The Harridan

[OUCH MY TOOTH]

I had my third root canal filling yesterday, and it was so much ouchier than I remembered being the first two times. And this one cost me £500, and this one is giving me a big fat old lady headache and causing me to eat nurofen like a foodstuff. The lovely dentist told me yesterday not to eat for two hours after the injection and the drilling, because “your mouth will be very numb and you will eat your own inner lip” but it was lunchtime and I was needing a distraction and so I ate a sandwich and I did eat some of my inner lip, just as the sage dentist had warned. It was very wonkily swollen from my own little ratty teeth-marks, and a friend thought I had had lip plumping. Ha! No. Not collagen, dude, but blood and bitten tissue and PAIN. I was smiling like half a Milanese dowager. Anyway, AS IF I would be so vain as to get collagen! Ha! Ha. Ahem. Not this month, anyway, because all of my spare cash has gone into paying for my root canal. Well, Mark’s spare cash, because I am both

1. unemployed, and

2. have no money of my own.

None. Except for my ebay money, which had risen to the hefty paypal balance of £400.00, until I blew it on a YSL belt that is too tight, a Marni woolly jumper, a YSL red blazer which smells of wet, slightly rancid NUDE skincare products, a Karen Walker necklace, and maybe, if I win the auction, an Erdem summer mac. Handy for the torrential rain we are having, and which is turning my hair all curly-like.

[OUCH MY TOOTH]

Anyway, my lovely husband updated his Facebook profile. He logs in twice a year, fiddles with it a bit, adds a photo or two, stalks people, then walks away. This time, he added this photo:

Long-lost friends may just check out Mark’s profile, to see how he did in the life/wife-stakes. This is the only photo of me that he has on his profile.

Yes! Yes, that is my wife. Yes, she does have WORKING EYES. No, she often USES them. It was just SUNNY that day. And I forced her to peer into the sun.  

So that was quite awesome. Want some more unedited-previously-unpublished-for-very- obvious-reasons shots? Why not. Here’s a bit of wonky-face, roundy-pregnant face, double-chinned profile, enormous arms, big dumb glasses, sleepy eyes, dim-witted eyes.

And on and on to an unpleasant infinitum. Never let it be said that I am either photogenic or vain.

And here is a photograph of Ned The Newly Vicious, whose hair I brushed, and then I saw that he is like a spooky small Andy Warhol.

I tried to photograph him with a Campbell’s soup can in his fat little violent fists, but we had none. Only Heinz Baked Beans, which was taking a bit of a liberty, I thought.

More Thoughts That Don’t Fit Very Well Into The Body Of The Text:

1. Kate Moss looked a bit ordinary in her wedding dress

2. “Wayne” is a dreadful name to call a baby

3. I have changed my mind about changing my mind about a fifth baby. I do want one. But you knew that.

4. The kids keep taking small bites out of the nectarines then putting them back into the fruitbowl. Illicit fruit-sampling, if you will. It is bringing the fruit flies around, and it makes me very cranky.

5. Seen “Bridesmaids” yet? I am that harrassed woman with the three boys and the blanket. Except I have more sons than her, and I am mostly not a lesbian. Mostly.

And there you have it. It is clearly time for me to much some more ibuprofen washed down with a V&T. Who needs consciousness, anyway? Til next time.

[OUCH MY TOOTH]

Oh, it has been too long! But I am back, newly-shorn and tinted, and I have much to tell.

1. I have changed my mind about having any more children. There is no real point in me listing the reasons, because everyone in the whole wide world has already come to that conclusion, well-ahead of me. On Saturday, in a fit of post-face-painting fatigue, I reasoned that being pregnant and then having another small boy to carry around/wreck my stuff/make me yell would be a bit awful, and, in any case, I simply CANNOT FIT ANY MORE SCHOOL PARAPHERNALIA ONTO THE PUSHCHAIR. It is perilously close to capacity as it is. When I turn left, bags and drink bottles and handbags and muesli bar packets topple to the ground, I pick them up, I turn right, they topple into a pissy black puddle, the boys cry, I yell, taxis beep, the police slow down to a crawl and eyeball me sinisterly. I may have turned a mothering-corner. Of course, my period is late. Ha ha hahahahaha! Ha. Ahem. Will keep you posted.

2. I am in a Summer Wardrobe Sartorial CRISIS. Everything I wear makes me look 48. My exposed upper arms have become lumpen, and not just when lit from above. My printed Marni skirts look like traditional Alpine dress, and my vintage frocks have lost their irony. Wearing belts to emphasise my waist just makes me feel tired and I scramble to take them off.  And I only have Birkenstocks or Converse to wear, because my feet are too wide for brogues, as per The Youth, while wedge sandals on the school run look a little bit like I am pretending to have a job to go to. I am struggling to find the elegance and appropriateness in 30 degree heat.

3. I have made peace with the fact that my youthful aspirations to become a TV presenter have come to nought. I have been waiting to be spotted by someone for years. I was that woman lingering by random TV crews reporting on high street closures/tube strikes/TB vaccinations who wandered back and forth, sighing loudly and looking directly into the camera. I auditioned for things and was a very, very successful extra in Shortland Street, dressed in men’s running shorts pretending to be exercising. But no one ever took the bait. Best I let that one go, along with the mastering of a foreign language and basic maths.

4. Face-painting. On Saturday, it was the Summer Fair, and I was the Chief Face-Painter. It started at 11:30am when I painted Noah into quite a good tiger, blended nicely and convincingly with decisive black stripes. Then it became an unholy blur of demanding 4 year olds, and their mothers hovering, watching, getting a bit cranky when the lines went wobbly or when the glitter fell onto their coats, until 4pm sharp. Four and a half hours of unrelenting creative output, with only a burger and one pasteis de nata to keep me going, thrown at me by a friendly bystander who could see that I was weakening. But the kids were merciless, the line was never less than 10 deep, and they ALL HAD SIBLINGS.

“I want to be Spiderman!”

“A pink kitty!”

“A butterfly!”

“Pirate!”

“Flowers!”

Then came the cool girls, dressed in Disney polyester princess frocks, who, always one step ahead of the rest, stylishly changed tack.

“I would like a swimming dolphin on one cheek, and an orange unicorn on the other, please.”

“And I’ll have what she’s having.”

All fourteen of them. Do you KNOW how much it crushes your tailbone to paint tiny bloody unicorns on short people’s faces for HOURS and HOURS? How you want to lie down to correct the misshapen curvature of your twisted body, but the screaming children and their stern parents won’t let you? Getting up for the one wee-break saw me hobble in an very ungainly manner to the children’s loos, knees unyielding, back aching, hobble hobble hobble, getouttamywaysmallcharmlesskidsIneedtheloo, cranky and sad.

And I have never touched as many little faces in one go in my whole life. They were variously fidgety, snotty, tickly, impassive, bored, droolly, impatient, beautiful, awkward, smooth, Black, Arab, Asian, Antipodean, European, English, West Indian, fluffy-haired, bald, scratched, smooth, and dirty. I started off being chatty, asking their names, but I got bored of that quite quickly, and just held their chins and told them to look into my eyes.

LOOK INTO MY EYES IF YOU WANT TO LOOK LIKE A TIGER, SMALL FELLA. MY EYES ARE OVER HERE! OVER HERE! [Manhandles chubby little face into correct painting position]. I swear they averted my eyes because some small unconscious part of them knew that if they looked at me, really closely, they would be peering into DECAY. Older person’s decay. Broken capiliaries, wrinkling, eye bags, dried up nose skin, open pores, veiny eyeballs, wandering browhairs, patches of psoriasis. They knew they were glimpsing DEATH, and wanted no part of it. Like when you go to the optometrist and they hover closely over your face and you just LOOK AWAY for fear of seeing frightening inner-nostrils or missed bits of facial hair they forgot to shave. It’s a metaphor, man, a metaphor, and the kids just got it. Either that, or they were all simply ADHD.

And there was only one good sponge, and two pointy brushes, without which you can’t do the unicorn horn very convincingly. And the other ladies kept stealing my pointy brush, but I couldn’t really say much, because it was all for charity.

I was a total wreck afterwards. I got the shivers and had to go to bed at 9pm. It was FIERCE, and we raised £116 and one American dime.

Today I got rained on, and got blanked by a friend’s husband and my new Stella McCartney jacket was run over by my pushchair. Luckily, there is a pie in the oven, which may fix me. And I just busted the children still awake, with all of the lights on, at 8:15pm, making some sort of trap involving yoyos, rope and mesh tunnels. I got cranky and yanked the tunnel off the top bunk and the yoyo string broke and pinged me in the forehead which TOTALLY ruined my righteous anger. And there will be NO WINE to soften the wrongness of today (see below). It shall have to be extra pie, instead.

Anyway, to thoughts of Christmas. This year we are flying home to New Zealand to see family and friends. Before you get all envious though, with your thoughts of Crowded House and The Piano and Rachel Hunter and flightless birds, THINK ON THIS ugly little nugget of economy-related travel-doom:

It will take 27 hours flying time and it will cost us £7374.00.

Yes. The kids will be punching each other before we even get to Heathrow. I will be weeping in a toilet cubicle at the airport, wailing and sobbing and wrapping myself up into a tiny tiny ball. There will be wee-incidents in the waiting lounge. We will be sweating, the children will be shrieking. Everyone will shudder when they see us board. The baby will want to walk up and down the aisles from London to Dubai, only to fall asleep when we land. We will then be hauling everyone off the plane, to walk through Dubai airport at the equivalent time of 3am, only to get back on again for nearly 20 hours.

CAN YOU IMAGINE THE HELL? CAN YOU? DO YOU SEE WHY WE DON’T EVER DO THIS?

Except, this Christmas, we are. Oh, I feel nauseous just writing this. And how many ways would I rather spend £7000? Aaaaaand then we will come home to freezing London and we will be fined for taking the kids out of school for three days unauthorised leave, and so we will have to fork over £300 to Westminster Council. AWESOME. The jetlag! The plane illnesses! The 27 hour return trip! OH OH OH!

And in other middle-class-woes, I drank too much wino at The Providores on Monday night (which, as normal people are well-aware, is a school night) and I said yes yes yes to the Dog Point sauvignon blanc and the pinot noir and the Sipsmith gin and it all turned so unbelievably ugly on Tuesday morning when the children ran in screaming at 6:15am. The room was spinning and I was sick, and I had to lie down on the couch. It was AWFUL and I am blacklisting wine for at least one more evening. I was hoping that this little wino-free-period would make me feel thin and my skin would be like a shining dewy baby and I would spring out of bed in the morning, virtuous and athletic, but I feel the same.

Moral of the story? Wine-holidays are for the weak. See you at the bar, baby.

Fearless Casper Attempts To Insult Big Kids

And before I go, Casper, he of the permy white bighair, who has been in a little bit of trouble at nursery for poking other kids and hitting his best mate Harry, was in the park today after school, taunting enormous teenagers. His insult was a spontaneous creation, linking the worst thing anyone ever says to him (“You’re a baby”) with an extra word to really make it clear. I caught him standing near them but at a safe enough distance to be able to run away, yelling at them earnestly and desperately while they failed to notice him at all, with this:

“You’re a baby…..SITTER! Hahahahahahahaha! A BABYSITTER! Yes, you ARE! HAHAHAHA!”

I led him away, ranting and gaffawing maniacally. It was a sweetly pathetic.

The clever, sexy and accomplished writer Betty Herbert (her ACTUAL, PUBLISHED book on shagging your (own) husband is coming out very soon, no less) tagged me to list 10 things I love. Ok then, says I, seeing as I have blogger’s block, although not like Anna Wulf in Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook, which I have just suffered through in the name of Book Club, because she was PROPERLY cracking up in the most tedious, well-documented way. No, I just have nothing to say, other than:

1. Casper has begun to shriek “I will tell the police what you are DOING TO ME!” when we are in public, when something doesn’t entirely go his way, and it causes people to look at us, all alarmed and suspicious-like, while I whisper very loudly that he should NOT talk about the police to other people, and anyway, I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING! Sweaty, ha ha! oh how kids say the funniest things! etc etc as I wheel the buggy out of the shop quick smart and run home to the safety of sound-proofed walls. Obnoxious and precocious, that little monkey is.

2. I gathered up all of my unworn clothes, ironed them, cleaned the bits of dried spillage with baby wipes, photographed them, posted them on eBay, did the maths and mentally bought myself a Chanel 2.55 with the hefty proceeds, watched and waited for NO BIDS. No one wants my clothes. My Marni dress. My YSL jacket. My DvF dresses. Is it becos I is UNSTYLISH? Clearly. Anyhoo, there will be no more of this sad eBay business. For real, this time.

3. I am driving to Derby tomorrow to meet a manufacturer. I really don’t think I can drive for that long. My eyes will close in driving-related sleepiness fo’ sho’.

4. I have been given the go-ahead to have another baby, provided it is a girl. So that is good news, although, technically, difficult to meet the requisite conditions. I will try, though, aided by my googled “How to Make Sure Your New Baby Is A Girl” articles, by people who are QUITE POSSIBLY medically trained.

10 Things I Love

1. I don’t really want to put these fellas here, because it is not very original, and a bit soft-in-the-head, but I love these the MOST MOST MOST:

Really inspired choice of husband. I didn’t really know it then, but it was the most genius decision to hitch my ride with him. And of course, the hideous-yet-excellent children. You know what they look like. Dirty, and violent. A reminder, anyway:

2. This:

My Mulberry Alexa. Because I am a filthy, soulless snob. I use it every day, and it makes me feel AWESOME. I am like that with all of my clothes, and I have been like this since I was 12 and I had a clothing epiphany. I realised that purple t-shirts and bike shorts were ugly, and the way forward was FABULOUSNESS every day, even if you are overrun by small children/poor/tired/pregnant. Which leads me to my next love:

3. Sample sales. Tonight, I am missing the Christopher Kane one. The one in which I would have found a perfectly fitting neon orange dress with a prim neckline and pleats. I would have been awesome. But I couldn’t go, so I just have to imagine the awesomeness. Last week, I did manage to get a babysitter and go to the Alexander McQueen and Erdem sample sales. I have new excellent expensive clothes (which no one will want to buy in a few years when I realise the folly of sample sale-ing and I try to hock them off on bloody eBay again).  But it was fun, OK?

4. My La Pavoni coffee machine. It is sleek and lovely and reliable (and leaky).

5. London. For the parks, the seasons, the streets, the noise, the cabs, the tube, the pubs, Selfridges, all the obvious.

6. Tom Ford everything. Shame about the merciless destruction of those excellent lipsticks.

7. A glass of sauvignon blanc of an evening. (Of every evening, actually).

8. My iPad. I love it unconditionally.

9. Benefit Benetint, for making me look younger. Botox also works for this.

10. A three-way tie between Kate Middleton, scrambled eggs and Glee.

And yours?

Hark! It is the school holidays again, and the house is filled to the most uncomfortable Victorian capacity not just with small boys, their assorted homemade-cardboard-box robots, their discarded night nappies, pyjama tops stuffed under couches, slowly hardening with dried cereal-matter, but also my new ebay ‘finds’. Ahem.

Witness the scene this morning, a morning in which we were all woken by Barnaby at an entirely unnecessary 6:09am.

My Living Room, London, May 2011

My new ebay 50’s wool crochet granny blanket, competing for attention in a living room destined to overload your sensory capabilities (and probably acrylic):

The baby carefully removing the BBC Planet Earth DVD’s out of their cases, then preparing to rub them shiny-face-first onto the rug:

The ebay embroidery sampler which was clearly not embroidered in 1888, judging by the so-new-they-are-practically-fluorescent colours of the thread:

Cereal box robot tv-watching companion:

The ebay ‘silver-plated’ butter dish which is less actual silver, and more silver-coloured:

And the french primary school desk which cost £41 to buy, and £65 for postage. Post-war industrial chic-tastic they may well be, but they fit no one with a bum bigger than an 8 year old boy:

So. There you have it. My ebay Shame. My Housing Issues. My DVD Dramas. I spared you the photos of the nappies, usually peeled off every morning in the manner of an ill-formed burlesque dancer, slowly un-velcroed on one side, then the other, as the heavy damp nappy-squib slides down the small boy-leg, only to be grasped delicately before it hits the floor between forefinger and thumb, then lifted high above the small boy-head, and twirled rapidly until the g-force sends it spinning into the fruit bowl/shoe basket/someone’s unsuspecting head. EVERY MORNING. Then they tend to lie upside down on the couch, legs in the air, pantless, and staring into middle distance despite frightening grunts coming from me, ordering them to GET YOUR UNIFORM ON NOW! More middle distance. More grunting. A bit of swearing. Middle distance staring, absent-minded humming, etc etc forever and ever until I go properly mental, yell, sweaty and spittle-y and I dress them MYSELF.

Best to imagine that, really.

Anyway, this week we were asked in to see the kid’s school books and get an informal bit of feedback from their teachers as to how they are doing. Barnaby’s books were filled with stickers and praise from his teacher for his ‘wow words’ and complicated drawings of Superhero Chicken-Man and Royal Wedding impressions and stories involving trolls and scary forests. I was so proud I felt a bit teary, and on the way home from school, buoyed up from sheer relief that he is normal, and delight that his strengths lie in art and words, I promised he could spend £20 in Argos “because you have done so well at school this term”. Argos, I hasten to add, is his choice of on-line provider. It is really only Amazon for me, but word on the school hallways is that Argos does the best toys. So, who am I to argue the wisdom of mercenary six year olds?

WHAT? I hear you say, after a sharp intake of breath. £20? 

Al I can say is, I know! I have NO IDEA where that came from. I can only blame it on the madness of the love’o’the’firstborn and the aforementioned relief. Outrageous. So, anyway, he ran straight to the iPad and ordered dragon eggs and a water pistol. Mark was a bit cross about my lavish arrangements.

Aaaaaaaand then we had Noah’s book-inspection, and the whole thing was quite a different matter. He got his £20 Argos treat because he had “tried so hard at school this term”, which, frankly, is the kindest and most polite way of summarising all of the blank books, scribbling and complete and utter disinterest/inability for learning ANYTHING AT ALL. Dragon eggs and a water pistol #2.

All of the dragon eggs and water pistols arriving through the post didn’t escape Casper. He asked for them too. So I have been trying to think of a way to either:

a) ideally, avoid giving him anything at all because suddenly everyone in the house is being showered with extravagant plastic rubbish, or

b) turn this into a bribing star-chart-type-opportunity to turn Casper into a nice child. Because, quite simply, Casper spends a lot of his time attempting to maim his brothers/friends/strangers.

Thoughts?

And lastly, look at how my IKEA baby cups have colour-blocked themselves! They are like a plastic utensil Jil Sander advert, are they not?

It has come to my attention that turtles require a bit more thought than I have previously ever given them. Specifically, what it is about them that might make you like them, and what it is about them that might make you kick them.

The argument for liking:

They are cartoonish, and you can often find a soft toy version in various soft toy departments, or cute little rubber ones, and even plastic. Probably.

They lay eggs, which is a bit interesting. And they give birth on the beach in Thailand, I think. And actually, in Turkey too – see below for polite “Turtle and Nature” poster from Patara Beach, Kas Peninsula:

They swim, and they are quite old. Eventually.

They are quite undemanding I would imagine. Not very noisy, and only a bit snappy if you go and dig up their eggs, and put sticks in their faces and tease them. Which you wouldn’t because you LIKE THEM.

Some people eat them.

The argument for kicking them:

(Obvs, actual kicking would be a little bit mean. But if you felt like kicking a turtle, it might be because of the reasons below:)

They can look a little bit unpleasant when their head rolls back into their scraggy pointy neck. If you know what I mean.

They snap.

They are unwilling to perform tricks, and have no time for ball games or curling up next to you by the fire. They would also be awful at guarding your home.

They probably have the whiff of a fish about them.

And so, Dear Reader, should anyone ever ask you anything at all about the relative pros and cons of a turtle, you can point them RIGHT HERE. A veritable hotbed of Turtle Knowledge and Associated Thoughts.

But all this turtle-talk is a thinly veiled attempt to avoid talking about the whole eBay thing. As it is, I am sitting here on a Thursday night, waiting for a courier to drop off a huge primary school double desk to be placed somewhere in the living room, destined to never fit very well and to always bruise me in the hips, and hit the baby on the forehead as he drunkenly totters past on the way to dropping things into the toilet bowl. The desk is supposed to be a homework desk, but we all know it will never actually be used for homework, but as a handy surface to put small pieces of paper on, bank statements, bits of food and mugs of tea and endless bits of Playmobil which I won’t throw away because I think they might form part of a tractor/pirate ship/ice cream cart. And I have had to pay more for the couriering than the actual desk.

What happened it this: I got really excited about the possibilites of eBay and all of the bits of furniture I thought I would like, and I bidded on lots of things, and I WON NEARLY EVERYTHING. And most of the things were pick-up only, and they were scattered around the United Kingdom. So, like, more than a Sunday afternoon’s drive away – HOURS away in lots of directions. Oh, how I died inside when I kept getting emails that once again I had won a french school desk/pine table/crocheted blanket/silver butter dish/lace bedspread/embroidery sampler etc etc. And I had to fess up, and tell Mark that all of our weekends until early June would be booked up in driving around the UK, picking up bits of ‘antique’ furniture and old blankets. He was a bit cross.

Anyway, there will be no more of the eBay foolishness. Quite probably.

Here is a photo taken last week in our garden. This is all six of us, after ingesting cake and blackened sausages:

And me, fond of a drink in the afternoon: (note wildly asymmetric hair billowing like a lampshade AGAIN)

And the baby after his easter eggs were eaten and smeared as only a dirty baby knows how:

And the Royal Wedding flyover:

And a Royal Wedding street party. Note the two guys on the left who are a little bit OVER being photographed by me, the passer-by with the hungry eyes who clearly had no street party of her own to go to:

Oh, it is a glamorous life in Londontown. This morning, after dropping off children One and Two, and heading back to Bayswater along Bell Street, strewn with lettuce heads and dog poo and broken glass, with sons Three and Four in the Pushchair’ o ‘Filth, I came across this guy:

WAGNER! Or, even, VAGNER! Only, this time he wasn’t crooning or leering at nubile young dancers – he was instead sitting in a very sleek darkened car, with a muscular bouncer-esque Arab, and he was smoking, and he looked a little bit incongruous amongst the halal chicken shops and the barbers at 8:42am, and I found myself PRACTICALLY KISSING HIM. Because he is sort-of famous, or at least, he was last year, and I got inexplicably hit with the famous-person-rush-of-blood-to-the-head-lose-all-sense-of-self-respect stick. I waved manically and blushed and he said “Hello” in a proper dirty-old-man kind of way. It was awesome. Heart pounding, as I left him in his Mysterious Car, I thought about taking a photograph, and texting someone. But I couldn’t remember his name, and then I started to think that perhaps he was not from the telly, but actually the man from Tesco, or the bank manager, or someone from the school committee. It was waaaaay too much for a Tuesday morning.

And then, this afternoon, long after the Wagner-magic had worn off, Mark told me that I smelt ever so slightly of wee. I tell you, it is highs and lows around these parts. For the record, I have sniffed, and searched, and think the wee smell is a combination of

a) fake tan, and

b) actual wee. Not mine, most probably. But who knows. This flat is actually a kind of shrine to incidental ammonia patches. On the chairs, on the cushions, the rugs, the newly washed laundry, the face cloths, the school ties. Possibly on the food.

Anyway, that was a little bit of a downer. But hark! Cheer Up! Here are some more photos of my children. (I am aware that photos of my children are really really boring to anyone who didnt birth them/father them, but heigh ho).

The baby in a Beatles t-shirt at St Michael’s Mount, and various Easter Egg hunting scenarios:

Ahem.

Some More Important Things To Report:

I have ikat-printed billowing trousers with tight ankle bits from H&M. They are a bit odd, and a bit pyjama-ish, and they have prompted Barnaby to name them “Ugly Pants”. And then to ask me if I could go back to wearing a dress. Mostly, these complaints/helpful suggestions are posited at me during the long and ugly walk along the A40, where we all cough with poisonous car fumes and yell at each other over the noise of screeching sirens and car engines, and sometimes attract the attention of the police. Today, Barnaby tried to engage me with questions of a lively existential nature, which was simply annoying and ill-timed, as I couldn’t hear him properly, and replying meant shouting into the A40 vortex of filth. He never bothers to ask me these kinds of things while in the relative comfort and SILENCE of the living room. It went like this, all shouty, and apropos of nothing:

Barnaby (really shouting, little face pointed to the pavement in the vain hope of finding some six year old boy’s version of ‘treasure’): “Can you tell me which stuff you don’t know anything about?”

Me (shouting, irritably, pushing the double buggy and wondering why my upper arms refuse to get muscly): “What? No, because I don’t know about what I don’t know about.”

Barnaby: “What? Can you tell me all the things that you don’t know, I SAID! Come on! What do you know nothing about?”

Me: “I CAN’T! Because then I would know about them!”

Barnaby: “Ok. Can you tell me instead about why some people kick turtles?”

Me: “Well, no, not really. I don’t know. Because they are mean?”

Barnaby: “WHAT? No, not “kicking”. I didn’t say anything about kicking. I said “liking”. Why do some people like turtles?”

AND ON AND ON UNTIL MY VOICE GAVE OUT AND I NEARLY PUT MY HEAD UNDER THE TYRES OF A BIG BUS.

I really do not know why some people are turtles-lovers, and some are not. You can’t just google that kind of question, either, as I have come to find out.

The other thing that is IMPERATIVE to tell you, is that I have finally made friends with ebay and now I have no free time because I am EXTREMELY busy looking for crocheted blankets, 19th century embroidery samplers, vintage maps of Africa and Royal Wedding commemorative biscuit tins to line my hallways like a mad cat-lady. This will be the ruin of me yet.

THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!THE WEDDING!

etc etc

I was very disinterested in the wedding, until the day before. It suddenly became clear to me that a) getting a day off from the School Run of Physical and Psychological Trauma was actually awesome and b) having parties and drinking Pimms and buying bunting and making victoria sponge to be eaten at 10am was also similarly awesome. And then, of course, there was the wedding guest outfits to wonder over, and discuss at length.

And then, I fell in love with Kate Middleton. Who knew that I would turn out to be a Kate-Lover? I nearly died from the Kate-Love, and when The Dress turned out to be McQueen, and it was all Grace Kelly-esque and gorgeous, and she looked so tiny and she EVEN DID HER OWN MAKE-UP, well, I just actually died a million times from the sheer fabulousness of it all. Mark was similarly affected, which is another reason why he is an excellent catch. The poor children got bored and ate half a pot of jam with their fingers before we could tear our eyes away from the BBC. And I made scones and baked a ham and we drank prosecco in an effort to be British and supportive and authentic and I even squirted little tears whenever I thought about Kate, whom I now Properly Love. I expect we could be friends, although I may get a little bit giggly when she says “holy” and “very”.  We could go shopping on the King’s Road. I am actually a little bit posher than her in some crucial ways, of course, because I don’t bother much with the high street, and I certainly wouldn’t wear an angora cardi anymore, nor would I bother with honeymoon clothes from Warehouse, because my internal goalposts have shifted and now I only like properly expensive stuff. As for the polo and the game fair, I know I would get VERY BORED, but she could teach me about luscious hair and we certainly could go over blusher application a little bit. Anyways, about the hair.

So. I was walking the smallest children up to the playgroup on Friday, coughing and wheezing from the furry evil plane tree filthy spores that kept flying into the back of my throat and CHOKING ME with their fluffy barbs and I saw an old mothery friend who I see now and then. I stopped her, and we talked about easter things, and then her eyes took in my new asymmetrical hair and then her face morphed into sad, wistful, and sympathetic. She said:
“OH! You have short hair!”

and I said “Yes”, patting it, and feeling a bit NAKED and kind of nervous. “I think it might be a little bit too short.”

“OH!” Her eyes were big and soupy like a Japanese cartoon and almost wet with sadness and a little bit horrified.“Wow! Well. Why did they cut it so short? I mean, it is nice when it is long, and your hair is not straight enough to be short, but not curly enough to, er, look right when it is cut like that. Oh well! I wonder why they did that? WHAT a SHAME.” 

And a bit of me curled up and died. Not in a good way, either, like the dying I did when Kate smiled at me through the telly and telepathically suggested that we could hang out when she gets back from Wales. In a MORTIFIED naked ugly I-really-have-to-stop-going-to-Aveda kind of way.

Needless to say, Kate wouldn’t have been quite so blunt.

So, that was gigantically awkward. But then I had the wedding, and that pulled me through, and now I feel like School Camp is over, and am all empty on the inside, and wonder if I shall ever truly, really, have fun again now that the bunting is down and the flags have been ripped and the ham turned into ham and potato hash.

I know I should be filling up my aching Kate-shaped hole with finishing Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook for book club, but it is frankly a little bit boring and I have a raging hunger for wedding day details and related frippery.

I shall leave you with this.

My Archilles Heel – bits of wet, weepy tomatoes left on the bench, every day of my married life. If I ever divorce, it will be because of the tomatoes.

Oh yes, I have been away, and you KNOW how I like to sum up my gadding-about with a song. A music-less ditty which should both educate you and charm you. Bucolic Cornwall. Here is my tribute.

CORNWALL

Cornwall, Cornwall,

The land of clotted cream and other dairy products

You recycle everything

And you have a lot of intricate waste-water systems 

Which I now know a lot about

Thanks to your signage.

Cornwall, Cornwall,

You have a lot of plants

And rabbits

And windy beaches with cold people huddled up on.

YOU ARE SO LOVELY!

Even if you are about seven hours drive away

And your pasties are a little bit average.

Ithankyou.

So, we went away for a week. In case the ditty has left you with more questions than answers, here is a little highlights/lowlights list for you to compare and contrast:

BUCOLIC CORNWALL HIGHLIGHTS:

1. The ice cream is all very worthy and creamy and traceable (i.e. the eggs came from that farm and the milk from that herd in that paddock over there, etc etc). The children loved it, as these helpfully placed photo shows:

And on and on to infinity. There was ice cream every day. And chips, because you cannot escape chips on holiday. Apparently.

2. There was a hot tub in the cottage. It was awesome, except when Casper emptied the water out and left us hot-tubless for 24 hours. That bit was naaaasty.

3. The cottage landlords had an excellently placed (i.e. upstairs) 14 year old daughter who babysat twice. She was gorgeous, with flaming red hair and extremely good mascara application. Thick, dark lashes that she swore were simply Max Factor, but I suspect were very good fake ones. Because I can tell, now that I have narrowly escaped the clutches of Bad Lashery. Anyway, we got home after the first night having dined at the excellent New Yard restaurant in the Trelowarren estate, and she had done the weirdest things with the children. They had no pyjamas on, only nappies, but the nappies were on the big children, not the little ones, and all the lamps were on in their room. It was like broad daylight in there, with the smell of wee hanging sharply in the air. We got her the next night too.

3. The scenery was gorgeous. The boys were mostly well-behaved. There were lighthouses to explore, and farms, and tadpoles to watch and donkeys to listen to. There were seals in the water. SEALS!

4. Kynance Cove. Even for a hardened our-beaches-are-better-than-yours-New Zealander, this beach was a surprise.

No matter the wind factor, or the bit when Casper tried to jump off the cliff. The rockpools were everything little boys need.

CORNWALL LOWLIGHTS:

1. The stinging nettles got a little bit boring, as did the wind on the Lizard Peninsula. I was always a little bit cold. Here are some four-year-old knees that have been stung repeatedly by those sly nettle bastards:

2. The pepper in the eyes episode. This morning, the boys shook pepper onto the baby’s head, which moved into his eyeballs. Then they all got some in their eyeballs. Cue much wailing, puffy pseudo-allergic reactions, emergency baths, baby wipes, angry parents, and NO TRIP TO THE LIGHTHOUSE GIFT SHOP YOU FOOLISH AND MEAN GANG OF LITTLE NASTY BOYS. Ahem. All while I was *supposed* to be packing, but was in the pantry, playing Words With Friends. The pantry got the best wireless signal, ok?

3. There was no dishwasher in the cottage. That sucked bigtime. It was like going back into olden times, or something, and I didn’t like it.

And here is me, looking so puffy (which may or may not have something to do with sauvignon blanc) but with a happy little baby with nothing other than sunshine in his baby-eyes.

I have spots blooming all over my face and it means that, once again, I must put away my Tom Ford Cherry Lush because it matches both the deep red of my acne, and, alas, the deep metaphorical red of shame because I AM TOO OLD FOR THIS! Old ladies should be free of those pesky little spots of yore. And the worst, deeply tragic thing is that last week’s Aveda tribute to Dave Stewart, the Hair Cut of Fashionable Asymmetry, is a jawline-revealing crop. So, suddenly, my previously clear and spot-free jaw has been cruelly exposed to the world and it has responded by angrily camoflaging itself in weeping pustules. Hormones, I thank you, no, really I do, because you help me to Keep It Real. Without flashes of angry teenage-esque skin, I would be a botox-loving, vain and extravagant cosmetic-obsessed bore. And PHEW we don’t want that.

One nice thing about having children, I have latterly come to notice, is that they do not ever seem to see your hideous disfigurements. They always think you look like mothers are supposed to look. And ever since Noah had his grommets inserted and had his hearing restored, I have had the New Happy Noah Who Talks In Full Sentences giving me a daily little bit of Calculated Flattery in order to win me over and make like him more than the others. It totally works. He tells me every day, no matter what I am wearing, that he “likes my dress”. So, I could be in my ripped-at-the-inner-thigh-skinny-jeans-perhaps-they-were-a-bit-too-tight-after-all jeans and a stripy shirt with yogurt wiped all over it and he will creep up to me to tell me he likes my dress. And I always feel terribly pleased, even though he is four, wears pyjamas all day by choice, smells very much like ammonia, and has this odd compulsion to follow me into the toilet to tell me a lengthy story about princesses whose pants are shaped like the letter ‘o’. I have NO IDEA what he is on about, but he wins the Best Child competition and I would save him first in a fire. Because he gets me, sartorially, and that is GOLD, Dear Reader, GOLD.

But anyway. It is the school holidays, and it is day two. We have been to the zoo, and I drove the seven minutes up the Marylebone Road and I sweated and felt giddy and a bit nauseous because driving in London scares me to my very core. We go all that way, and I expend all that nervous exhaustion, and the buggers only ever want to see the giraffes for about three minutes, and then they run to the bouncy castle which costs £1 for five minutes and they get all sulky when I tell them that the bouncy castle is not what we are at the zoo for.

Me: Let’s go see some more animals!

Them: No. We want to go on the bouncy castle.

Me: Well, you can’t, you small but effective gang of INGRATES.

Them: (Scowling) OK. Can we have ice cream instead?

Me: ANIMALS!

Them: Ok. The elephants, then.

Me: There are no elephants at this zoo.

Casper: The dinosaurs then.

And so we end up at the gorilla enclosure, and the gorilla mother has had a little baby, and she is swinging him roughly but kind of tenderly and nursing him and I get misty- eyed and love them both and think that me and the gorilla mummy are JUST THE SAME, because we love our babies the same and her baby has little baby feet and so does mine, and my boobs look a little bit droopy and old like hers, and we have a moment, then I see the children are engrossed in watching a dying fly trapped in the glass. What, I ask you, is the POINT?

Ingrates with very short attention spans. Four of them. All day long, for practically the whole of April. Which brings me to Istanbul. We are going to a wedding and spending four days there in September. It will be excellent, and even excellent-er will be when we figure out who is going to look after the children while we are away. I am hoping the answer will become clear to me, like a sign from God, a stigmata, a piece of toast with the name and mobile number of a reliable babysitter burnt into it in a mysterious and miraculous way. I really hope I don’t have to wait too long.