Ok, ok, the Beautiful Brazilian has got to GO! It is not just the fact that I am jealous of her youth and pertness and bitter that my own “I-feel-18-and-so-can-still-wear-hair-in-messy-art-studenty-way” schtick has become WRONG, but she really is a bit crap at looking after my children and being on time and fond of cancelling on me last minute, etc etc. So now I have to take all three of my born children to the Antenatal clinic tomorrow while they horrify the as-yet-innocent other parents-to-be.
But I wasn’t actually going to say that. I was going to have a nice recounting of our weekend in the lovely sun. But things in the flat are a bit silent, tense and angry, unfortunately. Mostly to do with the fact that I left out front door open the other night, all night, and we have been away all day today only to find the enormous front window open. It is as if I have been BEGGING the thieves to come and steal the plastic toys, laptop and Vogue magazines cluttering our lounge. This kind of IRRESPONSIBLE behaviour has left Mr Mark “I am safety conscious to quite an irritating degree” Harridan not best pleased. And there was the sun-burnt baby thing, as well, which can only really be linked to me. So I am sulking. Ho hum.
Anyway, before I sink even lower into self-pity, I shall relate what we did with ourselves this fine weekend. This is the kind of malarkey a family of 5 and a quarter can get up to (provided the requisite funds are there, and they have some reserves of energy).
Friday. Date with (my then) lovely husband. The babysitter came at 7:30, we took off to GBK for a bit of NZ-burger-deliciousness, some shared chips, fresh lemonade (Mac’s Gold for him), a read of the NZ magazines and Vanity Fair. Then off to Whiteleys to see the truly awful, insulting and regrettable “The Ugly Truth”. Mark loves a rom com, for which I am eternally grateful, but this one was SHAMEFUL.
Saturday. An argument about how long it takes to exit the flat. This is repeated, verbatim, every Saturday morning of my life. We could just record ourselves having it, then play it on a loudspeaker while Mark and I go and sneak into the garden for half an hour with the newspapers. The kids wouldn’t notice the difference.
Then, we both went off in separate directions to different tube stations, finally found each other, huffed and puffed, then got to the Borough Market. This place, while being full of people to the point of DANGER, is so lovely. And we love food, so we suddenly became very chipper. First stop was the raclette stall to grab a paper plateful of melted cheese, pickles,potatoes and pepper. Then Barnaby and Noah insisted on chocolate muffins “with lines on” -(white chocolate icing, to the uninitiated), then off to the hot roast pork stall. A loaf of bread, jams and chutneys, banoffee pie, a slab of chocolate mousse, kabonossi, fresh apple and strawberry juices, sausage rolls, oak-smoked tomatoes, and about £3000 later, we heaved ourselves home.
In the afternoon, we stumbled across a summer fete in Hallfield Estate. There were rides for 30p. We sunk another £20. Then to Cha Cha Moon to feed us all (noodles and chicken for the kids, Marco Polo noodle soup for us). Extravagant, but the mains are £5.50, you know.
“Grey’s Anatomy” and “Flight of the Conchords” on the couch.
Sunday. An argument about how long it takes to leave the flat. (See above). A last minute car journey to Southend-on-Sea. I was convinced it would be an Arse-End, filled with teenagers in my condition, smoking fags and eating chips. Grandmas with tattoos. Small boys with buzz cuts, who swear, and 6 year olds in earrings and maribou-fringed pink mules.
But! Hold that uncharitable thought! It was quite lovely, and charming, and I take all that meanness back. It could have been Nantucket. In miniature, with maybe less Americans.
I did forget sunscreen, the baby did get burnt, and I did squeeze Noah’s upper arms a bit when he wouldn’t walk back to the car from the ice cream parlour. But other than that, it was a Good Day. Home at 6, baked beans on toast, bath, bed, a bit of Farmville, and Bob’s your uncle.