Ohh yesterday, when it was still warm and we were still wearing summer-esque clothes, before the chill of today came to break my very soul, we went to the communal garden for a nice little pre-dinner runaround. The boys went to play on the pebble mound, festooned with samurai swords and sticks, and were only whacking each other a tiny bit. Barely enough for me to notice, in fact (ahem). There was a little bit of pebble-mound throwing, and general high-pitched squeals from Custard, and quite a lot of nose discharge from all three. A completely normal afternoon. Then I noticed, from far across the green grassy mounds and through the oak trees and around the rose bushes, a young, equine-nosed, slightly haughty, rather glamorous mother had poked her head up from Cath Kidston picnic rug (zzz) and was narrowing her eyes on my boys. The Italian Mama has a HENCHMAN!
We unfortunately have met before, on a similarly warm and initially pleasant afternoon. My fellas had their usual accessories and were playing in and around her (giant, heavy-set, physically capable, thank you very much) 6 year old. They ran in and out of the bushes and were kind-of happy. I was sitting on a rug in the middle of the garden, kind-of paying attention. Then Henchman came over with very stern look on her Italian face, and she promptly told me off for not paying enough attention to my boys. Apparently they were annoying her son with their sticks. Her son = 6 and HUGE. My boys = 4, 2 and small. So whatever. She had clearly decided we were Nasty Types. COW. It turns out that she and Italian Mama are great mates and have been annoying many other (normal) residents of the square for quite some time.
(At this juncture, best to point out that I do not take criticism very well. Can be sensitive about my mothering style. OBVIOUSLY.)
On a less moany note, the boys went off to Costa’s Barbers for marvellously cheap but wonky 50’s haircuts his week. They went along happily because George and his Cypriot sons/nephews/sons-in-laws are famous for the refrigerated Twix bars given out in compensation to newly shorn kids. Noah was passively aggressive, showing his inner rage by opening his mouth and drooling on George/son/nephew/in-law’s hair-cape, and maintaining a surly look throughout the entire process. See below for proof:
Barnaby was uncharacteristically well-behaved, and completely unlike the feral cat I expected him to be. Growing up? or simply shameless when promised chocolate?
It was all quite cute, until Custard began his customary screeching. Then we had to go.
While in France, I found a few Signs I Covet For My Wall. There seems to be quite a bit of hair-talk in me tonight, so here they are:
How stylish is THAT?