now, we both pelted out the songs and waved our Union Jack tea-towel around a lot.

“So shine on! So shine on!” J.B. sang

“So shine on! So shine on!
To our Union Jack,
here at the back”

we sang back to him at the top of our voices. But the camera didn’t pan on to us and we still weren’t spotted. Damn!

Becky said at one point, “Lets try and move closer to the stage.” But the closer we got the more crowded the pit became and there was a lot less room for dancing. We were getting closer and closer to the front of the stage when a rather “Sloany” lady, probably younger than me, clutching a navy-blue patent leather hand-bag, tapped Becky on the shoulder and said.

“I’m sorry but someone else is standing there.”

Right. OK. That’s a first. Numbered standing spaces. She cramped our style though. So we gave up on reaching the front and headed back towards G. who was guarding my, very funky, tan leather, hand-bag.

When “You’re Beautiful” was sung I said to our new friend, Claire.

“You do realise that it was me he spotted in the crowded place. You see I was heading up the escalators at Euston Tube Station and he was heading down, and so it was never meant to be because I had a train to catch and we just lost each other in the crowd.”

Clair stared at me. I almost thought she believed me.

“So I have met his muse?” she asked all wide-eyed. I could see she was a very good performer.

“Yep you have.”

“I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don’t know what to do
‘cos I’ll never be with you.”

James crooned.

“It’s alright James” Becky and I shouted. “Don’t jump off the cliff!” we pleaded.
“You found us. You know that face that you lost in the crowd. Its here. Its here in the back! Its OK. Just don’t jump.”

Becky and I had to laugh.

All of the songs J.B and his band performed brilliantly. We enjoyed each and every one of them – even G. who heard it in double, had a great evening. He did keep quite a distance away from us though – whether that was because we moving our arms around so much and he was scared he might get whacked, or because he was embarrassed and did not want to be associated with us, or perhaps because he didn’t feel part of our gang what with not wearing a Maxi dress, I have no idea.

We didn’t make it to the “after concert” party. Becky told me its because I didn’t believe enough, and because I didn’t fight my way to the front of the stage, and because I agreed with G. that when the J.B. sang his last song and the curtain had fallen, it was probably time to head home rather than hanging around to catch a glimpse of him. I’m sure she’s right – I just didn’t believe enough. But, hell I had a great time.

He’s really well worth a visit and gave a great show. If you get the chance to see him - go. Oh and don’t forget the 1973 rock glamour look. Just don’t wear jeans – promise. Unless they are really, seriously, flared and you wear them with a very long collared, tie-died shirt, that ties in a knot just below the mid-riff. Then its OK.

On a final point – a big cheers to G. who tolerated my J.B. week-end with grace and good humour and a round of applause to La_Bec_Star for lending me her dresses, her style and her go for it attitude.

Go on kids - make loadsa noise!

2008-02-29T06:12:00.000-08:00

Later K.M. rang from the hospital. “Hi Mummy. Just to let you know that I have a throat infection and the flu but J. is staying the night in hospital. They are going to put him on a drip. Daddy will call you when he can.” In the background I could hear J. being sick in the loo.
“Oh no poor J.”
Whilst G. was waiting to get J. settled in a room I decided to take the two youngest to the play park for the afternoon. The sun was shinning and the temperature mild and pleasant. L. and R. were hale, hearty and ready to swing off the swing, climb the climbing frame and lark around outside. I found a really nice bench in the sun and enjoyed watching them play happily together. They giggled and screeched, dug holes in the sandpit, raced each other on the wobbly horses and giggled as they clung together and slid down the slide. In fact they were so well behaved and having so much fun all I had to do was sit and sun myself and wave at them occasionally.

“With these children you need to put oil in your ears.” One of the mother’s said to me in English just as I was about to gather R. and L. and bring them home.. At first I thought she was joking. So I laughed and smiled at her. Then I realised she wasn’t joking and noticed she had a hardened expression on her face as she stood there watching L and R. Her two boys, of about 8 and 6, wore a clean pair of matching jeans and jackets. Not a rip in their trousers, not a grass stain in sight, not a mud smut on their cheeks.
L and R were larking around at the top of the slide and not getting a move on. Her two boys waited, passively, not smiling, for their turn.
“Come on L. and R.” I said. “Get a move on. There are other kids who want to have a go.”
Eventually L and R came screeching down the slide.
“These children have obviously been bought up to make a lot of noise boys. Just ignore them” The mother implored her boys.
Perhaps she thought I didn’t understand the local lingo but on she went.
“Stay away from them – they make far too much noise.”
I could feel my anger rise inside me.
“L and R.” I ordered at the top of my voice. “We’ll be leaving in five minutes but in the meantime screech, holler, giggle and yell. You are five and three years old. It is great to see you use your initiative and play together so nicely. You are out in the play park on a sunny afternoon and if you can’t screech, holler, giggle, yell and have fun here - then where the hell can you?”
L. and R. weren’t listening but I hoped the woman couldn’t help but here me. L and R ran over to the sandpit where they had left a rake and spade. The six year old boy, a full head taller than R., came running up to see what was going on. R. swung the spade around making sure that no one was going to take it off him.
“Come back here Thomas!” The mother ordered.” They are unruly children who have been badly brought up and you should not play with them. Come away from them.” Obediently Thomas ran back to his mother.
Right. Warfare.
“R. darling.” I said close enough for the mother to hear who was sitting on the floor with her boys helping them to build a sandcastle. “Did you see, darling, how even though that boy is a full head bigger than you he is scared of you. But, then again you have been badly brought up to behave like a thug. Better a thug than a coward.”
Humpf. Having got that off my chest I bundled R. back into the buggy, put L’s coat on and headed home. Luckily for me R. was reasonably well behaved and went into the buggy without the usual fuss.
“Say nicely good-bye to the boys.” I told R. and L. as we headed off.
“Bye! Bye!” “Daaaaag” they yelled friendly and sweetly at the boys. R waved at them happily from out of his buggy, totally unaware of the underlying frisson between mother and mother.

Peak troughs

2008-02-29T05:58:00.000-08:00

Guess everyone has those moments – you know one moment, everything is fine and hunky-dory. The next, everyone seems to go berserk for a short while. Then its back to normal. These incidents seem to litter our lives. They are stressful low-points to the week that peak like a tidal wave. I have, therefore, dubbed them peak troughs.

Take a couple of weeks ago when I picked the kids up from school at lunch time on Wednesday and J.’s friend, Predip, came home with us for some lunch and to play Pokemon cards with J.
Having successfully managed to round all five kids together, put them safely on their bikes and got the caravan of school kids, enormous satchels and bikes moving down the cobbled street, Predip, who was riding J.’s bike, announced that the chain had come off.
At around 12.05 on a Wednesday, this part of town is heaving with school kids who are either ambling home by foot in large adolescent groups, or are whizzing past on their bikes. Paridaens is only one of three huge schools all located within spitting distance of each other. Occasionally a brave driver ventures in between the mayhem in an attempt to get as close as possible to the school gates. Adding to all of this is the fact that for the past two years the Irish Franciscan College opposite Paridaens is being renovated from top to bottom and the work has swung around to the part of the College that faces J., K., L. and R.s school. By the time that the chain had come off we were a bit further up from a belching truck delivering cement to the Franciscan College.
Predip couldn’t manage to turn the bike over to fix the chain so I had to get off my bike, order L. off the bike, tell K.M to halt and unstrap R. from his seat on the back of the bike.
Ten minutes later and I still hadn’t managed to get the chain on. Luckily Guy walked past just at that moment and within a couple of minutes he’d managed to get the chain fixed and the bike in proper working order.
“Oh thanks a lot Guy.” I said “That’s great.”
“OK everyone ready to get going again. Err where is R? Has anyone seen R?” Amidst all the crowd of school children bikes and cars it was impossible to find a little three year old.
Having concentrated so hard on attaching the chain I had completely forgotten about R. and he had scarped somewhere.
We looked up and down, J. began to cry, the parked truck began to slowly move its hulking mass towards where we had all stopped.
Arnaud, Guy’s little boy, spotted R. over on the Damiaan Square so I ran over to pick him up, strap him struggling to his seat, order L. onto her bike and head for home.

And then there was the time on R.’s third birthday last week when I had managed to gather the family together to open R’s birthday presents. Everything was nice and calm, the children were relaxed, the tea-lights made the lounge look cosy and R. was very happy with his presents, when Beccy rang to wish R. a Happy Birthday. I had Isadora on the line telling me “I love you Aunty K. and I want to come to and visit you for some birthday cake.” when suddenly Belle ran off with one of R.s new cars, which caused an outraged R. to holler and howl, the dog to bark and the door bell to ring. G. went to open the door and I had to try and hold the dog in one hand and the phone in the other. Veerle entered the room with an orange judo belt for J. when Belle, who had managed to escape my clutches, ran down the corridor and in through the lounge. She leapt up and nearly knocked poor Veerle off her feet. R. was still screaming for his lost toy, the dog was still barking and our guest was about to be fall head first onto the floor.
“Err Aunty K will call you back Isadora. Sorry about that …”

And then there was the time on Thursday when we had an appointment at the hospital for J. and K. who have both been suffering from the flu. J. more so than K.

On Friday evening G. and I had been out to see an awful play in the theatre but afterwards had a fun time going for a drink with Tom and Ben. When we came home though we discovered J. had caught the stomach flu and was throwing up violently.. He survived the stomach flu and on Sunday came down with the flu and wasn’t the same for the rest of the week. We managed to make a 12.30 appointment with a paediatrician in the hospital but before G. left he went to pick up R and L from school.

K.M. was sitting huddled in the corridor and J. was retching in the loo, when G. arrived. He parked the car a bit further up from the house and I went out to help him get R. and L. into the house. As I plucked a struggling, wriggling R. out of the car, I spotted with one eye Belle wandering off in the park opposite the house. She was happily wagging her tail and sniffing around like a teenager in possession of a driving licence for the first time. The street across from us was busy with traffic and one man waved frantically at me pointing at Belle.
Outside our front door I could see Mvr de Cooman standing, wanting to ask us about whether we’d heard from the builders about fixing a communal wall. R. was still wriggling and wailing under my arm and refusing to go inside when Belle spotted me and tail a-wagging ran back across the road avoiding the cars by inches.
I bundled R. inside and slammed the door shut. At least he was safe albeit his crying could be heard the other side of the front-door.
“Belle, Belle come hear” I said, calmly and sweetly as she bounded up and down the pavement and in between the feet of Mvr de Cooman. I didn’t want her to dash off but she just wasn’t buying my tactic and bolted off again across the road for the third time. I crossed the road.
“Belle! Bella! Come here” but every time I approached her she backed off and ran further away. Luckily G. saw what was happening and got out of the car to give me a hand.
“K. this isn’t working.” G said. “I have to go. We’ve got the doctors appointment in ten minutes and I don’t want to miss it.”
“I know. I know” I said but still the wretched dog wouldn’t come. Belle wasn’t about to give up her new found freedom just yet.
In the end G. managed to grab her by the collar and I carried her across the road and into the house. I just saw G. drive off with two very pale looking faces on the back seat.

V is for Vacation

2007-12-31T07:44:00.000-08:00

V…. is for vacation. Or perhaps H … is for holiday because although we are off work, school, ballet, karate etc. we have not actually travelled anywhere and are tucked up quietly in the Middle. I think the north Americans talk about “vacations” but in my mind that involves a trip away and that we are not. Holidays hey, such bliss and the best bit about it all is that we can have the great morning “lie-in”, which for G. and I is a rediscovered pleasure from some long, long distant past, in a pre-J. age, when we were young and beautiful. Our lie-ins typically mean an 8 a.m. wake up call with either R. or L. crawling into our bed as opposed to the usual 6.30 a.m. start to the day. Although we are awake, however, this does not mean we get up straight away. G., who is a blessed hero, goes and makes a cup of tea picks up the paper and a packet of biscuits and we lie in bed until we feel like it. Tea or coffee in bed is an indolent, extravagance that I introduced G. too since this is not a familiar habit with the locals but there is nothing better then waking up with a warm cuppa and the papers. At some point the children wander off to go and watch some telly or play with their play mobile. There is no nagging to get shoes on. No talk of “hurry-up” or “get a move on” or “J. get down here we should have left ten minutes ago”.
J. and K. have been allowed, for the first time really, to stay up with G. and I to watch a DVD or some BBC good-for-the-family film. They love it and make themselves a nest of blankets and cushions on the settees leaving little room for either G or I.
Yesterday, however, we managed to get all little VC-G’s to bed early since tonight is going to be a late night – what with it being New Year’s eve and all. So, by nine o’clock G and I had the telly to ourselves and we put on a cd that Beccy gave G. for Christmas called “Sideways”. A low budget comedy that made us giggle and laugh and reach for the wine. Later we decided to drink a glass of whiskey since Steven bought G a fine 18 year old single malt for Christmas. Fantastic. It went down really well and we ended up watching BBC Radio 2 Music Live – or something like that with James Blunt. Beccy has started a bit of a James Blunt craze with me and I got the James Blunt “All Lost Souls” album from Erwan and have been listening to it non-stop. Its great and the guy, as Beccy points out, is a helluva sexy fella. Truth be told that when “You’re beautiful” first came out a couple of years ago and when it was played non-stop on the radio I couldn’t stand the song. I was under the impression that the artist behind the voice was some kind of a hermaphrodite diva from the Bronx or some Gwen Stefani wannabe. Then when out in Sauveterre one Christmas with Beccy and the family I saw the video for the first time in the local bar and said to Beccy:“Is that the guy who sings “You’re Beautiful”?”
Couldn’t believe that the artiste was such a good looking guy. Anyway, now of course I think he’s a fabulous artists. So talented. Non?
As G. and I were sitting there sipping our single malt at 1.30 a.m. I said to G.
“Is it just me or do you think that the pop scene is improving?”
“No.” G. replied. “We’ve just been in out of it for too long what with having kids and all.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.” I answered. “Its just that for such a long time I got the impression that the charts was full of nothing but soul, hip hop, house and divas.”
“You know what G.” I finally said. “Don’t you just feel like 19 again sitting up here until 2 a.m in the morning watching some kind of Jules Holland show and not worrying about having to be up early. This is great and what life really should be like all the time.”
Anyway I must go now since we have the Hymers coming to celebrate New Year’s Eve with us and there is much to do. G. has taken all four kids to take Belle for a walk and I have already wasted a lot of time just enjoying the quiet peace of the house with no children, dog or husband in it.

An outing without make-up to the “parc/park”

2007-12-18T01:22:00.000-08:00

I had a rare trip up to Brussels yesterday. Yippee a chance to slap on the make-up and glam. myself up a bit. The meeting was held in the EP and was followed by a Christmas lunch with the “team” in a nearby restaurant on the Place Luxembourg. It was a day when I had to make an effort, albeit a slight one, with my appearance.Yet, rather like poor ‘ol Ms Hubbard, poor Ms VC-G went to her make-up bag to spruce up her face but when she got there the bag was so bare that her poor face got only half of what it really needed.
Working from home has many, many advantages but it is true that days can go by without seeing anyone other than a toddler or child so what is the point of putting make-up on? For the benefit of R? Or J? Or the dog? My little make-up bag therefore languishes on a shelf in one of the bathroom cupboards and barely gets a look in. So when, yesterday morning, I plucked it out and looked inside it was sadly bereft of anything that could smarten me up for my festive lunch and meeting in Brussels.
There were lots of useless bits of long used up eye-shadows and broken lipsticks. But, hold on a minute where was my expensive Channel face powder and compact? Or my Channel lipstick for that matter? My mascara? Oh yes, I remember, I’ve been meaning to buy some since my only sample disappeared over the summer holidays. So, all I had left was: some Nivea foundation (lid missing) a bit of eye shadow (bought for Rebecca’s wedding five years ago) and a purplish looking lipstick that I was given as a present a couple of years ago and that I never wear since it makes me look as though I have a heart disease.
This was really very sad since my complexion, what with eating too many Christmas biscuits and it being freezing outside, is not looking its most radiant.
L., who was standing next to me when I was bemoaning my empty bag in the bathroom yesterday, said:
“I didn’t take your lipstick Mummy. It wasn’t me.”
“Well, I’m not saying it is you L. but I just don’t know where all this stuff disappears to.”
“Errr” L. responded “I’m not saying that it is R. who took it … but … he could have taken your lipstick one evening and smeared it all over his body when you were downstairs watching TV since he does like to rummage through the bathroom once you have gone.”
Hmmm….could be but I don’t remember having to clean a lipstick encrusted R up recently. Anyway in the new year I shall go shopping and stock up. I don’t want to give the impression that I am lazy about my personal appearance. Indeed Becky and I have founded a new movement: “Dare to wear” – but that is the subject for another time. Shopping for make-up plus a trip to the hairdressers is a treat for over the holidays. After all R. might actually appreciate seeing me looking radiant rather than haggard so perhaps it is worth my while to put a bit of make-up on everyday.

Anyway, later that morning with only a bit of Nivea foundation on, some eye shadow and a very light touch of purple lipstick, I took the metro to the EP. Believe it or not there is no direct metro link to the vast sprawling building that houses the MEPs. Should have just walked but it was such a cold, cold day yesterday I decided not to brave the frosty air and traverse the Royal Park. Instead I took the line towards Schuman, where the stops are marked out in both French and Dutch. Thus, the stop “Arts-Loi” is also called “Kunstwet”. A soft, unreal, female voice informs travellers, in both French and Dutch, the name of the stop. As I was staring vacantly out of the dark window awaiting to alight in Maalbeek/Maelbeek, a thought occurred to me.
In this linguistically divided city where language rights are jealously guarded, defended and regulated I discovered that at the end of the day there is something that they do actually agree on. When we got to the stop “Parc/Park” the female announcer didn’t say Parc. Pause. Park. Although written twice lest there be any confusion, it was announced just once. Wow. So someone somewhere must have agreed that it really is a bit stupid to say it twice since here is a word pronounced the same in both Dutch and in French. Congratulations for those who came to this brave decision. You see these two language communities do have something, albeit trifling, in common. Perhaps “park” could form the basis of future conciliatory talks. I should get in touch with Leterme.

Doing the splits

2007-11-29T01:33:00.000-08:00

Both K.M. and L. really, really want to do the splits. They practice in the kitchen , in their bedrooms and in the lounge but are still quite a few centimetres off the floor. To be a proper ballerina, they reason, you need to be able to perform this extreme physical stretch and they talk with wonder and awe about the girls in their class who can “do the splits”. Perhaps eventually they’ll get there.
But talking of splits I’ve been wondering recently whether my Middle is about to, err, split down the middle? I’m ashamed to say that I don’t really follow the nation’s press very much. I hear tit bits of news on Radio Contact (60’s at six, 70’s at seven, 80’s at eight). I’m not really sure if Radio Contact’s two minute news reports are the best source of learned understanding on this country's future direction. When prompted, G informs me of what is going on. A bit like his fellow citizens, though, he has a glazed, slightly bored look on his face whenever the topic comes up.
Strange. I was always under the impression that when countries split it was a rather seismic event. A big deal you know. Wow! Two new stars in the constellation kinda stuff. Big explosions all round. Well, even if this were about to happen we haven’t felt much of an impact here. Life is just going along tickety-boo thank you very much. School begins at 8.25 prompt (although this always confounds us and we are always there, on the dot, at 8.30); K.M. and L. are still turning up for their ballet classes, J. did a three hour karate training session the other side of Antwerp on Saturday, Belle had her last vaccination yesterday and it was discovered that she has mites (yuk) in her ears though not fleas; R. began kindergarten and is really enjoying it although he is exhausted at the end of the day; G. still greets visiting professors for the Master programme; and I just go on writing my summaries.
Everywhere in this town heavy duty road/building/renewal work is going on: - two major renovation projects on the MTS; streets being dug open everywhere to lay cables; renovation of old buildings in the shopping district; the building of the new town hall next to the train station; Christmas decorations going up; and the seasonal stable that houses Mary, Joseph, sheppards, a donkey, a goat and some sheep is being set up on a square opposite the medieval town hall.
No traumatic signs of a big rupture here then - and we are only 23 km from any possible epicentre and a skip and a hop away from the linguistic divide that so divides the Middle. Thank goodness. When you think of other parts of the world where communities have fought a central State that they do not identify with the consequences have been a lot more serious, devastating and lethal.
This brings me to a question which I have been pondering quite a bit recently. As an individual , to whom in the community do you most identify with (other than family):
Those who share the same language?
Those who share the same belief structure?
Those who are from the same “tribe”.
Those who are from a nation state formed 150 years ago by a bunch of aristo’s and bourgeoisie?
I accept that the latter point is quite contentious but in many cases relevant. Those living north of the Middle feel as though they have a very distinct identity that ticks the first three boxes but certainly not the latter. An identity that is very different from those living to the south of the Middle. Why, ask those dwelling in the north, should we swear allegiance to something that we simply do not identify with?
The northerners share the same language and they share broadly similar values. If one were to be anthropolological about it all one could also argue they are, by and large, part of the same “tribe”. More recently this tribe has, economically speaking, been rather successful too. The northern tribe comes out top in education tests; it invests the highest percentage of its GDP on R&D in Europe; and it has one of the richest economies in the world. None of these achievements are recognised beyond the borders of the Middle. Their achievements are diluted by the whole. They have no occasion to break free in a country which has been dubbed by their Prime Minister in waiting “an accident of history”.
In many ways he is not wrong. Those who created the Middle saw no reason to give a vote to the masses on whether they would or would not like to create the nation under the terms on offer at the time. It was just done. The "revolutionaries" who bought about the creation of the State even went shopping for a new King to give it some glamour, credibility and respectability, but who incidentally did not speak the language of the majority. A trifling matter 150 years ago to the country's founders. A matter of much irritation today.
Times have changed. Geographically speaking the Middle is wedged snugly in the heart of the EU and to be a member you have to adhere to democracy and the rule of law. The people are now given a say and the majority have spoken. They want to move away from an edifice to which they do not and never have identified with. They want to go it alone and feel that they are perfectly capable and mature enough to do so.
In the mean time as long as the politicians are talking I feel very happy. As Churchill so famously said and, which the politicians, both north and south, of this country are taking up with great spirit and zeal: to jaw jaw is better than to war war….but jeez those jaws must be aching by now. They’ve been talking since June. In any case many here feel more like “yawn yawn” because as I told you things are still going along just ticketieboo with or without a central government being formed.
I wonder whether my daughters will ever manage to do the splits. I wonder if the Middle with ever do the splits.

Ding, dong – Belle

2007-10-19T01:01:00.000-07:00

Upon entering MT 26 for the first time Belle sniffed out her territory and released her bowls in front of the red sofa. At least it was in the house and not in the car on the way home – as Bonnie did on her first trip home all those years ago.

Many have commented that getting a puppy is effectively akin to having a fifth child. Well, let me tell you I only wish that my newborn babies had been as easy as a puppy. The return visit from hospital with each of our new born babies was wrought with uncertainties, tiredness, stress and a plunge into the unknown.

For example:

With J: Am I breastfeeding properly? Why is he crying? G. you bathe him I’m too scared. Why won’t he wait at least three hours between feeds?
With K: How will J. like his new sister? How can I give him as much attention as I used to? Is he jealous? Why won’t she wait at least three hours between feeds?
With L: Is she growing as she should? Did I weigh her this morning? Is it alright to let J and K tug on her so hard? Why won’t she wait at least three hours between feeds?
With R: I wish L. wouldn’t pinch his ear while pretending to stroke him. Why do his pampers leak all the time? Oh no surely we don’t have to change his pj’s again – its 3.55 a.m. Why won’t he wait at least two hours between each feed.

So, bringing a pup home, well its like comparing a mole hill to Mount Kilimanjaro.

“Now, when you take her home tonight make sure she sleeps in your room. That way she will feel close to you and not abandoned. I’m sure taking your puppy home is like taking your children home for the first time,” the lady in the Kennel told us.

Well bollocks to that. Who are you kidding? This puppy is for fun and to be enjoyed. Not to be reared as a stake for humanitie's future. She is not one of my children and she will sleep downstairs where I can’t hear her yelping.

It is only recently, after nine and a half years of nocturnal interruptions that G. and I are actually getting a good night’s sleep. With R. finally sleeping through the night we are transformed, tolerant, really, really - no I mean really, nice people again. My patience with the children is a wonderful thing to behold. Now that I can sleep uninterrupted for at least six hours I am hardly going to allow this state of affairs to be interrupted by Belle.

Belle and I hadn’t been in the house ten minutes and I had just managed to clear away the first of many “eliminations” as the RSPCA so quaintly calls it when Rowena and Diana arrived to view our new purchase.

“Oh isn’t she gorgeous. Such a sweetie. Ahh look at her.” They crooned. Quite rightly she is a great looking dog. Half an hour later and the children crashed through the door from school.

“Where is she? Can I see her? I want to stroke her. No R. No R. not like that. L. you’re stroking her too hard.”

Belle was picked up, stroked, dragged around the floor, poked in the eye by R. pulled on her back legs by L., cuddled by K and brought into the garden by J. Not once did she growl, bark, snarl or snap. She just trembled and shat a lot. We had been warned that the stress of being taken away from her brothers and sisters and being introduced into a lively household would cause loose bowls.

Having just got R. potty trained, however, means that I am not too frazzled by it. Had I waited a year it may have been a different story. In any case yesterday, her second day here, and she has already marked out her territory in the garden and abandoned her preference for the patch in front of the red sofa. She is beginning to get used to the noise in the house when the children are around and beginning to run around with them in the garden. She even has the courage to eat her food with gusto and pleasure.

In the meantime she sits by my feet when I work on summaries. Its such a pleasure. Introducing the children to our family was overwhelming and wonderful, albeit tiring. Introducing Belle was easy, simple and a lot less complicated. And no she does not sleep in our room and I have only heard her yelp once in the night but happily turned around and gone back to sleep again.

A very un-VC-G affair

2007-10-15T06:35:00.000-07:00

I must say I’m intrigued by all this puppy training business. It looks like a piece of cake compared to toddler training and child rearing. The dog training books, that G and I bought over the week-end in London, inform us that we must, on pain of bad dog behaviour, assert out “top dog” status. Can it possibly be true that all I have to do is play top dog and the dog will obey?

“Say “NO” firmly to your dog if they are disobedient” the RSPCA’s Complete Dog Training book asserts. Is that all? Just say “No” firmly. Could it be that simple. Certainly not a tactic that works with the kids – but could it with a puppy?

On particularly stubborn moments the children will look and challenge me: “So, just because you’re my Mummy, this does not give you a God given, sovereign, inalienable right to ask me to put my coat on and come shopping when I am in the middle of doing nothing in particular” and “On whose authority exactly is it that you have decided Saturday will not be spent behind the TV but outdoors going for a walk in the fresh air?” Or, to use their parlance: “Who says you’re the boss? You’re not the Queen.”

The concept of “top Mummy” has to be worked at all the time with all sorts of differing tactics, manoeuvrings and strategies. Its not because I bark the loudest, shout the loudest, command with authority or deny food, that I am therefore in charge.

Having just about managed to figure out the subtle strategies needed to tame the children to do my bidding I feel as though the “sit” command and “heel” command should be a doddle. However, time shall tell and no doubt I will be equally frustrated with our new puppy as I am with the children, when she ignores my “come here” command, in spite of having read all the books.

The whole VC-G household is extremely excited about our puppy, who arrives tomorrow. Well, when I say “all”, I should qualify that by saying all are excited bar G. who is looking very anxious. It is true that he wanted to wait another year or so before we got a dog. It is true that he was more or less forced into driving us for an hour and half to the kennels to visit the pups. It is true that it was a clever strategy to bring the children along … and it is true that it is very difficult to say no to a puppy when you see them eye to eye – especially a pup like Belle who has a white spot at the end of her black tail and a white patch that goes in a line up her nose.

When we saw her and her sister she allowed J. and K.M. to pick her up, stroke her and snuggle into their arms in total comfort and happiness.

“Can we buy her Daddy? Please, please, can we buy her?”

“Alright then.”

So we paid our EUR 50 deposit and promised to return the following week to pick her up. That was last Wednesday. Having been persuaded to by the border-collie, however, the first thing G. did when he got home was to Google “border collies” – and way hey wouldn’t you know, managed to find, just about all, the doom, gloom and scare mongering stories that exist in cyber-space on buying border collies.

Headlines such as “Not suitable for children under five” screamed out at us and “Border collies are essentially wolves” and (this from the Border Collie Rescue page) Many people say that once a Border Collie has tasted blood, they can never be trusted again and normally, the dogs are summarily exterminated.

Now, we had decided on a border collie for a number of reasons. Firstly, I remember them vividly on the farms in Wales where we went to school. The Welsh farmers, for fun and to keep us amused, would show us all the tricks that the border collies could do. They would do double backward summersaults to the command of a whistle, catch sticks, spin, dance and behave in a very doggy manner. They were always really friendly, unintimidating dogs and we used to pat and stroke them all the time. Ever since then I’ve loved border-collies for their intelligence, agility and fun.

Bonnie, although not a border-collies was a Rough border collie and a real softie. She only joined our family because there were no black and white border collies in Surrey in 1981 when Mum and Dad chose to buy. When we were on holiday in Cornwall, Belle, was a one year old border-collie who all the children fell in love with – and who never once tried to herd our kids into a pack, threaten them or taste their blood.

Still, judging by the material that G. was busy drudging up even I was beginning to think that it looked like we had paid a deposit on, and were on the verge of letting into our home, one of Satan’s finest blood-curdling hounds.

I know that border-collies need lots of exercise and company – but with four kids in the house our puppy will not be short on entertainment, fun or exercise. In any case they are also very loyal, lovable dogs and if treated well will be a fun member of the pack.

“You have to admit though Mummy”, K. said to me on Friday. “Its really not like you to agree to buying a dog. I mean, I still can’t quite believe that you have agreed to this. Its so unlike you.”

She obviously remembers the struggle she had to get her fish last year and our refusals to buy a: hamster, gerbil, cat (G. is allergic), mouse or tortoise for her birthday. Belle will, I hope, make up for the lack of all other pets.

Getting to know the Tudors and the Stuarts

2007-09-18T09:46:00.000-07:00

J. has decided that he wants to study history. A boy after my own heart. “What can I become if I study history Mummy?” he asked me the other day.
“Err, well, now let me think about this … a history teacher I guess.”
Not a bad job. I wouldn’t mind it.
There seems to be a “history” revival underway in the VC-G household. It used to be all about plumbing, plastering and quotes. Now we have progressed and actually have some time to read again. For the moment historical novels are very popular. This can be traced back to Aunty Beatrice who had the fabulous idea of giving J. a set of the Horrible History books for Christmas last year. I would never have thought that they would have been such a hit with J. - but they are and second only to Harry Potter in J.’s best book league.
I have never read the Horrible Histories but Gemma O’Reardon and I swore that it was Jean Plaidy and Jean Plaidy alone who got us through our history O- and A-levels – or other such trashy historical novels.
But its not just J. who is “into” historical books at the moment. Phillipa Gregory, the latest writer of historical romances, is doing the rounds. I managed to read three, no less, of her books over the summer holidays and G. is currently on his second: “The Boleyn Inheritance” following on from “The other Boleyn girl”.
G. is a wonderful English History and English Literature virgin. When the BBC did an adaptation of Jane Eyre last year it was great to see him completely fascinated as to what was going on in the attic and not having a clue about Rochester’s murky past.
“So who was Ann Boleyn again? Did she come to a sticky end then?” and
“Katherine Howard how does she fit into all of this? Who was she related to?”
I can’t blame him in a way there are so many Jane’s and Ann’s and Mary’s – and Katherine’s of course even I get them mixed up.
Unlike J, G was obviously not bought up with the Horrible Histories (very UK-centric) but with completely other myths and legends – of which I hasten to add I too know very little.
However, G is fast becoming a Tudor expert having worked his way through all those Phillipa Gregory novels and we have discovered a new line in Tudor insults.
So, the other day, having listened to “Mary Stuart and her hopeless Husbands” on cd in the car, I announced rather irritably because I was in a rush and needed some help and G. had promised to play Monopoly with J. when there was so much to be done.
“You know G – you’re as bad at Mary Stuart. In trying to please everyone you end up frustrating everyone.”
To which G. replied
“Yeah, well you’re just like Henry VIII a tyrant and a fiend.”
“Rather a tyrant and fiend than having to make a run for it all the time.”
“Yeah but Henry VIII was big and fat and ugly.”
“Rather big and fat and ugly and dying in my bed than having my head cut off.”
…and so on and so forth …All tongue in cheek of course.
Luckily, J was still busy setting up Monopoly on the table outside with his sights on Park Lane. Hampton Court isn’t on the Monopoly board – good thing too otherwise I may have had to boot G. off to the tower or had him executed in order to claim it as my own. I am a tyrant and a fiend in best tradition of Henry VIII after all.

Bomb alerts and stinking loos

2007-09-06T02:00:00.000-07:00

“Grab your bags quick kids.” G. ordered as the angel from Paris, who had allowed us to squeeze the C8 on the train that was about to depart, filled in forms and asked me to sign “…here please”.

The kids all jumped out of the car and I grabbed our overnight bag. We then stood and watched as someone drove the car away into the bowls of the station. We had made it. I still couldn’t quite believe that we had managed it. Am not quite sure why we had all got ourselves so worked up but somehow it was absolutely critical, just critical, that we managed to get the car onto the Bordeaux train.

Half an hour later and we were sitting on a little shuttle-bus to the Gare d’Austerlitz. We were all so elated and happy and still congratulating ourselves on having found the station that it was agreed we would treat the kids to a plate of chips and a drink. It was around eight thirty in the evening and the station was full of busy travellers and tourists heading in all directions. Our train wasn’t leaving until midnight so we had time on our hands to kill.

R., as usual, was not in the least bit sleepy and insisted on jumping out of his buggy and running amok up and down the platforms where all the big heavy TGVs were parked.

“What a good thing G. didn’t have to leave me here with the kids and drive off on his own”. I kept thinking.

We took it in turns to keep a beady eye on R., who was happily jumping, springing and darting hither and thither as well has having a good bash at all the vending machines. By ten o’clock the bustling tourist and busy commuter had disappeared to be replaced by grizzly tramps. Guess they had been there all along we just hadn’t noticed them and once the home commuter frenzy had passed they seemed well, to crawl out of the wood-work. One of them was sitting close to the café where we ate our chips. He was a very dusty looking clochard with hardened, waist-length, dreadlocks and who came complete with a stale stench of urine and alcohol. He kept trying to shake R’s hand and calling him “mon petit” and “viens ici.”

By eleven I was beginning to feel drained but still we followed R. around the station – he would rest in his buggy for as long as it took him to drink a bottle of milk – and then he was off again. The time seemed to drag by and I was really looking forward to hitting the couchette and going to sleep. Yet, still we looked at the huge screen waiting for it to announce what platform the train would be leaving from. At around ten to twelve – five minutes before our train was to depart, a posse of heavily armed policy began herding the few remaining travellers off the platforms and into the main body of the station. They cordoned-off the platforms with red and white tape. Ugly guard dogs on leads began bellowing hollow barks up to the glass roof of the Gare d’Austerlitz.

“What’s happening G?” I asked. “Have you seen anything?”
“It’s a bomb. It’s a bomb.” J. shouted out at the top of his voice.
“No J..” G. said “They probably just discovered some drugs in the loos or something like that.”
“No, Daddy it’s a bomb – I think it’s a bomb.”

Still, the dogs went on barking and the machine guns carried by Austerlitz’s finest police began to add a sense of menace to our late night adventure. I wished J. would stop shouting “It’s a bomb.” all the time. It unnerved me. I began looking around for possible hollow spaces where I could take my family for cover should we need it.

Standing behind us was an English family that we hadn’t spotted before and they began chatting to us. In true British style they were calm, collected and not in the least bit worried that we may fall victim to some nasty bomb-plot. They chatted instead about night-trains and Bayonne and the travel agency they had booked through and their teenage daughters and hey presto before I knew it the time had passed, the red and white tape peeled away and the platform was finally announced from which our train was leaving.

Now, let me tell you. If ever you should be in the unfortunate situation where you strongly suspect that the ship is about to sink in gale force winds then you should seek to surround yourselves by Brits. No exaggeration. No other people I know have such a good knack of making even the worst situation look like “its just going to be a wet picnic nothing worse”. The philosophy of “lets not make a drama out of a crisis shall we – a bit embarrassing to get hysterical hey”, is, in its own way, very reassuring. So, just to say I was very grateful to have bumped into that nicely family from Bath at midnight.

The next stage was to get the children settled and asleep. Easier said than done. Me? Well personally I would have crashed on the couchette there and then and just pulled the blanket over me. Sadly though that was not an option. We still had four kids to calm down. Although past midnight all four little darlings were all hyped-up and excited and fighting in which bunk they were going to sleep. I was reminded just how narrow the carriages were – well it had been a long time since last I’d last taken a couchette.

There was barely enough room to move so I sat down on the bottom bunk with by head scrapping the middle bunk, whilst trying to stop R. from climbing like a monkey from the bottom, to the middle, to the top couchette and at the same time trying to put his pyjamas on. He had a stinking, foul, pamper that needed to be changed urgently. In the meantime L. got angry with K.M. who had “elbowed” her whilst J. was defending his top bunk with growls and targeted kicks at any sibling who dared peep their head over the top.

I finally managed to get them all into their nighties and pyjamas when they all said. “I need the loo.”.

“Hmm… better do it now rather than at two in the morning.” I thought so I took them down to the loo all dressed in their clean nighties and pj’s.

Nothing, let me tell you nothing, can prepare you for the horror of an SNCF loo. Not even the loo from “Trainspotting”, which is universally regarded as the worst there is, is as bad as what confronted us. No self respecting drugs dealer would have hidden a white package down there. But then again - perhaps it was a white package that was blocking the loo? I don't know.

There was only one loo working for three carriages. The fact that the door didn’t lock properly was the least of my worries. When we finally got into the tiny cabin I was relieved that I had insisted the children put their shoes on. The floor was covered in urine and used bits of pink toilet paper. The toilet itself did not flush so it had the remains of previous passenger’s bowl and bladder movements in there and the stench that permeated everything made one gag and want to retch – but where else to go? The train was already moving by now and none of the other loos were working.

In my day I have come across some really nasty public loos – but never with three children all dressed in clean white nighties and Spiderman pyjamas.

I barked instruction:

“Do not touch anything children. Do not sit on the loo K.M. hover over it.” (Not that she was going to. She wanted to get out of there as quickly as I did.) J. do not look. Finished. Good. Go."

L. I picked up as last and she peed as she would have done were we camping in the forest. Luckily she hit target and was shooed away to the carriage as soon as it was over. It was at this point that I felt hugely relieved R. wasn’t potty trained yet and although it had been a pain changing his pampers it was better than trying to get him to “do wee wee” on this horror of a loo.

Back in the carriage G. was still sorting things out whilst R. giggled and hopped on his bunk. It took a while to get everyone settled but at around one in the morning we finally switched the light off.

Five minutes later G. , who was sleeping next to R. on the bottom bunk suddenly said in the dark.

“Oh s…t R. has got another stinky.”

So the lights were turned back on again and we fumbled around for the pampers bag and the wipes. Needless to say this woke everyone up all over again and R. in particular. When we had turned the lights-off for the second time. L. and R. were giggling hysterically with each other and pulling the curtain backwards and forwards from their respective bunks.

Having warned L. “to stop it” around five times I finally got off the top bunk and gave her a hard spanking – for which she never forgave me for the rest of the summer holidays.

But hey, the carriage finally calmed down and everyone went to sleep – of sorts. It was now a quarter past two in the morning.

Three and a half hours later G’s alarm went off and we were all up again hurrying the kids to get ready since the train would be pulling into the station in half an hour. We had only just got the last bag sorted out when the train pulled into Bordeaux St Jean at six in the morning. The station was empty as we all spilled out of the train that was going on to Bayonne and Hendaye in Spain. Phew we had made it. Truth be told though I felt as exhausted as if we had driven through the night.

We were entitled to a breakfast in the station buffet which was very welcomed after the night we had had – coffee, hot chocolate, croissants, pain-au-chocolat and orange juice. It revived us all and we felt a thousand times better.

When we went to go and collect the car we all felt very cheerful and happy and ready for the holiday to begin. It was only a two hour drive from Bordeaux to Montaut. We had plenty of reasons to feel in a good mood.

Perfidious Periferique

2007-09-04T04:59:00.000-07:00

Nilly told me you see. That you can load the car on the train in Paris and then take the night train to Bordeaux and that one arrives early the following morning in the south west of France all refreshed and ready for a holiday. Fantastic idea. .

The fact that we had to board the car at the Gare de Bercy and then make our way to the Gare d’Austerlitz to take the a second train at midnight hardly mattered. The SNCF website was pretty lousy and we were unable to fathom how to book on-line. Instead we left it up to a travel agency to organise.

The info package that arrived with the tickets indicated that we had all day to leave the car at the Gare de Bercy – between 9 and 19:30. Plenty of time really. But, on the morning of our departure G. still had to go to some fancy graduation ceremony and later I still had to do some last minute shopping and what with getting everything sorted out and packed and locked up it was three o’clock before we hit the road. Not to worry its only three hours to Paris and the Gare de Bercy – that’s close to the Stade de France. Isn’t it? We pass that all the time when we drive to Bordeaux. Don’t we? Must be a big station being so close to the Stade de France. Impossible to miss. Signposted right up to the entrance. Right?

We arrived at the outskirts of Paris at a quarter to six on a nice sunny Saturday evening. Stack load of time to get the car onto the train. The kids were all in high-spirits clutching their over-night bags and chattering in the back. In front of me I had the route planner that G. printed out before we left. I have failed to persuade him to buy one of these sat-nav things. (“Biggest reason for cars being broken into” he always asserts) and so we rely on AA print-outs, only this time for some reason it was a Michelin print-out. Having remembered to pack just about everything else in the house for some reason we didn't pack a map of Paris. Things were going really well. We passed the first sign as indicated, the second and the third. Next one should be the Porte de Bercy. Our exit – but we found no signs for the Porte de Bercy and so we drove on along the ring-road around Paris…and on…and on….and on…and

“Shouldn’t we have passed the Stade de France and signs to Bercy by now G? I think we’ve driven too far?”

“No. It’ll come. Be patient. We always pass it and we haven’t seen any signs for Bercy yet. Don’t worry.”

“O.K”

In the meantime J. had taken up some game with R involving arm wrenching and lots of screeching and giggling.

“Can you stop that please. Daddy is trying to concentrate. We are in the middle of Paris you know and traffic is heavy.”

J and R ignored us and went on making the most annoying, distracting sounds. It was true the traffic was beginning to build up heavily and G. had to concentrate hard. We drove on…and on… and on. The time by now was edging towards a quarter to seven.

“G. are you sure we shouldn’t have passed Bercy by now? The town looks as though its thinning out a bit.”

In fact by now the only signs, well more or less, were those directing us to the A10 and Bordeaux. I had this distinctly uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that soon we would be hitting the toll station leading us onto the motor-way direction south-west. G. finally admitted that it looked as though we had indeed passed Bercy and we would have to turn back. He got off the ring road. Somewhere. I forget where exactly. By now it was five minutes past seven and we had just 25 minutes to make it to the Gare de Bercy through the late evening Paris traffic. I looked at our tickets again.

It said: the car train for Bordeaux leaves at eight o’clock. The deadline for passengers to leave their car is seven-thirty.

I rang the station up.

“Errr – I think we may be just a bit later than seven thirty. Does it matter?”
“Well, where are you? You must hurry the train can not wait.”
“I know. We are doing our best we are in …” I gave him the name of the suburb we had just left.
“But that’s miles away from Bercy. You’ll just have to hurry and be here for 7.30.”
“We’re doing out best but if you could just old on a few more minutes….” But he had already put the phone down.

By now the children were beginning to pick up that something was wrong and even J. decided to quit playing with R.

“Are we going to miss the train?” J. asked quietly “because I really want to catch it and get to Oma and Grandpa tomorrow.”

“Look don’t worry J.” G. said trying to sound reassuring. “I have a plan B. If we miss the train you can still catch the midnight train from Austerlitz and I’ll drive through the night and meet you in Bordeaux tomorrow morning.”

“That sounds more like plan Z than plan B to me Daddy.” J retorted.

I agreed with my eldest. The whole reason why we had opted for this expensive solution was so that G. wouldn’t have to drive through the night. Having come home at 1 a.m. G. was hardly fit for a long haul drive along the motorway in the wee hours of the morning.

“I’ll ring Becky.” I said “She can go on-line and guide us through Paris toward the Gare de Bercy.”

“Not to worry K. Just tell me where you are exactly?” Becky sounded very calm and reassuring but the signs were flying past us as this stage and changing every minute, so that I wasn’t exactly sure where the hell we were on that hell-hole of the Paris ring-road.

“Look. Just get off the ring-road and head onto the Periferique. If you see the sign Port d’Orleans get off there because you’ll be heading in the right direction.”

“Port d’Orleans. Oh yes, there it is. There it is G. Quick we need to get off here.”

G. swerved off the ring-road and we came onto the peripherique - and a stand-still.

“Keep going until you see a sign saying Porte d’Italie – the next one is the Porte de Bercy – the station must be close to the Porte. Its really not far, it’s more or less the next one.” Becky told me. Only problem was that we weren’t “going” anywhere. We were crawling somewhere but whether it was even in the right direction we had no idea. Becky kept telling me “You should see a sign post to … and then follow direction ….” But we could find nothing and it was now twenty past seven.

Since we were stuck in traffic anyway and whizzing nowhere I rolled the windows down and tried to call out to the guy in the car next to us – but he just looked embarrassed and giggled to his fellow passenger.

“Oh for heavens sake.” I thought I’m not flirting with you. So, I kept waving my hands but he just kept giggling. We inched forward and I tried with the next driver.

“Excusez-moi, mais savez vous ou est le Gare de Bercy? GARE DE BERCY? Quelle direction?”

He looked at me, paused, thought, gave a fantastic, fatalistic, not what I wanted, Gallic shrug but managed“C’est pas ici. If faut retourner. L’autre direction” before he drove on.

“Turn around. Turn around” I instructed and G. got into the right lane to turn around. Then the traffic lights turned red. Finally, however, we saw signs to the “Port de Bercy”, Phew. It must be close, it must be close. So close but still we crawled and crawled and crawled from one traffic light to the next.

We really needed to catch that train. Not only would we be wasting close to EUR 600 if we missed it I would also have to manage four children on my own in some dodgy Paris station at night and worrying all the time about G. driving, alone, along the motorway. Missing the car train had just never occurred to me and made it all the more galling that we were heading for plan Z.

I rang Becky back. “Did you manage to get hold of the Gare de Bercy?” I asked.

“No – no one’s picking up.”

I had the same problem.

“Well we’ve passed the Port d’Italie” I said.

“Oh good. The next one is Port de Bercy. You have to go over a bridge and then you’ll see the Port de Bercy. Get off there.”

It was true. Beyond the bridge I saw signs to the Port de Bercy but we were driving so slowly and it was already twenty to eight. We would never make it on time. My heart was sinking. Only twenty minutes and we still had no idea where the station was. Eventually we got off at the Port de Bercy and were led onto a busy dual-carriage way where the police were managing the heavy traffic. No one we asked had a clue where the Gare de Bercy was. They kept thinking we meant the Gare de Lyons. We even asked the gendarmes where the Gare de Bercy was but all we got in response was a rather snappy “Circule! Circule!” and a hand waving round and round.

Suddenly, just out of view from the gendarme, I spotted a large station to our left – in the other direction to where we were heading.

“G! G! I think its there. I can see a big train station. We have to turn around.”

Rather than waiting until we hit the next set of traffic lights G. decided to do a massive big U-turn in the middle of the dual carriage way, and squeeze the car through a gap in the barrier on the other side– a gap which should not really have been there. Happily for the C8 and us there was no on-coming traffic. They were still stuck behind the traffic lights just ahead. Luckily for G. we were also just out of view of the gendarme. Had he seen G.’s driving I suspect he may have spent the night in a cell with the local down and outs, rather than a SNCF couchette (were we to even make it).

We ended up along some narrower side-streets and away from the main roads but traffic was still crawling and there were still too many traffic lights. To the left an enormous railway station lay sprawled out – but where was the entrance? Any one we asked had never heard of the Gare de Bercy. The massive station to our left was the Gare de Lyon. Finally we found someone who knew where the station was. Four more traffic lights to go and the traffic and turn left …. the traffic was still crawling.

I gave up hope of ever making it. It was now 19. 54. Six minutes before the car train pulled out of the station and still all those traffic lights. We did make it to the fourth set of lights and turned left as instructed but still we found no signs indicating that this was the wretched Gare de Bercy. So, G. turned around and drove all the way back from where we had come. Back to the dual carriage way. There we discovered a forlorn entrance to somewhere heading towards the Gare de Lyons. Outside sat a solitary security guard.

“Gare de Bercy? Gare de Bercy?” we practically screamed at the poor guy.

“Oh no not here. You have to turn around. On the fourth set of traffic lights turn left and then left again.”

I rang Becky. “Look I think we’ll miss the train.” I said we are so close but we can’t find the bloody Gare.

“It ain’t over ‘till the fat lady sings” she assured me. “Keep trying and you’ll make it. I’m sure.”

I was trying to feel more confident but we had only four minutes to go through four sets of traffic lights let alone find where the elusive entrance to off-load cars at the Gare de Bercy was.

For some reason we kept driving and somehow at 19.58 we saw one single, paltry, pathetic little sign post practically opposite the damn thing saying “Gare de Bercy”.

Stuck behind yet another traffic light it was decided that I would jump out of the car and run inside to ask where we had to be. The station itself was disappointingly unimposing. Not in the least what we had expected when we had set off so hopefully earlier that afternoon. I barged my way to the front of the queue demanding “Car terminal. Where do the car trains leave from?” The guy just looked at me and gave me yet another Gallic shrug. Arggghhhh…. I ran to some nearby doors to try and see if I could find it and halt the train from leaving - when I saw a most beautiful sight.

G. coming out of the car with the children saying:

“Its alright. We’ve made it. They’ve agreed to drive the car on for us.”

J. looked at me and said

“Mummy. Now I know that God exists. I prayed so hard that we would make it and we did.”

I was literally trembling still not quite believing that we had made the train. The time: 19:58.

Chinon

2007-08-30T01:37:00.000-07:00

So many tales to tell; such little time to write them all up.

We’ve been back from the south-west of France for exactly a week. We arrived home last Tuesday having spent six hours stuck in the car. We were all so pleased to see MT 26, to stretch our legs and rediscover the house. The painting of the hallway in shades of very dark and dark grey has been a huge success. It has not made it look like a mausoleum (as I feared) but rather a very elegant entrance. Even the kids liked it.

We had spent a couple of nights in the Loire on the way home. As always, and even in the driving rain, it turned out be great fun. We said good-bye to Mum and Dad early on Sunday morning leaving them behind to face a house which had housed seven adults and seven children for nigh on two weeks. It had housed the VC-G's since 8 July. Were the car to have rafters you could say that it was packed up to there. Very little wriggle room for anyone. Luckily R. slept for three hours.

We arrived in Chinon at around one thirty so the restaurants were still serving food. Good thing too. We were all starving. We stumbled into the first Pizza joint we found along the way, which was packed with Sunday diners. The waitress found us a table crammed into a corner behind a screen with not a lot of wriggle room their either. One up from the car mind but bad news for four, hungry, kids who’ve been locked into car seats for most the day – still it was better than nothing. G. and I spent the twenty minutes waiting for the pizzas to arrive trying to ensure that knives weren’t thrown, bottles turned over, legs kicked under the table, and our good names dragged through the mud. Very stressful. Good humour soon returned once we had all eaten.

R. who is being potty trained decided to go with K.M to the loo and took off his pampers (which he’d been wearing for the car) sat on the loo and peed all over himself. All over his shoes. Oh and on the floor. Oops. Most serious challenge was to find him some dry clothes in our overly packed car. When I went outside to dash to the car I discovered that it was raining: heavily.

What to do with the kids next? We had planned to go straight to the hotel since they have a great little play park but that would be out of the question in the driving rain. Oh God and they had been sitting still all day and R. had slept for three hours. We would not get any peace that night.

With much protest and “its boring Mummy” and “I hate old castles” we went to go and visit the ruined fortress of a castle that over-looks Chinon and the river Vienne. Good thing we did too. It stopped raining by the time we reached there and the kids managed to get rid of a whole load of energy running around and climbing up towers.

When we finally arrived at the hotel at six o’clock the receptionist said: “But I was only expecting you tomorrow.” My fault. I had forgotten and we had left one day too early. Luckily for us they still had two adjoining rooms free. Phew. We ate a baguette and cheese in the room and then took the kids to the play park where they discovered a little mini-golf set up. They played there until well after eight o’clock. R. finally went to sleep at around ten.

On the merits of four children

2007-06-26T01:16:00.000-07:00

On Sunday night I crashed on the sofa at 8 p.m. and stared out of the window. In the dusk the blue and pink, flowered, and polka dotted bunting fluttered in the grey light of a June evening. The air was fresh and the damp colour of the sky gave a clear indication that yet more rain was on the way . The bunting stood out brilliantly against the darkening sky and green grass – a patch of brilliance that therapeutically calmed my frazzled being.

Since the moment we got up on Sunday morning G and I had been getting everything ready, non-stop, for L.’s much anticipated fifth birthday party. This entailed hanging up balloons, bunting, shifting furniture (both inside and out) and getting a good spread together for when her little friends arrived.

After breakfast L. and I made two litres of custard and sprinkled it with chocolate shavings whilst G. was dispatched to get butter for the cake (which of course I’d forgotten to buy the day before), when he came back he drove K.M. to her second birthday party that week-end and then headed off, again, to the supermarkets to buy sausages for lunch and balloons (which I’d also forgotten to buy) for the party, whilst L. and I began to make a chocolate smartie cake. J. watched TV upstairs and little R. – well little R. was running around with a bare bottom and a t-shirt on.

Crazy. I admit it. I know, I know, to begin potty training on the same week-end as organising a birthday party is probably pushing ones luck a bit too far. I know. But, R. was beginning to develop such a sore behind and the thought of yet another month of forking out EUR 60 on pampers and wipes forced the situation.

We began the potty training on Saturday. The day before L’s big party. Now, every family has a different approach to potty training but my approach has been to just take the pampers off from one day to the next and encourage them to sit on the potty. Plunge ‘em in at the deep end so to speak. There’s no turning back. “Bye bye Pampers” R. and I said together as R. threw his last nappy deep into the bottom of the bin. Having been through this three times already I’m prepared for the mess and the dirt. G. was not. By midday he was beginning to look distinctly growly and annoyed. By late Saturday afternoon the only thing that was looking virgin, clean and white was the bottom of the potty; our floors and R.’s clothes not.

Rowena and Victoria were going to come around for coffee in the afternoon but G. was beginning to look even more glum so it was agreed that I would meet them in town instead. Bizarrely G. was very happy with this arrangement. As was I. I got to escape potty training hell and have a drink in town with two adults offering lively conversation.

As Rowena, Victoria and I sat down for civilised “sun downers” by Rodin’s on the Oude Markt, Victoria announced:

“By the way K. did you know that having four children is the new status symbol?”.

Actually I had. The Times had had a big feature entitled “Four richer. Four poorer”. How could I not have read this piece of journalism.

“What did you think of it?” Victoria asked

What did I think of it. Phew. Where to begin. Good title.

“I feel sorry for child number four." I stated. "Lets hope she doesn’t read the article when she gets older or she may end up with an identity crisis.”

The article began by giving the blurb that all “it” mothers are opting for larger families and that having four children is seen as a great status symbol. It then went on to give the account of two mothers. One of whom already had four children and the second who had three and was contemplating having a fourth - but who listed all her “sensible” reasons for not having a fourth.

In the first account, there was so much that every mother of children would recognise, sympathise with, and would probably have experienced themselves. I quote mother of four, Andrea Hey:

“A not untypical “first year” scenario involved driving to school with the baby screaming for some undiagnosed reason; Number Three being sick in a handy bucket; Number Two sobbing because I had put the wrong filling in his sandwich; and Number One announcing that I had forgotten her swimming kit again. The packed lunches were made with the newborn ululating for the morning feed. Tummy-bug victims couldn’t stay home alone but had to trail out on the school run."

Whilst Andrea “adores” her healthy children she openly admits that it is all too much. She should have gone for three and a half since that extra half was just that little bit too much.

“As Number Four starts to develop her own collection of little friends, fitting her social life into the busy whirl of the greater family is like stuffing a balloon into a sock. My brain can’t hold another classful of names, faces and birthday parties. I am stale. Walking into her “first” third birthday party felt like stepping back in time. The roar of the bouncy-castle pump, the rioting of hyped-up toddlers, the impossibility of conversation with other distracted parents: hadn’t anything changed? Well, yes. I had. Older children doing more grown-up things is exciting. Yet our late addition slows us down (or necessitates a babysitter).”

…and she goes on to say that her older children complain about having been promised a skiing holiday … instead they got “the baby”.

So, when Victoria asked me what did I think I wasn’t really sure how to respond. As anyone who has read bits of this blog will recognise having four children can drive one to distraction. Think: broken fish, dragon noise, bolshy nine year olds who want to go catch a wave, the Battle of the Brick … but what is the point of feeling “stale” about it. Perhaps “Andrea” hasn’t listened to Charlene.

My personal feeling is that at this stage I feel a lot more relaxed about parenting. I’m not so anxious about being the perfect mother who tries to stack the odds in favour of fruit and to banish sweeties from the house. I don’t worry as much as I used to and I take pee on the floor more in my stride….and hey at the end of the day four children is really good fun. The children, although they argue, are privileged to have each other as brothers and sisters.

I’m not really sure if Becky remembers this moment but some years ago, when I was still at University we sat in the tiny television room in Bedwyn and came to a profound conclusion and the conclusion was this: that at the end of the day all we really wanted out of life was lots and lots of children, to retreat to a farm house by the sea in Cornwall, own a potter’s shop, wear kaftans and let the garden grow completely wild with all sorts of flowering creepers, poppies and cherry trees.

Large families, in my opinion, were always more fun, slightly whacky and a bit more off-beat than average sized families. Children from large families always gave the appearance of being more adventurous, more independent and more interesting. The idea of large families, sitting around big tables, hearty laughter and biting conversations appealed.

Watching from the outside in, friends of mine who came from large families and who laid bare sibling rivalry and jealousy just added to the sense of intrigue and fun – much more entertaining than the one boy one girl outfit that Thomas Cook always promote on their holiday posters.

As with most things in life there is a huge gap between reality and the dream… but still the dream pulls one in.

I come back to Sunday. There are L. and I busy backing chocolate cake, with G driving K.M to her birthday party and J. upstairs watching telly and waiting before its his turn to be taken to Ivan’s birthday party later that afternoon. I turned around to reach for an egg when L and I saw R. walking nonchalantly past us with a white potty full of pee.

L. and I just looked at him in amazement. Even L. felt elated with this development. R. even did wee wee one more time on the potty later that morning – but then gave up when the house became full of screaming – and I mean literally screaming – five year olds. Who can blame him. I mean a guy needs space and privacy not a horde of kids watching him perform. Still I was happy. There was a glimmer of hope. Perhaps by the end of the week we’ll have cracked it after all.

For three hours G. and I entertained, served, and amused twelve five year olds in between downpours and dry spells. We headed into the garden. We headed into the lounge. We served chocolate cake. We served custard. We served apple juice. We tore-up a bust-up between the boys over a Power Ranger toy. We stopped them from all going upstairs. G. cleaned up an R. patch in the corridor by his bedroom. We offered wine to collecting parents. We cleared away the mess. We got supper ready. We put the children in the bath. We read bed time stories. We put them to bed. And then I crashed on the sofa and stared out of the window at the bunting in the garden.

Do I feel like Andrea. I sympathise with her but I don’t feel like her. Instead G. and I have managed to achieve that crazy, whacky, slightly off beat and a slightly deranged family of six that Becky and I had dreamed of all those years ago in the telly room in Bedwyn. As Hilda, a good friend of mine said only last week:

“What ever else K. Later on the four VC-G's will be a “mooie bende”.

Which translates as:

“What ever else K. Later on the four VC-G’s will be quite a gang”.

Yes, I like that image.

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/families/article1967563.ece

The VC-G’s Forward Planning Unit

2007-06-13T06:53:00.000-07:00

Tucked away in the European Commission is the Forward Studies Unit. It was set up by Jacques Delors in the heady days of the Single European Act when there were only twelve, yes twelve!, EU Member States. It is very much the creation of a French-mind – a calm place where grand ideas can be mused over, pondered on and ultimately presented in academic format to policy makers. It is the kind of Unit that gives fruit to one French Minister's famous remark to the Americans: “Yes, it works in practice but can it work in theory”.

I only know about it because a good French friend of mine did a six month stint in the Unit. Later I managed to direct Lisa Lyngso there when she was looking to do a traineeship in Brussels. She was, she told me, going to work on “Futurism”. “Futurism” didn’t sound exactly academic to me, more mystic Meg than high-brow intellectualism but Lisa assured me it was very much at the cutting edge of academic thinking.

Today, twelve years on, I gather it remains a lively Unit where Europe’s brightest and finest minds sit behind their desks overlooking a motorway that goes by the name of the Rue Belliard. I imagine them sitting behind their desks, feet on table, pens a'tapping, staring out of the window with glazed eyes and looking deep, deep, deep, deeeeeeeeep into the future of Europe:

“Hmmmm, I see the future and the future is …. a blue flag with inter-locking yellow swirling stars that reach out infinitely to the east …. …”

I have decided, based on last night’s experience, that the VC-G’s will benefit not from a Forward Studies Unit but a “Forward Planning Unit”. It is indeed sad that it has come to this since by instinct I am a laissez-faire kinda girl but what with four little VC-G’s in the house I have come to the conclusion that it is probably for the best. I need to plan the immediate future much better. The unit will not be at all theoretical. Rather, it will be purely practical based on strictly functional lines the ultimate aim of which is to save time and heartache so that at the end of the day G. and I can squeeze in a Saturday and Sunday morning lie-in – i.e. not being trampled on in our beds before 7 a.m.

Our Saturday morning had begun as usual – rushing out of the house, I to bring L. to ballet between ten and eleven and G. to bring J. and K. to karate lessons between ten and eleven thirty. After lunch I went with K.M. into town to do some shopping and to stock up before J.s birthday party the following day. I also bought a white rambling rose which I intended to plant in a shady corner at the back of the garden. K.M. and I had quite good fun in town but we did make sure we were back by 4.15 because G. had an appointment at the hairdressers and was going straight for a run afterwards.

The weather was warm and mild. As we walked though the door R. began bumping his way down the stairs from the telly room, J. was stuck behind his gameboy and L. was colouring in the kitchen. It all seemed very peaceful and happy. By this stage it was pushing five, heading towards late afternoon. A critical time when one has young infants because it is normally between five and six that their needs urgently need to be addressed.

What I should really have done whilst there was peace and harmony was: forward plan, seize the opportunity and:

i) tidy up the kitchen
ii) begin to get strawberries ready
iii) lay the table for supper

All three options seemed particularly uninteresting. Instead I decided to spend a small part of the week-end on something that I wanted to do. So, rather than beginning the tasks listed above I decided to plant the rose at the back of the garden.

The house seemed calm enough. Kids were all occupied and in any case it was a nice pleasant warm afternoon. So far so good. But, it was at this point that R. began to emit low level whinging noises. The kind of low buzzing noise that spells trouble. J., who had emerged from behind the gameboy wandered into the garden and began to play rough with R., who was just not in the mood. So the winging got louder.

Regardless, I still had my eyes set on the pear tree at the back of the garden and the potted rose I had just bought at bargain price on the market. I managed to involve J. in the planting, which he did quite cheerfully but R.'s bawling just wasn’t going to go away.

The whinge and whine dial was turned up a notch or two louder. I looked at the watch but it was only 5.30. I tried to jolly them along a bit further whilst trying to get some weeding done and hoping that it was a passing irritant: surely they would all cheer up soon and begin to play calmly with each other?

By 5.50, however, it was totally obvious that I had to give up. R. was standing in the middle of the garden covered in mud. J. began to complain of a really bad headache (probably because he only had two spoonfuls of rice for lunch), and L. was (literally) shouting: “I’m hungry Mummy”, “I’m hungry when is supper ready”.

R. began to cry full volume. Ahh yes, we had forgotten to give him is afternoon nap. So our fourth toddler in a trot was suffering not only from hunger but he was also, probably, tired. I decided the best option was to put them all in the bath and sort food out later. Normally a bath calms them down.

J., who was himself, a screaming toddler not so long ago, had no patience with his younger brother’s tantrum and began to shout over R.’s crying:

“Stop crying. Just stop it I have a horrible headache”.

K.M. and L. were playing at the back of the garden in a big cardboard box that they had been given by G. which involves crawling inside through a cut out hole, standing upright and toppling themselves over full force onto the ground. Such play invoves lots of screeching and whooping.

However, when L. saw me heading upstairs to bathe R. and J. she soon came running inside shouting indignantly:

“Where is supper? I want supper Mummy. I am hungry. I am hungry Mummy. Come down here. Where are you going? I am hungry”.

The “I am hungry” protest followed us up the staircase, from the kitchen and into the bathroom. Inside the bathroom the volume was amplified by the acoustics of the tiled room and water running into the bath. R. simply would not stop crying no matter how hard we tried to distract him and J. was beginning to look pale and shivery.

At this stage the cacophony was beginning to get to me as well and so I just walked out of the room to escape the chaos. K.M. decided to take action began to read Noah’s Arc to R. in a very loud shrilly voice that managed to transcend the screams and sound of water filling up the bath.

K.M.'s tactic began to work. Slowly but surely the wailing turned into sobs and the sobs into sniffles. J. looked relieved. As was I. Phew. We had a peace of sorts. The noise level dropped again to normal proportions.

When they were all out of the bath I ran downstairs to get R. his bottle. “I better find the bottle soon” I thought since the crying for “BOTTLE” was beginning to get louder and louder threatening to spill over again into a full-blow explosion. But – of course - not having tidied up I only had one clean bottle but no clean teat. In fact I couldn't find a teat anywhere let alone a dirty one. Quite frankly any one would have done at this stage – even one plucked out of the garbage. Eventually, I found a rather dodgy broken looking one which I quickly rinsed under the tap with some soap suds and ran upstairs to give it to R. One suck and the dude crashed.

Well at least that was one down. Three to go. It was later, whilst I was making a ton of sandwhiches in the kitchen that I stumbled across the idea of a forward “planning” unit.

Had I planned better I would have:

i) tidied up the kitchen when I cam back at 4.30. Result: no scrambling for teats off the dirty floor.
ii) prepared the strawberries. Result: very happy children prepared to be jollied along whilst I plant bushes.
iii) got supper ready. Result: could have given them their supper before the crying got too bad.
iv) given R. a nap in the afternoon, instead of wandering into town. Result: R. wouldn’t have winged and cried at five already and probably played happily until later. (Nor, would R. have woken us up at 6.30 on Sunday morning by bouncing on top of me saying “keekeboe” having gone to sleep at 6 in the evening).

Calm was just beginning to be restored when G. walked back through the door from his run.

“Sounds quiet upstairs. I take it everything went well then?”

"Apple-pie" Mummy

2007-05-31T07:41:00.000-07:00

A few months ago J. looked over at me at the supper table and asked very matter of fact:

“Mummy can you come and bake something at school? We have a hobby hour every Friday and sometimes Mummy’s are allowed to come and bake with us. I’ve already put your name down.”

There are plenty of things that I would like to do if I have a free Friday afternoon: go to the flower market, do some shopping for the week-end at ease, go for a coffee in a café I would never dream of setting foot in with the children, read the paper, chill out before I pick the children up at four o’clock.

In fact, I am getting into the habit of trying to finish work at mid-day on Friday so that I can indulge in all the past-times listed above. Such bliss. Such a wonderful way to begin the week-end. Baking cakes in front of 24 nine year olds is not exactly what I normally have in mind - but when you have your kid asking you so nicely how can you then say:

“No J. – I’m busy browsing around the flower market, doing some shopping for the week-end at ease, followed by a coffee in a café I would never dream of setting foot in with four children under the age of ten, reading the newspaper and chilling out before I pick you up from school at four..”

So instead I said,

“Yes of course J. what a great idea. Shall I bake scones?”

J. loves scones and so I had his blessing. In preparation for my big day back at school I did a Google search on scone recipes and had a practice run at home. Good thing I did since you have to get the liquid ratio right otherwise the dough becomes really sticky.

Last Friday, 25th May, was the anointed Friday afternoon when there was a slot free for me to come and show the children how to bake scones. So I dutifully trotted down to the school with a bag of flour, eggs, butter, milk, baking powder, sugar, a pot of strawberry jam and a tin of squirty fresh cream. J. was chuffed to see me – he even gave me a hug when he saw me standing in the corridor.

D’you know it was great fun. I was left in charge of five boys including J. and we set to work. Even I really enjoyed getting my hands dirty mixing in the butter, flour, sugar, eggs etc. I still didn’t get the liquid ration quite right though. At one point the mixture ended up resembling batter more than dough – but with the addition of more “self-raising” flour the problem was soon solved. In any case I think the boys enjoyed the gooey muck sticking to their hands and flicking flour across the class room.

At the end of the class, when asked by Juf Annemie to assess their baking experience the boys all said “I really enjoyed it”.

It was great being able to relate to J. in such a way. I fear poor J. is often frustrated that I do not get more enthused about Star Wars; that I have no interest in gaining the Pokemon knowledge; that I do not care to watch Lord of the Rings over and over again on DVD and that I can’t recount accurately corny episodes from The Simpson.

In fact I’m the kind of mother who (boringly/yawn) asks at the supper table,

“How was your day at school J.?”
“Talk to us J.”
“No, you can’t leave the table until we have all finished” and
“Put the gameboy down until later”.

Who would have thought that playing “Apple-pie” Mummy could have been so rewarding for both of us.

The Cawsand Diaries

2007-04-20T03:10:00.000-07:00

Some thoughts and reflections of a fabulous holiday in Cornwall. Scroll down to "Leuven, 4th of April" to read it in chronological order. Hope its fun to read.

Easter Sunday, 9th April To the Lighthouse

2007-04-20T02:49:00.000-07:00

“Becky suggested that our holiday must be just like “To the Lighthouse.” Beatrice commented having just spoken to her over the phone on Easter Sunday.

In the background the kids are screaming “Over here! Over here!” as J. and Mattie kick a ball around the lawn and K.M. weaves in between them. L. is throwing Belle a munched up ganky ball, George is playing with a toy garage and R. is moofing somewhere in between.

Perhaps, if one were to come here sans enfants in November when the storms batter the village and howl around our roof top apartment; perhaps if one were escaping some nasty emotional trauma; perhaps if one were some renowned thespian preparing for a challenging play in the forthcoming season –then yes this would be the perfect place to contemplate Virginia Woolf's darkest feelings and frustrated sentiments.

Glancing around the place on a happy, bright Easter Sunday with the children all high on chocolate after a rather successful Easter egg hunt and us happily drinking shandy with Sally and David in the sun then, no, this place is far too innocent for the likes of Virginia Woolf. Definitely more “Five on a Treasure Island” than “To the Lighthouse”. Not that I have ever read a single book of Virginia Woolf. Its probably because I'm too scared of her. As David said, who is obviously brave and who has read her though “..we’re not exactly in the mood to reach for the nearest stones to stuff into our pockets.”

Easter Sunday is busy. We are not the only paying guests staying at The Woodlands. There are David, Sally, Sophie (11) and Mathew (8) who have rented the flat on the ground floor. Yes, yes, yes - the eight year old boy I was hoping for. I'm telling you everything was working out well. Gill also had her two little grandchildren for the week-end: George and Lilly, both the same age as K.M. and L. respectively.

The garden at The Woodlands slopes up in certain points. As well as freshly planted shrubs and bluebells there are a number of old established trees that grow up the slopes. From one of the branches of these old trees hangs a rope with a stick attached to it – fabulous to swing from. R. wandered his way up there so I followed just in case he got in the path of a swinging K.M. on the way up.

L., R. and I sat on the bench and watched K.M. swing back and forth. Below is just one of the great views over the bay. There is not a spot in this part of Cornwall, seemingly, which does not offer a view of the beautiful clear blue sea. Four year old Lilly came to sit next to us.

“Do you see that Lighthouse over there?” she asks me.

“Yes.” I answer.

In fact I spotted it on our first day here. It sits in the middle of the bay half-way between Cawsand and Plymouth.

“Well. I swam over there yesterday and back again” she told me not battering her eyelids and cool as a cucumber.

“Well done” I responded. “That must have been a lot of hard work. Did you know that I too swam out there only the other day and came across four mermaids on the way. Two of them had long blond hair that curled down their backs. One had red hair and the other dark black curly hair. Did you see them when you swam to the Lighthouse?”

“Yes” said Lilly. “I saw a mermaid and she had brown hair”.

“And was her fish tail made of silver or gold?”

“Oh silver.”

“Is she talking rubbish again?” George her older brother asked who had just wandered up from below. “You know you can’t swim to the Lighthouse Lilly.”

Lilly ignored him.

“Its my turn to go on the swing next.” L. wailed.

“OK then.” I say. “Come on K.M. give the others a go. Next L. Then Lilly and then George.”

“What Lilly before me?” George said looking incredulous.

“Yes” I replied. “She was here before you after all”.

Lilly still ignored her older brother and looked out to sea. Older brothers. “They’re all the same” I think. They have a real problem with younger sisters – especially if they seem to have a wild imagination.

In the end L. and Lilly, at four, are still too small to hoist themselves up on to the stick at the end of the rope and push themselves off. Next year perhaps. Next year, when Lilly manages to single handedly slay the sea monster that prowls the waters in front of the Lighthouse - then she’ll be able to swing on the rope together with L. and give her annoying older brother a run for his money. Perhaps Becky was right. There is a touch of “To the Lighthouse” about our holiday in Cornwall after all. But, in the nicest possible way.

Saturday, 7th April: Enid Blyton

2007-04-20T02:40:00.000-07:00

Julian woke first the next morning. He woke just as the sun was slipping over the horizon in the east and filling the sky with gold…..
Dick woke and grinned at Julian. A feeling of happiness crept over him…
The sun was now shining brightly, though it was still low in the eastern sky. It felt warm already. The sky was so beautifully blue that Ann couldn’t help feeling it had been freshly washed! “ it looks just as if it had come back from the laundry,” she told the others. They squealed with laughter at her.

“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you like sleep K?” Bea asked me on our first morning in Cawsand having heard that I woke up at six in the morning.

Oh I love my sleep alright. It has been one of my biggest frustrations that for the past nine years I have been spent more hours awake in the middle of the night than I care for – but that view from our bedroom – I had to be up early to catch the sun in the eastern sky work its way into our blue room. The one with the view of the bay. I was awake before it was already light – went to the kitchen and made a pot of tea sat up in bed and stared out of the window.

It is so beautifully, wonderfully, sacredly quiet at that hour in the morning. The kids are all quiet. It is the only time of the day when my thoughts are still clear and not muddled from tiredness; when I feel fresh and rejuvenated and when I feel free from any form of responsibility or duty. That feeling of complete and utter calm is worth waking up for – in any case it was the first day of the holiday – who isn’t excited on their first day of the holidays?

My dawn, on our first morning in Cawsand, like Anne’s was freshly laundered - alright, alright, squeal with laughter if you must ... but that is just what it felt like.

Cawsand, Friday 6th April: Enid Blyton

2007-04-20T02:31:00.000-07:00

“We must watch out for the sea,” said Dick. “I can smell it somewhere near!”
He was right. The car suddenly topped a hill – and there was the shining blue sea, calm and smooth in the evening sun. The three children gave a yell.
“There it is!”
“Isn’t it marvellous!”
“Oh, I want to bathe this very minute!”

Living a cliché can sometimes be great fun. I am just so in the mood for pretending that we are living The Famous Five – hell we even have a “Dick” on the back seat. I have been trying, spectacularly unsuccessfully, to get J. to read The Famous Five. I loved them as a kid. Not so J. … but then again when I read them out loud again I begin to understand why. The language is very, very, dated. Being a kid of the 70ies I’m beginning to realise that our generation was possibly the last to still be in some kind of tune with 1950’s Britain. Millennium kids just don’t get it any more.

In any case, forget all the ginger beer, awfully, marvellous, jolly gosh and Dick jokes. One of the main reasons, I think, that J. can not identify with the books is that he simply can not relate to a bunch of kids who are allowed to go off sailing for a whole week-end with a wave from a grown up and a simple “ … do be back in time for tea on Sunday children.”

Lucky Aunt Fanny, I think. I wish I could wave five kids off my hands for a whole week-end as easily as that. Being a woman of the 1950’s she doesn’t even need to worry that they’ll contact her by mobile phone. Once they’re off over the hill then that’s it for the next couple of days. I imagine what it must be like…

“OK Off you go then, J, K.M, L. R and friend. Rucksacks all packed I see. Jolly good - see you in a couple of days. Have fun. Bye.”

Think of the freedom – just think of all the possibilities. A whole week-end to do the things that I want to do …. but that is in the realms of fantasy… and I digress

We have been given a free CD “Five on a Treasure Island”, which L. likes to listen to on long car journeys. J.’s objections are over-ruled. We discover that G. is very, very good at doing an “Uncle Quentin” impression. He cocks his chin right back into his throat; raises his voice considerably; looks stern, and:

“You, Ann, give that treasure map here at once.” and

“What’s the matter with you children? Don’t you trust me?”

Although I read “Five on a Treasure Island” about 30 years ago I still, to this day, have some vivid memories of the book. One of the first is when Julian, Dick and Ann arrive in Cornwall seeing the sea of the first time and feeling very excited about it. Since then every time I first glimpse the sea – from where ever in the world it may be I get the “Treasure Island” kick out of it. As we drive along the west country leaving Stonehenge behind us and enter Somerset I suggest:

“A prize for the first person to spot the sea.”

“I’m not joining in because I always lose,” is K.M.’s response.

“Boring” says J.

L. looks out of the window.

For once, just for once though, on this Easter holidays, the weather is on my side allowing me to live my imagination. It’s a beautifully sunny day and when we do finally spot the sea over the crest of a hill it sparkles, shines and fulfils every damn cliché that you can imagine.

Upon seeing the sea for the first time Dick shouted:

“Oh I want to bathe this very minute”.

Upon seeing the sea for the first time J. announced.

“I want to catch a wave when we get there?”

The language changes but the desires, seemingly, not.

“I am NOT sleeping in this room”, J. announced when Clive showed us around the top floor after we had all fallen out of the C8 and clambered with bags and books and one toddler up the stairs. I was happy as Larry having already grabbed our room. A light blue room with the most amazing views over the bay. My cliché was just getting better and better. Every thing was going swimmingly.

Admittedly this particular children’s room was painted a very pretty lilac and had lace sheets on it. Just so not J.

K.M. and L. pushed past us.

“We want this room, we want this room”.

Luckily another “boys” room was available also painted blue and with beds covered in a sailing boat fabric. The sheets were still frilly but J., seemingly, was prepared to ignore that on this occasion and plonked his bag down.

By this time it was around 3.30 in the afternoon and we still had to unpack the car and get some food for supper. We’d been living off biscuits, chocolate and bread for the past three days.

Beatrice rang.

“Hi, there train is still on time. Are you still on for picking us up at 6.30 from Plymouth.”

“Sure, no problem. Looking forward to seeing you and George.”

6.30? I was so sure it would be 7.30 – this made timing tight. It takes roughly an hour to the station.

“G. - lets just go for a quick walk into Kingsand and get some stuff for supper because you need to pick Bea. up an hour earlier than I had thought and I need to be back to cook supper. Otherwise we won’t be eating until nine or so and the kids will get hungry”

“Sure.”

“Children, we’re going for a walk into the village but it’ll be difficult to go swimming because we have to be back on time to pick Aunty Bea and George up.”

K.M., as usual, is happy with whatever. R. is too small to care. J. and L. on the other hand have their own determined views of how the next hour should played out – and it does not involve a quick walk around Kingsand and a trip to the village shop.

“No, you promised I could catch a wave – I’m going swimming. You promised.” J. glares at us and defies us to change our agenda.

“ I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming.” L. wails incessantly.

“I know, I know, I know but we don’t want to keep George and Aunty Bea. waiting at the station. Sometimes plans change. Tomorrow we will go down to the beach I promise you. First thing tomorrow.”

The time by now is pushing 16:00 – there is just not enough time to get all the swimming gear sorted out, carry it to the beach get all four kids ready for a swim; give them enough time to get out again; dry, dressed – and go to the shop and get back again. In any case R. will probably start being difficult at some point because he is getting hungry and tired …and I don’t want to face it all on my own whilst G. goes to Plymouth.

“You liars! You promised us. I’m going to catch a wave. You promised! You promised!”

“I want to go swimming. Ahhhhh ahhhhh ahhhh. I want to go swimming.”

G. and I are tired and still have a lot to do. We’re not getting anywhere with J. and L. We have no parental authority.

“Try and be flexible. Plans sometimes, unexpectedly, have to change. Its getting late and there is just not enough time left. Tomorrow we go to the beach.”

But we just get more of the same anger from J. and L. who can’t control their disappointment. In the meantime R. decides to join in the swing of things and begins to wail and cry as well. The noise level in the flat is beginning to reach nasty, ugly proportions. It begins to work on our nerves. No tactic will work on these two kids. My happy cliché is crumbling around me.

G. gets seriously fed up. He has driven all day. In the end I just go with K.M. into Kingsand and to the shop. I enjoy the peace and harmony of having just K.M with me and the freedom to walk around the village at will. K.M. is so flexible and happy to come along. I, quite clearly get the pleasant deal.

G., on the other hand, is left at the top of the stairs trying to deal with a crying R. an outraged J. and a wailing L. We haven’t even been in the house for an hour and already we are shaking its beautiful old walls with dragon noise. Poor G. – and his impersonation of Uncle Quentin is so convincing - so authoritative.

Great Bedwyn, Thursday 5th April

2007-04-20T02:23:00.000-07:00

Its very strange revisiting a place, which was once so familiar. The "cottage" in Bedwyn, for close on twenty years, was a fixed point of security and comfort. In the heart of Wiltshire is was a place where nothing nasty could possibly happen.

When situations became a little edgy at University or when incidents got dangerous abroad, then I would think of the woods, fields, villages and towns around Bedwyn and think of complete and utter safety. “Why am I allowing myself to have a beer glass smashed into my face in this unfamiliar town in France when I could just be at home in Bedwyn.” I once thought having come home with six stitches in my chin after a night out with friends in Pau. Or, “Why am I driving along this God forsaken road in Galicia at 1 in the morning with this loser of a boyfriend when I could just be at home in Bedwyn.”

Yet, at the same time, although Great Bedwyn was great as a place of recuperation – it was good for only a couple of weeks or so. Or so I thought as a teenager/eraly twenty something. Any longer and the quiet, cosy, comfort of the village felt suffocating and the need to be away and live life again took a hold. That year in France was one of the best years I’ve ever had and, OK, so the guy was a tosser but we still saw loads of sights and looking back it was a great experience given that we did drive off the beaten track all the time and saw bits of the Iberian peninsular that most tourists don’t. So, here I am back again. This time with four children. My life perspective has changed, of course, and the cosy security of the village seems appealing rather than suffocating.

We are spending a couple of nights in The Cross Keys pub on the corner of Farm Lane. It’s a perfect place to stop before we hit Cornwall and time we met up with some old friends. Having lived in The Middle all these years my senses are on high alert; sensitive to all that I once took so much for granted but haven’t experienced in years. Has England changed? What will be new? How will I feel?

Has England changed? Well Great Bedwyn hasn’t. Not physically anyway. No new housing developments, no new roads, no new trees planted. Same Post Office; same Spa Shop; same pubs with the same names … it has, if possible, got even posher though with some distinguished people having moved there, or so I hear, and a lot more families with young children making it their home …. or so I gather. Its picture postcard, pretty properties, perfect – if you can afford it of course. House prices are exclusive and I doubt we could afford living there. Oh yes, G. did note that a tree on the cross-roads in the middle of the Savernake forest had been cut down. That is quite a change.

Still, there are a number of differences between England and The Middle. Attitudes, customs, habits that I once considered so “normal” now seem oddly different:

Pets. Practically everyone we visit has at least one pet … from dogs to cats to gerbils to chickens to rabbits to birds … and I had so much anxiety about buying three goldfish.
Dr Kipling’s “French Fancies”: The children were offered these and they looked so enticing all covered in bright pink, green, orange and yellow icing. The kids all grabbed for one, took one bite and said (rather impolitely) “I don’t like those Mummy” – so to make up for their impoliteness I ate four “French Fancies”.
Carpets. The Middle, being rather Nordic/Germanic does not do carpets. I can honestly say I don’t know anyone who has a carpet apart from us (we have one room carpeted). Its not a snobby thing although to English readers, no doubt, this sounds very snobby. Its just that people don’t think of using carpets here. Instead they plump for underground heating/tiles/wooden floorboards etc. I am reminded though of how warm and comforting carpets can be. The combination of pet cats and carpets, though, is bad news for G. and his cat allergy. He begins popping Zyrtec like a first year undergraduate popping e-pills at a rave in Essex.
Crooked houses: Six years ago when we were renovating our first house in The Middle some young people had bought an old terraced house up the road from us. It had been renovated only two years before. The new couple, however, decided to knock all the plaster out and start again because the previous owners, when renovating, had not got the walls exactly straight. The plaster followed the angle of the old wall and was not an exact 90°. No such nonsense here. The floors in The Cross Keys were so crooked that K.M. and I thought we were still feeling dizzy from the ferry until we realised that the carpeted floor of the children’s bedroom was undulating.

When we drove into Marlborough to buy some food for a picnic the first things I bought were milk chocolate Hobnobs and Hot Cross Buns. Sod the healthy apples. Milk chocolate Hobnobs - the best thing ever with a nice steaming cup of tea after a day out with too many children.

Leuven Tuesday, 4th April

2007-04-20T02:20:00.000-07:00

Strange time of year April. Yesterday, and most of the week-end we, in the middle, basked in glorious sunshine. Today it is overcast and freezing. Of course, the children and I are inappropriately dressed… – but we don’t care really because tomorrow we are off for a ten day holiday to “old Blighty”, of which one week in Cornwall. I’m drooling to see a National Trust Property. Filled with excitement at the thought of a cream tea. That’s what nearly six years away does to you.

Our holiday apartment is called “The Woodlands”. The on-line snapshots look gorgeous. Almost too nice for our grubby family. Very “Homes and Garden” with white arm chairs and very tasteful bedspreads. Our family has a reputation for being noisy and I wonder what kind of grubby state we will spill out of the car in upon arrival. When I rang the owner and tentatively told her that we would be coming with four children, plus sister and nephew, she responded:

“Oh well then this place is perfect for them. We have a games room downstairs, plenty of buckets and spades, it’s a ten minute walk to the beach and a lovely place for children”.

Although she was £100 more expensive than the other holiday places I had goggled I booked there and then.

The other day under the shower I was imagining who the groups in the ground floor apartment would be. In my fantasy world it would be another family with at least two boys J’s age so that J. would have someone to hang out with. But then again, I decided, it could so easily be one of those people who book a holiday to be away from children and later complain:

“Its not that I don’t like children. We just made a conscious decision NOT to have children. Is it too much to ask for a bit of piece and quiet on our holiday?”

Buried Treasures

2007-03-05T06:44:00.000-08:00

All around us people are milling, looking into glass boxes and calmly moving onto the next exhibit. I, however, do not feel calm and am anxious to contain the children so I try to separate the boys from the girls.

“Come with me boys and we’ll have a look over here” I say but L. insists on following us and interrupting our conversation. I continue undeterred.

“You see boys, it was thought to have been destroyed, looted or simply lost. Everyone knew that the Russians, and before them the French, had excavated the gold but what happened next…no one knew. That is until it was rediscovered, only three years ago, buried beneath piles of cash in the vaults of the Presidential Palace…”

“I’m thirsty” J. tells me looking at me as though I’m boring him to death. I’m deflated.

“Hey, I’m giving you a tale worthy of an Oscar winning Stephen Spielberg movie … and your only response is …I’m thirsty.”

At the tender age of ten I made my first appearance on stage. December 1980: annual Brigidine Convent Panto, Mothergoose, where we sang and danced to the tune of:

“Kids what’s the matter with kids today.
Why can’t they be like we were.
Perfect in everyway.
What’s the matter with kids today.”

At ten I loved that song. A real thumb’s up to boring adults. Now I identify with it. In the exhibition hall a flat-screen TV displays moving graphic images of what the city of Tillia-Tepe would have looked liked 2000 years ago. The computer images contrast with the enlarged black and white photos of the city, as found by the archaeologists in the 1930’s. In the photos a few pillars remain standing but the overall impression is one of a flat, desolate, landscape with all but the foundations of buildings visible.

“Look J. and Mitchell.” I continue. “Look at the difference between the computer graphics and what the archaeologists found. Who destroyed the city? Why was it abandoned like that? Who were the last people to have inhabited this place? Who made this gold and why? What was it they believed in?”

Mitchell joins in.

“Was it war Aunty K?”

“Yes, probably but it could also have been earthquakes – or perhaps a plague afflicted the city and with so much death it became taboo for anyone to settle there for thousands of years and so it was abandoned.”

I’ve already lost J. though and he has marched off to G. to complain that he is “bored” of queuing and when are we going home? In some respects I can’t blame him. We begin to queue for the fourth time that day – just to see the twenty boxes containing the much trumpeted Afghan Gold.

We had set off from the middle at 8.30 that morning. G. and I congratulated ourselves on being so well organised and being able to leave on time. It’s a three hour drive to Paris and with R. safely left behind with Tante Heleen, we headed off to the big city with not a single buggy or bottle or dummy or pamper bag in sight. In R.’s place we had Marjoleine and Mitchell. The banter in the back of the car was cheery – the kids were excited and really looking forward to the trip. Especially Jakob since he was very nearly left behind …but we won’t go into that.

The BBC on-line weather report promised sunshine. It rained all day. No matter. The 16^th arrondisement is splendid whatever the weather and hey its better to spend a rainy Sunday in Paris than a rainy day back home looking out onto the muddy garden. We drove around the Arc de Triomphe and underneath the Eiffel Tower, eventually parking the car along the Seine so we could have our “winter” picnic in the car with a view across the river.

The atmosphere was still very cheery and we even managed to spill out of the car for a brief ten minute walk up to the nearest bridge – take a few snapshots and then head off to the musée Guimet. This being a Sunday, parking was a breeze and best of all it was free. We found a spot right next to the entrance. Everything was going swimmingly.

The gold promised to be stunning – but forget for a moment the glitter and the glitz of ancient golden artefacts with Greek and Sino influences. The tale behind the exhibition is spicy and no doubt accounts for a lot of the exhibition’s pulling power…and pull it does. The tale goes something like this…

….gold excavated in the 1930’s by French archaeologists who had special permission from an Afghan King ….gold which was later excavated by Russian archaeologists in the 1970’s and 1980’s…..thousands of pieces being hidden shortly before the departure of the Soviets and the arrival of the Mujahadin….seven keys held by seven people to protect the ancient gold from misguided religious destruction….Taliban attempts to blow up the collection and destroy it….the loss of the seven keys and the disappearance of the seven key-holders….the re-discovery of the loot by the Americans in 2003 in the vaults of the Presidential Palace in Kabul, hidden underneath stacks of cash….the Afghan Parliament giving permission for the gold to leave Afghan territory on condition that French warships guide it to Paris and back again…

The kids were all geared up and so were G. and I. A big poster above the entrance to the Museum promised the visitor a spectacular experience…but there is something about this Afghan gold that is obviously playing “hard to get”. Our quest required us to show great tenacity, patience and an ability to queue for a very long time with five kids from generation “I have a five minute concentration span”.

Queue 1: Begin 13.10. Not too bad all things considered. We had finished our picnic. Our tummies were pleasantly full and the half hour wait on the steps outside of the musée Guimet didn’t seem to take too long. Luckily the showers had passed and we weren’t getting wet. The kids ran around and managed to release a lot of energy.

Queue 2: Begin 13.40. We were just about to be let into the main entrance and buy our tickets when the glass door was firmly slammed shut in front of J.’s nose. After a further 40 minutes waiting in front of the glass door we were finally allowed into the warmth of the Museum entrance to buy the tickets (very cheap we only paid EUR 16 since the kids were for free) – but not into the exhibition.

Queue 3: Begin 14. 30 We took the opportunity to take the children to the WC. Then we began to queue again to get into the exhibition room. Not much room to run around here either and L. nearly managed to knock a large screen off the wall whilst waiting.

“How much longer do we have to wait?”
“I’m bored”.
“I’m hungry.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“I’m tired.”
“My feet are itching.”
“Can you carry me?”

After a further 40 minutes of queuing we managed to enter the first room of the exhibition which the kids, literally raced around. They had each been given wonderful little books, , explaining all about the gold with great quizzes to test their knowledge and to help point them towards exciting finds. Unfortunately it was all in French.

Queue 4: Begin 15. 20. A bit unexpected this one. We were in the exhibition room – surely we could now finally see the gold. Once inside, however, even the children calmed down and looked at the gold with renewed enthusiasm and excitement.

“What are these?” “Why are they so small?” “Where was it worn?” “Look at that dagger!” “Are those Roman soldiers?”.

The gold was indeed spectacular, wonderful and worth the wait. Beautiful, intricate and amazingly delicate it must have lit up a long-dead soul’s tomb for thousands of years before being excavated.

My favourite piece was a gold belt, which I think would have looked stunning worn on a piece of brown silk. Mitchell liked the look of some shoe buckles decorated with jade and having a Chinese influence; K.M. some earrings; G. a small figure of a ram; J. the jewel encrusted dagger (of course!); Mario a necklace and L. all the tiny pieces of gold that were sown onto the clothes of the entombed bodies. We all had to admit though that the crown, made up of delicate leaf-like flakes of gold, was the star attraction.

The mood in the car on the way home reminded me of school outings. The kids sang songs; flicked pieces of food at each other; bickered over books and held a “boys” v “girls” quiz. G. drove us back along the motorway through the streaming rain. Although the kids were noisy we decided that this kind of noise we could cope with. Toddler tantrums and wailing babies – well that’s so much harder to live with on a three hour drive back to the middle from Paris and so it is that we remain very grateful to Tante Heleen and Nonkel Nick who took over R. for the day – enabling us, intrepid parents, to view buried treasure.

On being Shrek

2007-02-27T01:32:00.000-08:00

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.

Grazing

2007-02-14T06:00:00.000-08:00

Once, a very long time ago in Bruges, an elderly gentleman with hunched shoulders, told me that in a previous life I had been a monk in a north German monastery transcribing and illustrating the bible. He told me this after consulting a chart and matching it to my exact time, date and place of birth. He was, quite clearly, barking mad. And, in any case, I think he got it all wrong. I am convinced that in a previous life I was not a monk. I was, in fact, a sheep.

I say this because I like to graze. A biscuit with my tea here; another one half an hour later, a nibble here and there won’t harm….From what I can gather I am not alone in my grazing habits – so, I have come up with a new theory, perhaps we are in fact descended from sheep and not the apes as Darwin asserts.

This grazing (along with four pregnancies), however, is a disaster for the waist line. Ever since R.’s birth I have been unable to shift the 8 kg weight gain. Previous diets have worked but they have typically been on the back of negative influences (splitting up with a boyfriend/high-blood pressure during pregnancy etc.). A negative presence in my life is not what I seek though. I seek weight loss.

In desperation I have turned to a guru the like of whom I would, under any other circumstance, shun. I mean, guys who do big audiences for money are charlatans. Right? Yeah well, when you’re desperate its amazing what and who you’ll turn to. I Googled Paul McKenna and what with one thing or another I ended up buying his book “I can make you thin” and cd on-line. Its so easy these days… and it wasn’t that expensive… and thousands of women swear by his method… and Rebecca did say he made a lot of sense and… hey I can’t stop grazing.

A few days later his book arrived. It was one of those Mondays when the kids were off school and slouching bored around the house. There was not much to do other than watch TV: it was a rainy day in January and you can’t exactly throw them in the garden on a day like that. So, whilst R. was sleeping and the others were stuck in front of the box I settled down with a cup of tea and began to read.

I instantly liked what he said: he is offering a technique not a diet; he asks us to stop obsessing about food, which is what you do when you diet (oh that is so true); to eat when you are hungry; to eat what you want not what you think you should eat; to eat slowly and savour every single mouthful; to stop when your tummy tells you are full; and not to weigh yourself for two weeks. Its so obvious ...but too good to be true? Eat when you’re hungry and eat what you want not what you think you should eat? I decided to give it a go. I had nothing to lose…other than weight.

For two weeks I followed his technique. I stuck to the rule of not weighing myself and in those two weeks I broke every rule of every diet I have ever been on. It was great fun. I ate pizza…but stopped when my stomach told me to stop. I had three helpings of cereal in the morning…and stopped when I was knew I was full….I ate bread with cheese and mayonnaise. Sometimes four slices of bread…before my tummy told me I was full. Am I living in a fool’s paradise I wondered? Can this simple, liberating technique really be working? Surely not – mayonnaise on a slice of bread. How many calories are in that? I ate four slices before I felt full.

This Monday I weighed myself. Even G. was getting nervous about the result. On Sunday he said: hey, tomorrow you weigh yourself. Result…ta ti ta ta. Fool’s paradise or divine truth? I lost 2 kg. Hell ladies and gentlemen it works. We should be rejoicing. Singing from the roof tops, ringing the church bells, organising street parties, congregating on Trafalgar Square.

This simple technique has shown that you do not have to go through hardship to achieve something. In fact it has been such an eye opener that I wonder if other conundrums can be resolved using such simple logic. Imagine if the equivalent could be achieved in, lets say Iraq, or on climate change, or on world poverty.

Some thoughts for Paul McKenna to consider. Well, since Monday I am revising my theory on the origin of species as well as reconsidering whether I was a sheep in a previous life. Since following this technique I no longer graze. Given it up. The Paul McKenna diet has managed to take the obsession out of food. I no longer just seek to have a “healthy balanced diet” I am now seeking to have a “healthy attitude to food”.

The "Battle of the Brick" and the infantile characteristics of megalomania.

2007-01-11T08:14:00.000-08:00

Perhaps its because I studied too much theory at University – much more than I ever really understood or cared to study - which explains why I can’t help making analogies between the wise observations of our great political philosophers and my children’s behaviour.

Sometimes, in fact mostly, the children behave quite Hobbsian – they morph into a collective Leviathan where their anarchy, self-interest and pursuit of resources threatens to consume and annihilate them. Other times they remind me of Rousseau and his noble beast. The idea that homosapiens are, by nature, gracious and generous. It is only the invention of property law that debases them. I think this when they get dressed up and venture into the garden.

Imagine if you will, just for a moment, that each of my children is a sovereign independent state operating under the rules of international relations. They begin life as primitive, self-interested beasts, but gradually over time transform themselves into a co-operative partnership.

J., our dear eldest child, horrified me when he progressed out of the sweet innocence of incapable babyhood into a bi-podal thug. Any kid who dared to take an interest in his toys was met with a growl and a push. His toddler body language: “Back off. My toy. Me no share”. Its very difficult trying to rationalise the complex theories of co-operative optimisation to a twenty month old toddler – “actually, J sweetie pies, its fun to share. J – it IS fun to share. No J. Do not push. J. stop that screaming – that’s enough. Alright….now give that toy back!” They do eventually move on thank-goodness.

But, I have four children and whilst J. has moved way beyond his primitive former self – up pops R. – yep he’s turning two in a couple of months and he is already beginning to display signs of the same brutish behaviour as his brother did seven years previously.

Blame it all on Lego. The row began with Lego bricks, which for all intents and purposes could have been as important to R. as Alsace-Lorrain is to the French. It was like World War I out there. The battle was intense, personal and as far as R. was concerned needed to be fought to the end. No compromise. Total victory.

R.’s vocal abilities extend to a few monosyllables. He is rather good at imitating, parrot-fashion, certain words – but his ability to express his thoughts are not yet ripe enough to express his fury at finding no bricks with which to build his tower. They had all be siphoned off by his cousin with whom he normally likes to hang out. George, age 3, was in no mood to share having just found himself a treasure trove of fun.

R.’s first tactic was to enlist outside help – stir up a few allies and see if he could get them on-side. He acted a bit like Belgium in such a situation – refusing to pay for any defences but crying fowl when anyone dares to trespass on its territories. “Help me. I am small. How can I defend myself in the face of older toddler aggression?”

Adult intervention, however, had decided that “it was George’s turn to play with the bricks”. The powers that be tried to distract R. with other incentives in a bid to prevent the action escalating. "How about a train R? No. O.K. what about the wooden blocks. NOOO? Alright – look at the robot L’s just got it working again. NOOOOO! Nothing was ever going to be good enough. Never mind that R. can lay claim to a lounge full of toys - it was the Lego bricks he wanted and that smug George had just cheated him out of HIS Lego bricks.

R.s response to a reasonable alternative, being offered by objective outsiders, was to stand in the middle of the floor and …..hOOOOwl… His howling rather annoyed the adults who were trying to enjoy breakfast and found the noise an irritant – rather like sandpaper gently rubbing against the nerves.

After five minutes or so of R. standing stock still but with mouth wide open and emitting a sound like a Blitz siren, George had had enough of the Lego bricks and decided to move into the kitchen in pursuit of some other interest. Close to R.s feet lay the one green Lego brick he had managed to cling onto as a reminder of what had once been his. A flicker of cool intent and calm determination crossed the brow of his face. Rather like a Wagnerian anti-hero he picked up the Lego brick, spear-like, and charged full force towards George. R.'s arm was poised above his head and in pure fury he prepared to hurl the brick at George. I warned you the fight was personal and R. was just as ready to stab Geroge in the back than confront him head on. There was no honour, no decency, no rules of engagement in this fight. R's howl had turned into an angry throaty snarl – as he ran towards his unsuspecting victim.

Unlike the international community, however, R. has a much bigger arbiter of these squabbles. No United Nations dithering over the justness of his approach or wringing hands over how to stop the on slaught. In R.'s path stood G. who with one hand grabbed him and saved George from a rather nasty assault. Had R. succeeded the escalation would have been horrific and we adults would not have been allowed another cup of coffee or even contemplated enjoying another slice of bread with jam for breakfast. Luckily G. saved the day and warned R. that he would be put in the "naughty corner" if he continued. Geroge was pleased - for once it wasn't he who was being threatned with the naughty corner. In ten mintues it was all over and the two toddlers had moved onto playing "co-operatively".

But another, more telling story, confirms in my mind that megalomaniacs are retarded infants. The other day – just before Christmas L. had lain her hands on J’s globe. Its a good thing J. didn't see this - otherwise there may have been another growly situation. She had carried it downstairs and into the kitchen where she idly swung it around watching the land and sea mass whiz by.

“Mummy, I know a good game” she announced. “I’ll spin the globe and whereever my finger lands to stop it – you have to tell me which country it is.”

Very educational. I thoroughly approved of course. So we began to play – whizzzz - stop - where's that? That’s Canada. Whizz - stop - where's that? That’s the Indian Ocean..... Cote d’Ivoire....if you land your finger down there you’ll find Australia etc. etc.

Finally she enquired: “And where is the country that we live in?”

“Well its just here – in between France and the Netherlands..”

“Where Mummy? I can’t see it.”

Even her little finger just about managed to cover the entire country – with not much room left over for any green edging.

“Is that it?” she said indignantly. "Is that all?"

She paused and then whizzed the glob eastward and stopped.

“No. Mummy. I want this country.” She landed her finger firmly in the middle of Russia.

Well, the middle may be small but personally – and no offence to any Russians reading, I would rather live in the small prosperous and peaceful middle than in the vast open expanses of the Russian hinterland. But then again, children don’t know better. Lydia, still has a lot to learn. I don’t think she even remembers where the Cote d’Ivoire or Canada are on the map – let alone the middle.

Painting the imagination grey

2007-01-09T03:30:00.000-08:00

I distinctly remember that as a teenager I vowed I would never fall for a “routine” job. How dull. A nine to five job. Yawn. How I disliked the word routine. The thought of routine was like painting my imagination grey.

My memory of hating routine was brought sharply back into focus a couple of years ago when a friend rang to tell me she had been invited to an “Anti-routine party” over the week-end. “What?! Anti-routine.” I thought. Are you and your friends completely bonkers. “How can you at the age of 33 with two young children and job go to an anti-routine party? Imagine being responsible for organising one.” How life moves on hey.

I’ve become a sad specimen of what I once used to be. However, I hereby confess that any change – and I mean any change - to my usual routine makes me freak out. Literally. I’ve come to the sad realisation that far from trying to smash the routine my routine is, in fact, broken more often than I care for.

It’s a fragile thing. Vulnerable to “last minute changes” and “sick children” and “departures” and “teacher training days” and “half-terms” and “I can’t make it today”. I have become such a control freak because in the absence of any organised routine my precious, so very very precious, few moments in the evening when I can finally unwind and switch off, evaporates leaving me and G. having to do things post 8 p.m., like: sorting out laundry, hanging up laundry, folding laundry; clearing away dishes; tidying up….etc. etc. These are all very unpalatable at the best of times but even more so in the late evening.

Anyway on 8 January 2007 we gloriously slipped back into our usual humdrum routine kinda lifestyle. Phew. Kids are all safely back at school/nursery. My wonderful friends Agneska and Theresa are back from their holidays to help clean the house and do the ironing. (I know I am spoilt but when they are gone for three weeks I rediscover all the pains of ironing). And I am back behind the desk. So, if you’re wondering how the VC-G’s are doing well, I at least, am very happy to be back in our usual routine after all the excitement of Christmas.

Wet doorsteps

2006-11-16T04:03:00.000-08:00

The world outside our windows, both front and back, is orange. It is wonderful and it is breathtaking and it will last for only a week or so before the black branches of winter shape our views.

Perhaps it is because we are bathed in a golden light that somehow the household seems at peace with itself. G. even said as much yesterday when the kids were settled upstairs.
“Since you’ve come back from France I feel as though there’s a certain peace in the house.”

And then today he came into the kitchen having dropped the kids off at school saying,
“Isn’t it a wonderful day today. The colours outside are magnificent. K.M and L. sang all the way to school and J. and I had a great chat. Did you know, by the way, that they are saying it’s the warmest autumn on record and that the warmest one before that was last autumn.”

Personally, I like the trend towards milder autumns even if at the back of mind I am a wee bit concerned about all those melting icebergs swamping our low lying shorelines in say thirty years time. But what can I, on an individual level, do about it? Alright, so we turn off our lights and try and keep the heating down. We don’t use standby – ever , we hang the laundry out to dry in the cellar and since we live in the constrained borders of the middle with not much available space for landfill, we recycle conscientiously (actually we are forced to what with over priced bin bags) but still…we do our bit.

Somehow I get the niggeldy feeling though that “turning the light off” and not using "standby" is, at the end of the day, a bit of a Mickey Mouse measure.

If, as they claim carbon dioxide, is going to choke the earth and slowly cook us alive then I suspect impossible things need to be done. The kind of things no one really wants to do and therefore does nothing about. It goes to the heart of one of the seven gluttonies. Greed. Examples that I can think of that would probably put a break on global warming but for which nothing is being done include:

Banning MacDonald’s from giving away cheap and tacky toys that last as long as the trip home. Imagine the amount of energy that went into i) producing the plastic; ii) moulding the plastic; iii) international travel to approve design; iii) manufacturing the toy; iv) packaging toy; and finally v) transporting toy around the globe. Only for it to fall to pieces five minutes after purchase. The amount of toy wastage shocks me more than leaving a lamp burning in the bedroom. And believe me the VC-G’s are no stranger to toy overdose. In fact with Christmas and St Nicholas just around the corner I’m already getting ready to clear the decks of toys accumulated in 2006 to make way for the new horde of toys about to land on us. Whilst some can be given to charity shops for re-use there is still an enormous amount of “broken bits” and “incomplete puzzles” or “dated” toys where the only option is to bin them.

Limiting the amount of new office blocks being built. I am convinced that in the not too distant future we will simply not need all this office space. Our city council is a big offender. They have a perfectly good, distinguished and beautiful town hall in the middle of town. Yet still, they are building an enormous new town hall for more “spacious” offices next to the station. Why? Concrete, I gather, is one of the worst producers of greenhouse gases. I can imagine it. Try mixing the amount of quantities needed to build “spacious”, fifteen storied offices, by hand or by horse or by ox. It would take probably three times as long. But, hey with oil to burn who needs hands, hooves or ropes. Down by the station the great grey bones of a soon to be completed office block is already hovering over the skyline where only two months ago there was open space.The old town hall took over a hundred years to build; has been in constant use for almost four hundred years; has miraculously survived numerous attempts to bomb it out of existence and is perfectly fine.

Prohibiting the use of diesel-fired machines to blow autumn leaves into a pile. Why waste fuel on this? Although I admit that mixing concrete by hand is a tough challenge brushing up leaves is not. Again by comparison my single lamp burning on the landing seems like a very mild offender when compared to these combustion machines that look like outdated lawn mowers attached to a shoulder.

Closing down parts of public buildings. Such as huge 1970’s faculty libraries. The one opposite us is eight stories high, looks empty most of the day yet is heated to full capacity throughout the winter. Most students use the internet and do not sit in the library to study. The few that do could all be congregated on the first floor, leaving the remaining seven floors unheated.

Everywhere, it is evident to everyone, that there are ways in which to stop the world from overheating and yet everywhere, everyone kids themselves into thinking that “turning off the lights” will help save the planet.

And come to think about it - G. and I are hardly environmental saints. We bought our house because we were seduced by the charm of the high ceilings; we have churned out our fair share of concrete for renovation projects; of course we are going to put in a second bathroom as soon as we have saved enough money; we use a hoover instead of a dustpan and personally I (though not G.) am prone to buying cheap IKEA bits and bobs that I probably won't use for the rest of my life. Conclusion: plus ca change. So I guess we'll just have sit back, continue producing, consuming and wasting until the water levels reach our front door and deal with it then.

In the meantime I am enjoying our glowing autumn and mild temperatures…and seemingly so is the rest of the family.

Fat Vat

2006-10-16T04:09:00.000-07:00

G. was away in Barcelona this week-end. Whilst I was left in charge of the children he was busy hopping from one working-group to another and spending the evenings downing champagne on a luxury hotel terrace. What is telling about this week-end is that G. managed to squeeze in a twenty minute jog on the Hotel’s exercise machine. Free, for once, from the routine of getting children fed and into bed, he managed to put on his running shoes and sweat. When he asked the receptionist over the phone whether the Hotel’s fitness centre stayed open all night he got a confused but polite answer “Yes, Sir. The City Centre stays open all night.”

The path to hell, as the old cliché goes, is paved with good intentions. Well, the path to my personal inferno is certainly paved with virtuous thoughts of “getting into shape again after all those years”. G. and I even managed to fit in some running over the summer hols. But hey – that is the summer holidays when evenings are relaxed. There is no early morning rush. Children are even tempered and there is a big support group of adults to take care of the kids whilst we go for a half-hour jog.

No such luck back here in the middle and my “get yourself fit by jogging in five weeks” regime was strangled and stifled upon our return. G. has managed to maintain his run – but rather than three times a week he’s lucky if he squeezes in a run once a week. In a burst of energy, zeal and late summer warmth I did manage to go to the gym twice a week in August and early September and “kicked ass” in the Thai-bo kick boxing fitness centre.

I am a creature of the seasons however and with autumn drawing in the need to get out has caved in to the need to curl up after dark and stay warm. I have long believed that we mammals should spend the winter asleep in a cave only to remerge when the weather is warm and the days longer. Those bears in Canada have got it right – and in more ways than one.

Only the other day I was dunking a sugary children’s biscuit into my cup of Nescafe decaf when I noticed the next Commission document lying on my pile. It was entitled: “Promoting healthy diets and physical activity: A European dimension for the prevention of overweight, obesity and chronic diseases”. We European are fat; are getting fatter; and are heading for obesity. Even worse – we are reaching the same level of fatness as the Americans and boy can they be fat. The beautiful people in Brussels, who are normally very envious of American economic and business statistics, find this statistic just too hard to swallow.

Reading the Green Paper there is only one conclusion to be drawn: Western civilisation is not going to end in a bang. It is not going to end in a whimper. Western civilizations is going to waddle into the history books as a civilization that collapsed under the weight of its own calorie intake. As the outside hordes begin to attack we’ll be swimming in a vat of transfat; too over-weight to throw an arrow or sock a punch in their direction.

Personally I think its all the EU’s fault in the first place. I mean were it not for the Common Agricultural Policy and the Common Market there is no way that we would have so much choice in the supermarket. Thanks to the EU the Scottish eat Italian buffalo mozzarella in the Hebrides, the Irish can eat Austrian Alpine goat’s cheese in Galway and tourists can cave into Belgian chocolates in Athens. The CAP tells us to produce, produce, produce. More eggs, more milk, more meat. OK so Brussels is trying to reform CAP and make it more environmentally and commercially friendly but there is still an over-production of food. With so much availability no wonder we are so fat.

In any case it was probably an EU regulator somewhere who approved the production and import of trans-fats or hydrogenated fats – or whatever those nasty fats are called, in the first place. The ones that one is not supposed to eat since they stick to your arteries like carpet glue to floorboards - but which can be found on every food label innocently disguised as “vegetable fat”. Rather than picking a fight with the Americans on genetically modified organisms perhaps the EU Trade Commissioner should try and pick a fight with the Malaysians. He should simply ban the import of Palm Oil on the grounds of public health and safety. After all, Palm Oil is the main ingredient in hydrogenated fat. Or so I gather.

As for promoting physical activity – when in heaven’s name are we supposed to fit that in? The holidays are over and the only time I have to: i) get to the fitness centre; ii) get changed into my sport’s clothes; iii) do the sport; iv) get back home again and v) shower, is at around eight in the evening once the kids are settled. I find it so hard to motivate myself at this hour especially when it is drizzling, dark and cold.

No, my advice to the Commission is as follows: Regulate hibernation. As from next winter we must all find a nice cosy place to sleep the winter through. As we slumber peacefully we loose all that excess fat – bears apparently come out of hibernation mean and lean. There is no need keep the heating on high and thereby we save ourselves a ton of energy. No need to over-produce food. No need to worry about exercise. Its all quite simple really.

Charlene

2006-10-11T05:59:00.000-07:00

Whilst I might pride myself on trying to have a tastefully painted kitchen and the odd designer piece casually sitting in a corner, when it comes to music there is no doubt that I have no taste what so ever. Trailer trash kitsch that’s me.

I am becoming rather nifty at picking up CDs at bargain prices. Much to G.’s disgust we now own a set of dubious CD titles – the kind you hide behind the Mahler symphony and Bach’s Water Music.

OK I confess. In recent days I’ve bought Meatloaf, Barry White and Tropical Summer. My all time favourite though has got to be “Endless Love”. I am so happy to have found this CD featuring some deliciously corny love songs. Its taken me quite a long time to source such a nugget. The songs include Lionel Richie Stuck on you; Maria McKee Show me heaven; Glenn Madeiros Nothings gone to change my love for you (do you remember that one! The guy in the Hawaiian shirt).

The one that I love above all others though – the extra special love gush mush song has got to be Charlene I’ve never been to me. The lyrics cheer me up no end. Childcare frustrations can include and in no particular order: sleepless nights, being holed up in a house with lots of bored children on a rainy day in October, never having a clean pair of corduroys, vomiting children, feverish children, having to find babysitters, not finding babysitters, sitting in on a warm Friday evening when a terrace looks inviting, being woken up at 6 am on a Saturday morning having had a chance to stay out until late, not having time to paint bedrooms, not having time to write….

But hey – who cares. Parenthood has its frustrations but if you think that’s bad you wait ‘till you hear what Charlene has to say about being free. At the end of her song you’ll be embracing children and shuddering at the thought of being in any other state. Charlene, you see,sings - and she repeats it several times so it must be true: “I’ve been to Paradise but I’ve never been to me”.

Charlene, for those of you not familiar with her, has been to Georgia and California. In fact she’s been any where she could roam. She’s taken the hand of a preacher man and made love in the sun. She’s been to Nice and the Isle of Greece (?). She’s sipped champagne on yachts, been undressed by Kings … and seen some things that a woman ain’t supposed to see. Yep – the lady’s been around and had her fair share of fun with all kinds of dubious men and in all sorts of glamorous settings. But that ain’t enough – oh no. Having fun in the sun and a sophisticated glorious set up is just not enough because as she goes on to say, in what has got to be the corniest voice possible:

Truth is the little baby you’re holding in your arms
It’s the man you fought with this morning
Its the man you’re going to make love to tonight
That’s what truth is.

Oh yes. I love Charlene for telling me this. Right on. Go girl. Its just what I want to hear. Who wants to sip champagne on yachts with Kings of ill repute. So, I may have to stay in all day with bored kids on a rainy day in October, rouse myself out of the comfort of a warm bed to feed the baby – but hey this is Paradise. Unlike Charlene I’m not bitter from the sweet. Go out and get the song – its really great. Really it is.

First Position Caramel

2006-09-18T05:49:00.000-07:00

What a difference nice weather makes. Living in the middle means that we, all too often, have a layer of cloud separating us from the blue sky and sun. As someone once aptly put it cloudy weather, especially in the winter, can make one feel like living in a Tupperware box. On such days I find myself trying to lift an imaginary lid just to get out of the gloom. Last week the lid was off and sunshine poured in making us all feel very cheerful indeed. Even the children were in a good mood, which made walking home from school feel like a doddle. No major rows; no niggeldy arguments; no moaning or groaning. The warm weather and gentle breeze made us all, well, tolerant. Easy going. Hey, I’m such a successful mother – my children get on really well.

It is also September, which not only marks the beginning of the school year. It’s the beginning of dragging children around to various organised activities at inconvenient hours. In our case this means: swimming on Monday; ballet for L on Saturday and Karate on Wed and Sat for J and K. Funny this one. In the same way that G and I swore we would never have a crippling mortgage, we also swore we would not get sucked into thousands of extra curricula activities.

In between this schedule we have birthday parties to organise and birthday parties to bring children to; we have to source birthday presents and to answer invitations; we get nagged into sleep-over’s and having friends to come and play and we get roped into driving the children half way around the middle – and R, being one and a half, hasn’t even made his requests heard yet.

The fact that I refuse to drive a car does not help. It shames me that at my age I have not mastered what millions have – to get behind a steering wheel and drive with confidence. It mortifies me that when J. was a tender two year old he commented “I understand it now Mummy. When you grow up into a man you will learn how to drive”. I am so sorry to have let the sisterhood down – but I just hate driving a car. It’s a terrible handicap but one that G. and the family are reluctantly learning to live with. So, on days when G. is away we have to rope in a social network of friends. Saturday was one such day. G. was away in Brussels the whole day and we had the following plan:

L: Ballet 9:00 to 10:00: Kaatje’s Mummy to pick her up and to bring her home.

K.M, J: Karate registration: 10:00 – 11:00. I to bring them by foot to Sport Palace.

J, K.M, and R lunch: 12:00

L: 13:00 to be dropped off by Kaatje’s Mummy

J.: Birthday party: 13:45 – to be picked up by Louis’ Mum.

K.M and L: Marie and Louise to come and Play. Karlien to drop them off and pick them up.

17:30: G. to pick up J. and Ivan from birthday party and drive them back home.

But hey, the weather was sunny and everyone in a splendid mood. L. announced after she woke up:

“Ohh its so much fun Mummy”

“What is?” I asked

“I’m doing ballet today”.

She did look cute in her outfit and skipped off so happily with Kaatje half an hour later dressed like a little white fairy.

Up at the Sport Palace they were having an open day. There were bouncy castles and mock rock walls to climb – which J. managed right to the top and down again in five minutes flat. (He won’t be doing it again he decided). K.M went half way up and then announced she would not budge one plastic rock further. So she came down again. R. ran in between and struggled like a mad-man in straps when being pushed back into the buggy.

We got J and K.M registered for Karate. K.M. only joined in once she saw Noella confidently punching her arms in the air. We got back in time for lunch and back in time for Louis’ Mum to pick up J for J2’s birthday party. We got back in time for Karlien to drop off Marie and Louise and we got back in time for L. to be dropped off by Kaatje’s Mummy, who stayed for a cup of tea and a chat.

“How was ballet?” I asked Kaatje as she ran passed me and towards the kitchen door. She stopped. Turned to look at me and said earnestly:

“First position: Caramel”

And then she hopped off inside to look for L. who was getting more toys to distribute across the garden.

Gappy teeth and carassius auratus

2006-09-13T06:59:00.000-07:00

It all started innocently enough one sunny afternoon two weeks ago. But it was doomed to end in failure. Stefanie, our friendly student tenant, appeared at the kitchen door, as we were hanging out in the garden in late August. Well, G, K.M, L, R and I were hanging out in the garden on a sunny evening in late August. J was probably upstairs watching Star Wars for the millionth time.
“I have a little favour to ask of K.M and L” Stefanie asked. “We’ve booked a week’s holiday in Turkey and are leaving on Sunday. Could K.M and L feed the fish for us?” K.M and L are all bright eyed and excited. Unlike “tidy your toys up” this order sounds like fun.
“Can we come upstairs and have a look? How many fish to do you have? Can I feed them? No I?”
“Its very simple, oops can you reach K.M?, good, errr, yes all you need to do is feed them once a week, say on a Wednesday and that’s it.”
Stefanie shows us where she keeps her pot of food and informs us that her two fish are called George and Paul. There were four, but apparently Ringo and John passed away sometime ago. Now only two of the fab four survive. Looks easy enough. No worries Stefanie you go off and have a great holiday. We’ll feed George and Paul for you on Wednesday.
“K.M remind me won’t you.” I ask her the following day. “We really must not forget”.
Forget. Forget. I wish. Fish are very much on K.M’s mind.
“Mummy I know what I want for my birthday” K.M lisps the following morning in bed. “Fith – real ones just like Stefanie”. She has lost both of her front teeth. Her seventh birthday is coming up.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea K.M. Where will we put them, in any case L will probably knock them over and R could drink the water. Real fish are for tenants not for us sweet heart. In any case whose going to clean the aquarium? Hmmm? Not you.”
K.M’s form of persistence is canny. She leaves little pictures of fish swimming in water around the house, under my pillow, on the fridge, in my shoe and talks endlessly about….well fish. Not, by the way the broken sardines, but the living things that, as far as I’m concerned, require too much attention. Ceramic fish can’t survive in this house – how on earth will the poor, real buggers fare in this family?
G, is more of a soft-touch and gives her hope.
“O.K we’ll look into it K.M I promise”
As far as she is concerned this is a water-tight affirmative.
“But, its expensive G.” I try the monetary tactic. “By the time we’ve bought all the stuff we’ll be EUR 50 down at least – far more than we normally spend on the kids for birthday presents.”
“Uncle R can chip in and Oma and Opa.”
On Wednesday, K.M, L and I go up to feed Paul and George. Stefanie has suck a note on the tank. “K.M and L. – thanks for looking after my fish while I’m away, Love Stefanie” The fish, in the meantime are swimming in muggy pea soup water. Two haunted shadows swim ….in …and ….out of our vision. Their environment must be the equivalent of fish hell. Climate change gone mad in a fish tank.
“Mummy, should fish be swimming in green water?” K.M asks as she feeds the fish.
“Not really”
“All we were asked to do was feed the fish not clean out tanks.” G. tells me when I bring it up with him.
“But, shouldn’t we just take the fish out and put them in another pot with clean water until Stefanie gets back?”
“No, no, no. We were just asked to feed the fish nothing more nothing less. Don’t do it K.”

“Guess what K.M” I tell her on her birthday after picking her and the others up from school. “Mummy and Daddy have a surprise for you”.
“Fith” she says breathlessly “You got me my fith”.
“I’m not saying – you’ll have to wait and see until we get home”.
“Tell me Mummery, tell me” J. insists. “I won’t tell K.M I promise”
“Nope it’s a surprise. Wait and see”.
J, K.M and L try finding names. It’s a surprise but they’ve all guessed.
“Marie had a fish called Meeeeeeouw Meeouw. That’s what I want to call my fish”.
“That’s a stupid name K.M” J says. I agree but try and put it more tactfully.
“How about Pacific, Atlantic and Indian” I think they’re very clever names but there’s not a roar of enthusiasm from the children.
They all shout out names.
L. suggests “handbag” I like it, I like it – but K.M doesn’t.
J. wants “Swimming fish”. K.M. agrees on condition that its called “Swimmy”. J. wants “Swimming fish”. K.M wants “Swimmy”…. swimming fish…swimmy….swimming fish…swimmy.
K.M. sees some students playing music in the park and comes up with “guitar”. We all like that one.
“I had a gold fish once K.M, when I was four, just before Aunty R was born, and I called it “Goldie”.” K.M. likes this too.
“Tell me the surprise” J asks for the fifteenth time.
“No – it’s a surprise. Wait and see.”
The mood turns sour as J. keeps insisting.
“Alright I’ll whisper it in your ear J. as long as you don’t tell K.M.”
“I won’t”.
“O.K. we got her two gold fish and one black fish”.
J. is jealous.
“They got you two gold fish and one black fish” he calls out.
I’m furious. He looses all rights to pocket money for the rest of September (which they had all already lost anyway re: previous fish incident). How else can I impose punitive sanctions on the kids? What other measures can I resort to?
J. has spoilt the fun. He’s out of order and he knows it. He even apologises under his breath.
K.M. and L are still excited and head straight up to her bedroom to check out Guitar, Goldie and Swimmy (or Swimming Fish depending on who you talk to). The two carassius auratus are accompanied by one Black Moor and swim around in clean water with red and white pebbles on the bottom. L. immediately sets to work. She grabs a chair and stands on tip toe to peek inside. She starts banging on the tank in order to get their attention (don’t do that L. they’ll get scared), she try’s to fish them out (L. if I see you one more time with that net…), and begins to plop her toys inside (L. will you please come away from the fish tank. Do you want to kill them….)

“Sad news G” informs me on Sunday evening as we come back from a week-end by the sea.
“K.M has been to check on Paul and George. They are both dead.”
“I knew we should have changed the water. Why didn’t you let me.”
K.M., who takes her fish responsibilities seriously, looks stricken and explains
“Mummy, I went upstairs to check on them and the water smelt and its so dirty I couldn’t see anything and then I saw George covered in white slime and floating on the surface with his eyes wide open just staring like this…..” She cocks her head side-ways, opens her eyes and mouth wide and stares up a the ceiling in a remarkably good likeness of what a dead fish , which has slowly been suffocated and poisoned to death in putrefying water, must look like.
“Shit we’ve killed the fish.” I think. “What is Stefanie going to say”
“I’ll fish them out” G says, who has already had to clean Guitar, Goldie and Swimmy’s tank after K.M poured all of her sandy shells, collected on the beach, into the tank. “But, I’m not cleaning their tank out. They can do it.”
Its already 8 and the kids are in their pj’s ready for bed.
Paul and George are flushed down the loo – there is no time for a decent burial.
Later that evening G and I notice that our aquarium, having just been cleaned, has gone all cloudy and dirty again. What has happened? Next to the tank stands Stefanie’s pot of fish food (borrowed since we forgot to buy some). The lid is open and its completely empty. Two years worth of food has been put into the tank by L. …."I was just trying to feed them Mummy”. Great not only have we killed Stefanie’s fish, we’ve emptied her feed and are in the process of killing K.M. birthday present as well.
G, who is less than amused, gets to work and cleans the tank out for the second time in two hours. K.M. howls convinced that her fish are going to die. J. shouts. “Your fish are going to explode”. L. stares at me as I tell her off and bites on her sandwich faster than is normal. R. crawls in between and starts to pick up grains of fish food and examines them before they are grabbed out of his hands, by me. We notice that the pot of fish food states “Feed daily”. .. “…but I’m sure she said just once a week…didn’t she G?”

So, to tally up. We have two dead fish, a stinking fish tank in the attic, one empty pot of feed and three over-fed (they survived) fish. Water in Goldie’s, Guitar’s and Swimmy’s fish tank is still looking dodgy and cloudy in spite of recently acquired filter. Poor Goldie, Guitar and Swimmy….welcome to the VC-G’s.

Justice and Home Affairs: Fishy tails

2006-09-05T00:48:00.000-07:00

We have a new address. In future could you please forward all correspondence to:

K and G VC-G
The Home Office
Department for Policing; Prosecuting; Defending; Judging; and Enforcement of infantile behaviour Leuven etc. etc.
Telephone and email address stay the same.

And boy oh boy is there a lot of outlandish infantile behaviour going on in this house. Not surprising I know. I know we have four children all under the age of eight but jeez does their squabbling, refusal to acknowledge a question, fighting for resources (we can't even say "scarce resources" since the house is groaning under the weight of their toys) and general bolshiness, drive us crazy. Believe you me there's a lot of policing going on in this house:

"OK own up who broke the fish? J. I saw you playing with them yesterday and I expressly told you it was not allowed."

G and I are very fond of those sardines. Not live ones. Not tinned ones even but some rather tasteful ceramic ones that I bought for G as a present in France. They look great on the sideboard in the dinning room where they lie on a wicker plate as though left there by some Portuguese fisherman off the Algarve. They have been pushed back as far out of reach of sticky hands as possible. Lips all wobbly, eyes indignant

"It wasn't me Mummy honestly. It wasn't"
"Well, did you see anyone playing with them?"
"No, honestly."
"If none of you can own up to it then none of you will get your pocket money for the next three weeks".
L howls: "It was J. Mummy it was J. I saw him playing with the fish and then he dropped it and then the tail fail off and then the fin. Can I please get my pocket money this week. Sob, sob."

She hasn't been getting any pocket money - on the grounds that she is still too young. So far this lack of personal spending power has gone unnoticed by L. But in the context of a broken fish it seems to concern her greatly. She must be right about J though. She's not making the story up. It was the tail and fin that broke off and only the tail and fin - so she must have seen it happen. I applaud myself on my policing skills and look all disappointed at J.

The following day they get a long lecture about how it is sooo much better to own up to a misdeed rather than trying to blatantly lie about it. I tell them the story about when I stuck chewing gum under a plate in my first week at boarding school (age 10) and how it broke the school's dishwasher for a whole week. I owned up and was rewarded with a long talk about how honest I was and how commendable it was of me to own up to my mistake. This incident has stuck. Thought it was a nice little tale for my children, who gratifyingly, were quite impressed and I had to repeat the story at least three times.

On the matter of judgment. Take this as a typical example.

"Mummy, Mummy J/K/L hit, took my cereal box toy, pushed, threatened, karate kicked, teased, yelled, shouted kaka, stole from..... me."

"Yes, but J/K/L hit, took my cereal box toy, pushed, threatened, karate kicked, teased, yelled, shouted kaka, stole from....me first."

Needless to say as Chief Police of policing, judge, juror and enforcer of family discipline, I have been busy neglecting my duties and doing something vitally important but mundane such as - clearing away the breakfast dishes before our resident mouse gets at the crumbs and before I tread in spilt sticky porrige.

"Is this true J/K/L I ask." not knowing who is to blame. Indeed, if anyone is really too blame. Or, do I really care.
"Yes"
"NOOO"
"Can't you all behave a little nicer to each other please"
I beg knowing that this cuts little ice with them.
"Play nicely together children."

Fat chance as long as one of them is clinging onto that trashy plasticy toy thing that came for free in the cereal box this morning. J is very muscular and the strongest. K is sneaky and teases insidiously and silently. L, although only four, has a remarkably good poker face. She's no ones push over. I look at their faces - six eyes stare at me expressing total innocence of any wrong doing. They look expectantly and await judgement.

"Alright J, let K have a look at the toy."
"That's NOT FAIR!!! Its my turn to have the toy. You said, you said..."
K looks triumphant, snatches the toy out of J's hand and runs off. Jakob chases her yelling full volume.
"Give it back its not fair".

He catches up with her pretty quickly, trips her up over the corridor floor and grabs it out of her hands. She yells. I wish I had more authority and get tired of this endless behaviour. Wish I could just open the front door, slam it shut and leave the cacophony behind. Wouldn't it be wonderful to just walk away from all this and let them sort it out themselves. They are so well, childish. Can't they grow up and get over these petty squabbles.

"Life isn't fair J/K/L" I keep telling them.
"Do you know what unfair is. Its unfair that children your age sleep alone on the streets of Kinshasa without anyone to look over them. That some people go hungry in this world and don't worry whether there is a freebie in the cereal box - just whether there is cereal in the house to make food with. For those people life probably is "unfair". But you - you guys have everything and more. How can life be unfair on you. Any why are you always so angry and aggressive with each other? Do you hear Mummy and Daddy talking like that to one another? Do Mummy and Daddy fight every morning for the last drop of milk. We share everything we have. And we are happy - so why can't you be. Just walk away from K if she teases you. K you keep out of J's way. L leave R to play with those cars and stop pinching him I can see you doing it..."

But, this is all adult speak and it washes over them. Perhaps when they are older some of these conversations will come back as a reminder.

By the way it was L who broke the fish. She later owned up to it. But, whether this was because
of my story about getting full credit for owning up to wrong-doing or because she was under duress to say so from her older siblings and was forced to confess or because she did it - I simply do not know. I never thought that parenting would involve so much police/judicial work, for which I am totally under-financed, over-worked and overwhelmed.