So, I went shopping again, and I bought me an alpaca jumper with the silhouette of a skull on it from Zadig + Voltaire, in a desperate attempt to shout to the world that I am a-pirate-mother-still-young-dontcha-know! kind of way. And it is so HOT I am feeling carsick, but carsick in my STATIONARY LIVING ROOM. Who knew alpaca/French designers could be so devious.
Witness me, my new alpaca, an unfortunate shadow cast by a pesky oversized camera lens:
I have been in the pursuit of French things, because I suspect that wearing French things might make me a little bit French, and possibly thin, by some sort of not-quite-scientific osmosis. However, I have discovered that the clothes are cut for small, bird-like women with small bones and narrow shoulders and the ability to wear tiny trousers without their thighs filling out the fabric. As much as I desire Sandro and Maje things in my wardrobe, they just wont fit. I am, as I have said before, a dairy-fed once-blonde enormous-footed heifer from New Zealand. I blame the cheese. And so, that big, hot, woolly jumper was the only thing that fitted my upper arms.
Apropos of nothing, here is a forlorn Custard in a sequinned fabric flower hairclip:
Anyway, onto some of my Current Internal Monologue Topics:
1. It is feeling like time for a new baby.
At this time, 10-ish or so months after I have a baby, I go and get another one on the boil. Except, this time, the father of my existing four children says no. Because, he says, we have no room, and the current children are too loud, and too badly behaved. And we would need a bigger car, as the 7-seater we currently have would be no good for the luggage of seven people. And, like, what about going on holiday? How could we take five small mewling wrestling offspring anywhere? etc, etc, on and on to boring (pragmatic) infinity.
So, I have started an internet search on new places to live. Somewhere with more rooms, so we could simply banish the children away. The screams, yelping and suspicious thumping sounds could stay contained within some far off, sound-proofed room. We could be calm and happy on weekends, there would be hardly any facial scratches to witness, much less yelling, more harmony, greater general goodness all round. We would have a garden, and push them out there year round, and they could throw basketballs out there, rather than at the plasma tv screen (again). It would be awesome, even if it is likely to be in the violent and non-stylish parts of Acton which cause me to hyperventilate every time I walk out the door. I will obviously just have to drove to posh neighbourhoods for poilane bread and sightings of Jason Donovan.
In the meantime, I must satisfy my aching empty womb with diversions. Like tuxedo-jacket buying, Angry Birds excellence, and perhaps some sort of dieting. It is going to be a long, sad winter.
2.We celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary with a sulking fight about the Bad Kids. It was silently vicious, and was related to Christmas break cabin fever and Too Much Time To Dwell On Marital Irritations. It was a waste of the babysitter, and we ran out of time to eat at anywhere, and ended up at ASK, for mournful pizza, then a dose of Johnny and Angelina in The Tourist. And I sat on someone else’s chewing gum, causing me to shift one seat away from my husband, but because we weren’t speaking, I could not say why I was moving, and so it looked as though, mid-movie, my crabby sulking reached such a pitch that I had to physically be as FAR AWAY from him as was possible at the end of the row. Regretable, regretable.
3. New Year’s resolutions. I have none, because it all leads to tears and it is very boring. If I had them, they would be related to buying more clothes and going out more. But apparently, Barnaby does have some, or at least, the school curriculum asks that he does. See below what my eldest child needs to work on:
I particularly endorse his affirmation not to be a “boole”. Because he totally is. As am I.
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year back!
All mine are booles too. It’s the way forward.
Our current children are also too loud and sometimes naughty, but I can recommend the 3 level dwelling – the baby can cry in his room upstairs and you can almost not hear, and when the bey blades and hooliganism is too much you can say: Go! Play in the basement until I say you can come back up! Works like a charm. I went upstairs this afternoon and had a bath with shut doors and could barely hear any hullabaloo.
I would actually die if we had any less space than we do, don’t know how you do it where you are but I can see the attractions of the locality, the secret garden and the London-ness of it all. Warning though – get a bigger house and the husband might make a man cave somewhere and not come out!
I do love reading your blog. Are family sizes like flower arranging where odd numbers just look better? Your husband must like children underneath it all otherwise you wouldn’t have four already, and it’s but a small step from four to five. I expect he’ll he come round to your way of thinking.
You can always get a roof box – or would that be the end?
Happy New Year, I hate this weather, it’s driving me crazy, I’m eating too much sugar. Oh for Spring and parks and Selfridges again. Are you really thinking of moving, good luck with that. Thanks for the tip off on the Halston dress. Love your jumper.
I love the resolutions! and I understand the phonic writing style so applaud his goals. Maybe he can persuade his siblings to have similar noble aims of not hurting friends and to be good 🙂