The Harridan

Bowl cuts and mullets and thieving children

Posted on November 18, 2009 by theharridan

On Saturday night, we had a bit of an M&S disaster. It was late, we were pushing it, but we thought we would pop out for a bit of shopping before dinner. Weekends tend to be a bit, er, muddy, where the routine is concerned, and while I don’t like to blame my husband, I really do blame my husband. He is on a permanent passive-aggressive go-slow from Saturday morning until Sunday night and so things go a bit mental. My nicely cultivated week-long relaxed demeanour goes out the window when I am suddenly not in charge and I get a bit snarly and the children go a bit haywire and my husband just ignores us all and tries to sneakily read his book in various hiding places throughout the flat.

Anyway, Saturday night. We had had one of the usual slightly strained days and we were out and Mark decided that NOW was the time to ditch Tiscali and get Sky. So he wandered up to the bored man at the Sky booth and said he would sign up. This process of course took about 40 minutes and so the rest of us just took off and went to M&S for the half-price champagne. At some point between the upstairs of Whiteleys and the downstairs of Whiteleys, all three of them went insane. So we go into M&S, filled with quiet, genteel and calm customers, and we head for the champagne rack and I grab three bottles. Noah squeezes out of the pushchair and runs around with Barnaby in a scary touching-everything kind of way. They are yelling and playfighting and customers are giving disapproving looks and swerving out of their way. I am stricken with a cold and so my voice does not go much above a very angry hissed whisper. Calling them back is no good, so I just charge ahead to the checkout and try to get out as soon as I can.

At the checkout, Custard squirms out of his straps and stands up in the pushchair and starts grabbing for all of the chocolate and percy pig packets and squeals in an ungodly manner when he can’t reach. I am all very pregnant, holding three bottles of champagne precariously aloft, and the other two are yelling and running and wrestling each other to the ground. Then all goes silent. I turn around, and they are both peering into the big cardboard troughs of M&S chocolate christmas decorations – the ones wrapped in foil in mesh bags. I am uneasy, but am busy with shrieking Custard – trying to keep his grabby hands from tearing into a packet of sour worms.

Then, I have a Terrible Mothery Intuitive Feeling. I march over to the chocolate trough, and catch both boys nibbling on broken slivers of christmas decorations from the mesh bags. STEALING! SHOP-LIFTING! BEING PROPER CRIMINALS! Their faces were a little bit smeared, and there was that lovely chocolately smell about them both.

Two thoughts – do I march them up to the store detective to give them a huge fright, or do I get out of there as soon as possible and give them a bollicking all the way home? I give in to exhausted enertia. I yanked them up to the checkout, paid and got out of there as soon as I could. And OH! the bollicking was good and proper. I told them that if I ever caught them stealing again, I would take them to the police station, and that thieves had to go to jail and be separated from their mums and dads and the food was terrible. I was so angry and hormonal and tired I nearly cried, shaking all the way home. Thieves for children – how horrendous.

So Sunday was less traumatic, thank goodness. The boys had a haircut at the very friendly Costas. They gave Custard a fake baby haircut so he wouldn’t feel left out – a quick sitdown in the barber’s chair, a cape, a spritz of the water, a pretend snip and a blowdry. He was very pleased. Then the boys had theirs done – a little less successfully, as Barnaby looked like Richard Chamberlain playing Richard the Third in a bad 70’s movie, and Noah got a barely perceptible (but there nonetheless) mullet.

Here is Barnaby two days after the cut:

Uncanny how much he looks like his playmobil knight though, don’t you think?

Posted in Uncategorized | 5 Comments

Balloons

Posted on November 14, 2009 by theharridan

I have turned a baking-related corner. It may have something to do with the new baby and the urge to nest, or the onslaught of a dark and windy autumn, or just that I am greedy and think about food all the time. But since the eventful beetroot cake, I have managed an apple strudel AND pikelets! And the pikelets were most excellent and we all gobbled them up as a pre-dinner dinner with jam and greek yoghurt and I now feel like I can move onto SCONES! Or something. So it is all win-win, except for the fat family part.

Anyway, today was cold and rainy and so we decided to go to Portobello Rd for coffee and market food and fresh (wet) air. We got so far as Pedlars, that overpriced but lovely shop filled with vintage train signs and pointless witty mugs and maps and egg cups and old shop cabinets and then we got summoned inside by Miss Balloooniverse. Miss Ballooniverse is a startlingly attractive and spookily talented balloon twister. We have come across her before when she made the kids Notting Hill Carnival-themed balloons – a monkey in a palm tree holding a banana, a rasta-coloured balloon hat, etc. Anyway, today she went Chrismassy. And behold her balloon-twisting-genius:

Rudolph; and

Santa; and (the very best of all)

an ELF! A slightly garrotted elf, but you get that.

And here is Miss Balloooniverse herself with my worried-looking balloon-trussed children:

Ha! They were the talk of the town. Well, of Pedlars anyway, as was our large family. “Oh, are they all yours?” “Yes – we just don’t stop!” Polite smile, point to enormous belly. Cue looks of barely-hidden shock, some weak comment from me about us being a bit mental, and we shuffle out. Of course, balloons being what they are, they didn’t last long in the howling gale and so there were tears soon after. SIGH.

Luckily, there is an antidote to all this motheriness. It is called SHOPPING. On Friday, Sue and I ducked out of the, er, office (we have a shared nanny on Fridays, dontcha know, while we work on Secret Genius Project That Will Make Us Very Rich) and went to a designer sale which was supposed to have “affordable Chanel”. I now know there is no such thing. But there was a very nice Alexander McQueen tuxedo jacket which fitted me (although the upper arms are more snug than I would like to acknowledge) and which now hangs in the wardrobe waiting for me to bring it out and astonish the world with my two-seasons-late adoption of the tux trend. I am hoping for audible gasps. I may only manage to arouse some concern at the way the arm seams are straining dangerously. Ah well.

P.S. For the record, the crotch of maternity tights end up hovering just above the upper knee. Do not wear a denim mini skirt with them, ever, even if you have No Other Clothes That Fit. I can vouch for it.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged maternity tights, miss balloooniverse, pikelets | 4 Comments

Boris & Wayne

Posted on November 9, 2009 by theharridan

Today something really really exciting happened. Something that I have been waiting for, with the patience of a very patient person. It was not the visit to the antenatal clinic, although that was fairly good, as I am healthy and the baby has a nice normal-sounding heartbeat, nor was it the early-morning visit from the Nutty Australian Entrepreneur which ended in a hormonal cry (that was her, not me). It certainly wasn’t the behaviour of Custard, who has become quite wicked of late. This morning he stole Barnaby’s lunchbox and took off all the wrapping/foil, threw most of the contents onto the floor underneath his highchair, which is always a bit sticky and has hardened lumps of various foodmatter which no amount of nail-scraping can get off, and then he attacked Barnaby’s egg. The egg thing was a bit of a problem because a) Custard is mildly allergic to eggs (hence the undying passion he has for them; and b) Barnaby is obsessive compulsive about many things, and the pristine state of his boiled egg is one of them. So even though I had boiled the egg in Genius-Prepared-Mother-type goodness at 6:45am, I had to make another one that did not have little baby teethmarks all over it. While I was damage-controlling the lunchbox crisis, Custard took dry cereal into our bedroom and scattered it all over our floor with all the thoroughness of a farmer sowing seed over a vast recently plowed paddock. (Forgive me, I am a recovering FarmVille saddo).

So Custard was not the Good Thing that happened today.

The Good Thing is that Mark came home with a new jacket, and in his post-spending euphoria, he went through the hallway cupboard and chucked out some of his old jackets. And he came to The Big Bad Black Bomber Jacket, a particular piece of clothing that has been a source of dramatic marital discord over the years, and he sighed, and he looked at me, at the jacket, and then, with a resigned air, he tossed it onto the charity shop pile. And my heart did a little dance, and I felt so happy, but calmly adopted my poker face and said not a word. See the jacket below:

The jacket is slimy, rounded, puffy, and sort of looks like an Eastern European gangster called Boris co-owns it with a 70’s handlebar-moustachioed pimp called Wayne. It has elasticated fabric bits around the sleeves and the hem and so fits my dear husband all snug around the belly. The shoulders are dropped, so he looks like a big round rehydrated raisin with short little legs poking out. It is like a very unattractive fake-leather couch that squeaks and holds dirty little secrets.

Mark became the owner of Boris & Wayne’s co-op jacket when a man pulled up in a car one day and asked him for directions to Victoria station. The man then gave him a convoluted, charming, bonkers story about needing to get to a wedding and having to off-load some Italian leather jackets as the wedding party did not need them anymore and by jove! Would Mark like to see them? By jove, Mark certainly did – and he was most excited to see that they were going to be sold not for £500 each, but £75, or £120 for two. What LUCK!

So, Boris & Wayne’s jacket found itself coming home to ours. And had stayed in the hallway cupboard in various flats, as I was so horrified by it. But marriage being what it is, the more I protested, the more Mark was determined to keep it. There have been dinner-party polls, vaguely tearful begging, screechy arguments, defiant donning of the jacket in temperate weather to prove a point, and near jacket-sabotage on my part. But today, we get to say goodbye.

And on that triumphant note, here is a photo of my beetroot cake. Although it tasted quite nice (a little bit muddy, but nice) the day after, this is what greeted me when I opened the oven door after waiting, excitedly, for what seemed like hours:

Undeniable baking fail, no?

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged baking fail, Custard, leather jacket | 4 Comments

Beetroot

Posted on November 4, 2009 by theharridan

I am making a beetroot cake. I am no baker; I have warned everyone in the flat not to get their hopes up as I bake like a three year old. There is mess, burns, charcoalled edges, and general disgust from all parties concerned. Before the vegetable wonder came out of the oven and revealed itself in all its awfulness, Charlotte had been trying to unravel my lack of confidence in my own baking skills. She asked me if anyone has ever been mean to me about my baking, and if there has been some sort of childhood trauma that has resulted in my desperate, sad, pathetic baking fears. But no. It is simply that I am

a) bad at maths and science;

b) impatient; and

c) lacking a red KitchenAid food processor. OF COURSE.

So, anyway, the cake has come out, it is burned on top, it tastes like rust and it is like a pool of puce underneath the blackened crust (to borrow from Nigella). I am vindicated and a little sulky.

But we did have a holiday in Crete last week, so there is that that memory to balance my domestic pain. Crete was full of good stuff. There may be a photo essay. In fact, there is. Sorry to any facebook friends – this will be boring deja vu.

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This is Custard on the beach, feeling a little bit cold but pretending not to be. Mark is huddling.

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These are all the boys who live at my house, sitting on the sea wall in Chania. Again, cold, but faking it nicely.

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A most genius and only slightly dangerous kid-propped-up-high-in-the-ancient-sea-wall-cubby-hole photo setup. He was fine, the fall was much shorter than it looked.

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Barnaby and Noah. Cute. And how much are you loving the return of the Canon camera? I know I am, even if we only have a long distance lens which means I have to be out in a row boat to have taken the sea wall shots.

So, Crete was a little bit autumnal, but there was good stuff like the horse ride, the cats, the fresh orange juice, the frequenting of tavernas for feta-and-lamb-related lunches, and the spa pool. Here is the horse:

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and here is the horseman who was extremely old greek man-ish who certainly does a good line in dodgy grins:

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So, anyway, that was Crete. We have been back now for a few days and I can say that London retains its charms, even if there are less cats around to chase and far less goats on the roads. We have had an 80’s NZ model move into the street, I have sampled supremely good lolly cake from the NZ cafe in Westfield, and I have conquered black eyeliner. There are marvellous crisp orange leaves swallowing up the grey footpaths and Christmas is on its way. I had some vague optimistic ideas of baking something seasonal, but after the beetroot cake horror, think that mince pies from Waitrose would be much, much more in the Christmas spirit.

PS Noah didn’t actually fall off the sea wall into the water. That was LAST YEAR.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged beetroot, Crete, lolly cake | 2 Comments

Pros and Cons

Posted on October 24, 2009 by theharridan

I have just cooked my Mulberry Roxanne Tote on the stovetop. There was a bit of smoking, and the smell halfway betwixt a steak charring and a bit of burnt toast, and I looked over the the (usually stone-cold but now redhot) electric elements where I had plonked my bag, Luella wallet, nappy wipes, new tin of Smith’s Rosebud Salve from my sneaky trip to Anthropologie (new-to-London NY store) and iphone. All was cooking at a rapid pace. Mulberry bag now looks like this:

And it smells funny. I am hoping there will be some genius burnt-Mulberry-bag-type-fixer-person at Mulberry HQ who will sort it out for me. I am numb with sadness.

Counter-balancing this fug of regret and despair is the fact that on Monday we all get up at 4:30am to fly to Crete. [Burglars, at this point, please take note: Charlotte, Houseguest with Extras, will be here to fend you off with swords and forks and pointy plastic toys which she will line the hallway with and if you so dare to pop in, believe me, you will bang into a scooter and trip on some Hunter wellies and slide facefirst along our dirty corridor into the pile of dirty washing and you will WISH you had stayed AWAY.]

So, we have to get up and find our way to Gatwick for a 6:25am flight. This part of the holiday plan is truly truly terrible. This part may break us. Presuming it doesn’t, however, we shall ply the bigger children with DVDs once poured into the teeny tiny easyJet seats and one of us will patrol the skinny aisles with Custard, the Screaming Wonder, pacing up and down and keeping him from exploring the toilet bowls/other people’s hand luggage for about four hours. I am hoping the Custard Monitoring will fall on the parent who is not six and a half months pregnant (that’d be Mark, then) but I suspect there shall be some clever ploy awaiting to shift that particular problem onto me. “Ohh, I would help you, but I am wedged between the children and I have to make sure the dvd keeps running smoothly” or “You know, I feel a sinus headache coming on” or “I will have my turn very very soon” then falls mock asleep. And so on.

But then, we get to our holiday villa with a spa pool and 5 acres and the beach nearby and a venetian town to explore and tavernas to eat out in and feta to hoover down. I will not cook, just give the children bread and olives. But I will be BAGLESS.

After my trip to Anthropologie yesterday, I had a very quick cup of coffee and a bit of chocolate financier cake and a leedle round blueberry muffin at Sketch. Custard had a fluffy milk, which unfortunately was mostly scalding with a tiny bit of unfrosted fluff. There was an enthusiastic gulp followed by a very red chest and much screaming. Cafe staff the world over: babies only need the fluff – the boiling milk is not entirely warranted. If only we had some sort of police-type character to school us in the way of hot beverages.

Anyway, here is Custard lounging about in Sketch before the fateful gulp:

And here is me, slurping from vintage china cup. Please avert eyes from the wayward runaway breast making a dash for it:

I said eyes AVERTED! (As if you could – there is something almost medically wrong with the one on the right…)

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Anthropologie, Crete, Mulberry roxanne, Sketch, Smith's Rosebud Salve | 8 Comments

The List – My 35

Posted on October 19, 2009 by theharridan

Last night I went to the movies all by myself. It was a bit loserish, and I did it for effect. Unfortunately, no one noticed I was gone. There must be a lesson in that.

AND I missed out on the X Factor, and seeing Cheryl Cole all dressed up like a nearly-nekkid Dragoon with meshy bits over her bosoms (SIGH). The movie was that new Jennifer Aniston/Aaron Eckhard love story, but instead of filling it with rascally ferrets and dance routines and fabulous occasions to wear gowns, it was filled with stories of dead people and the ensuing grief. There was a parrot, but it was neither cute nor rascally. In fact, I think it was actually a cockatiel. All in all, a lose-lose situation. And I haven’t even begun on the £10 fee to get in to said Movie-Of-Despair.

Anyhoo, it is my turn to do my list of things to do before I turn 35. 35 seems a bit random, and the closer I get to it, the more unfair it seems to be picking on it. But there you go. And I cannot give you many things as I am not that imaginative, so I will try for 15. Here are 15 things I would like to do before I turn 35 (or die, whichever comes first).

1. Live in New York.

2. Make a huge amount of money from my secret genius project.

3. Have at least one Chanel 2.55 bag. The jumbo one. In grey, then red, then black.

4. I would like to be thin. Not freaky thin, but like, you go to get some winter boots and the ones in the shop fit your calves. Like, not having to go find a Specialty Shop. I wanna be normal.

5. Do a cooking course somewhere in Italy.

6. Master Pilates. (This may be part of #4).

7. Own a vintage Rolex. A big 1940’s one with a tan leather strap.

8. Grow my hair all blondely and wavy and long and yet thick. Not hair that gets thinner and sadder and droopier.

9. Do a masters in English.

10. Learn how to bake something nicely. Like a birthday cake that will not fail. Am thinking for that, I will need:

11. To own a red KitchenAid food processor.

12. Visit Auschwitz. I know. Everyone else thinks I am awful for wanting to go. But I do.

13. Visit my parents so my children can get to know them. Hopefully this can happen before I turn 35.

14. Switch from flat shoes to heels. Without blistering or hobbling.

15. Be free of nappies forever. Huggies, it has been fun, but I am ready to sever our relationship.

I am sure there are more latent desires lurking within me, and I am sure I have some that are less selfish and more about contributing in a positive way to the world at large. Like recycling better. And becoming a kind parent. But right now, it is all about Chanel and thinness. At least I am honest. Ahem.

Here is Custard with his dad. He can say “Hooray!”, can point to his tummy, and can smash the bridge of my nose with an ill-timed head-butt. He is learning so fast.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Chanel, Custard, Rolex | 5 Comments

Disparate Things

Posted on October 13, 2009 by theharridan

My ear is blocked and all I can hear from the left side of my head is the sea. The ocean. The lapping of waves. It could be good, except it isn’t because I cannot hear WORDS or PEOPLE. My children could be saying “Please can you take me to the toilet right now, mummy – if you don’t I shall ruin the carpet” and my husband could be saying “Darling, it is time to finally buy you three stacked Tiffany Rings for all the children you have bore me so well over the last five years” and I would be none the wiser. I may be missing opportunities of truely massive significance. Or not. Anyway, right now, my useless ear is dominating all my thoughts. There are other thoughts in there somewhere – I shall attempt to drag them out in order to think of something other than the sensation of having a weighty and unsightly conch shell strapped to the side of my head.

1. The Times seller on the bridge. There is a man with a big shiny smile who every morning as I pant and puff and sweat unattractively up over the bridge seeks me out with his kind eyes and beams his wide-mouthed smile and says ‘Good morning, Ma’am!”. The first time I was surprised, the second I was also surprised (this being 8:10am in the morning – it is tricky to be fully cognisant) and of course, now, we have reached a slightly uncomfortable impasse. As I come up the hill, I look for him, anticipating the cheery greeting and gearing myself up to respond in some way other than a neanderthal-type grunt, but then have to look away in case he sees me scoping out the bridge and interprets that as some feverish longing. It is all a bit awkward. Sometimes he sees me looking for him and I look away, quickly, at the kids falling out of the pushchair or the huge dribble of drying egg on my shirt or, even, the bit of pesky bra that is popping out from beneath my hastily thrown-on and potentially bad-taste-for-a-pregnant-lady strapless top, only for our eyes to meet after his usual greeting. I am quite clearly confused by this little exchange. Please advise.

2.Mark Ronson. I love him. He is so very very handsome and dreamy and I think he would always be stylish in dress and manner. He would maybe want me to be thinner, though. This is the part I do not think so intently about.

3. Successful brunch in Notting Hill. The Tabernacle. It was big, it had cushions, the waitress was pregnant and so didn’t hate the kids. It had chips. Brunch nirvana (except the coffee was a bit crap, but you cannot have it all). Batman approved, as did his thinly disguised brothers:

4. Whipsnade on a Sunday. In an effort to avoid the Sunday argument in which I get a sleep-in and Mark is therefore resentful for the most part of the day, and he exacts his revenge by being slothful and passively-aggressive about going anywhere or doing anything, and the kitchen is always too horrible for words when I finally emerge, like a mole, all tired and frightened of the cereal soup with crusty bits and the peanut butter smeared all over the table legs and there is usually a naked baby and someone has pulled all the toilet paper off the roll to make a hat and often the middle child is missing, only to be found drawing on the bedroom walls with green crayons with bits of stolen food crumbled nearby – well, in an effort to avoid all of this (repeated each Sunday without fail) I suggested we go to Whipsnade to see the baby elephant and it worked! We liked each other nearly the whole day. See below for the evidence:

My ear has stopped being blocked. It may be that this blog is carthartic in ways I cannot comprehend. Like, my ears respond to my outpouring of rubbish. That may be difficult to prove medically, but you know what I mean. I can HEAR! Tomorrow morning I shall fully embrace the screams for as long as I can stand. Goodnight, fellow Non-Hearing-Impaired-Readers.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Whipsnade | 2 Comments

Warning: This Post is a MOAN

Posted on October 6, 2009 by theharridan

Today is one of those hideous, defeated-before-you-get-out-of-bed days where everything is grey and oily-wet and you kind of ache all over and you feel like crying. It is a swimming day, so of course Custard has been quaking with fear and screaming at the top of his lusty lungs and been shedding very realistic tears, Noah has done about four lots of wees in his trousers and is once again spouting green slime from his nose. It is also the cleaning lady day, but in my awful boring pseudo-depression I even have a problem with that – because she comes so early and I feel guilty about the mess and then I do a bit of a cursory tidy-up but my big fat pregnant belly makes it hard to bend over and then the ennui takes hold of me and I just sigh. Adding to the pain is my unfeasibly sore squashed little toe and my green jersey bandeau top which keeps slipping down to reveal glimpses of either a little bit or the whole of my purple bra. So I am a skanky baby-mama as WELL as bad-tempered.

Even though I should be basking in the afterglow of my 32nd birthday, and even though I have birthday treats galore, some on my head, some in my wardrobe, some in the mail arriving slowly but surely, some I am yet to go out and buy myself, and even though I have a Birthday #2 weekend planned with a bit of burlesque at the Wam Bam Club and Daniel Merriweather at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire on Sunday, STILL I am in a grey, unreasonable cranky fug. For that, I apologise. Because I really have nothing to moan about and I am going to Greece in three weeks and Mark has lots of work and I have tonight’s dinner sorted out and the new Elle arrived today and I have a new Marni dress which matches my eyes. It may be a case of those pesky pregnancy hormones which have turned me into a temporary manic depressive.

So, anyway, I took Barnaby to school in the rain this morning and he insisted on wearing something with a hood. He too has fluffy wavy hair issues. So he wore Noah’s black duffle coat and when we got to school I told Miss L (she of the apostrophe crimes) that he was wearing his brother’s coat and that it had “Noah” written all over it because labelling clothes, or the lack of it, is a Serious School Issue. And Miss L just smiled and said a whole lot of “Aww bless!” which made me a bit (irrationally?) angry. It isn’t necessarily cute to wear your brother’s duffle coat, and I did not mention it to her for some sort of small-brother-appreciatiative-noises response. Bless who? For what? It made me want to go through the classroom and point out spelling mistakes. See – I have turned really really mean. I may need a hobby. Not of the Bully A Teacher kind, maybe more of the aggressive kickboxing/wrestling/throwing pots variety. Even better would be a post-4th-baby addiction to running. Ohhhh that would be good, as I would be stressless AND thin.

Here is a photo of Noah after our exceedingly bad brunch in Notting Hill on Sunday. We ate outside, luckily, as two out of three chocolate milkshakes got tipped out and onto the pavement within minutes of being served and the chocolate banana crepes horrified the children and my eggs were all microwaved in a rubbery, plastic-bowled way. And Charlotte’s baked potato had unidentifiable crunchy bits and the cheese was orange like they do in LA.

That is me in pink. That is all you are going to get.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged cranky, Notting Hill | 4 Comments

Posh babies

Posted on October 1, 2009 by theharridan

It turns out that I have posh children, who are very used to lunches at Carluccios and babyccinos and sparkling water and organic food and dancing classes and trips to Greece and private nursery and the odd brunch at Fifteen. Whoops – it just happened. But they are all very nice and grounded and Barnaby goes to a local school with local people which is FREE (with a questionable line in apostrophe-training as you well know). So, conscience mostly cleared. But a quick scroll through iphone photos reveals that it is Custard who is the most privileged – his vast experience of London cafes and cakes and muffins and croissants with fluffy milk is quite remarkable.

See the damning photographic evidence below:

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Ok, this is a taverna in Greece, not London per se, but you get the idea.

Carluccios. Greedy – he has two lemon granitas

GBK for chocolate milkshake

Le Pain Quotidien (ack, the spelling of that confuses me every time)

A Westfield establishment. Heavy on the fluff

Today. Artisan Du Chocolate. Possibly the very best fluffy-milk joint of all time. Note the cup – easy to hold, large handles just right for small not-very-dexterious boys under two. Chocolate rice-bubble-type things. And the waitress seemed fine when they got tipped onto the floor. Custard totally recommends (as do I – check out what outrageousness we got served for the tiny sum of £3!!!).

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

waffles

Posted on September 29, 2009 by theharridan

Ah, you know those days which are long and filled with the anxiety about getting to school on time/tidying up for the cleaner/paying that annoying old mobile phone bill so that the debt collectors don’t come around to take the new mac/wondering which thing to cook for the kids dinner and then yours/trying to find the baby’s wetsuit which is wet and rotting somewhere and failing and then you come to the end of the evening, and you think – PHEW. There is Oyster Bay sauvignon blanc in everyones’ glass, Daniel Merriweather is playing stylishly in the background, dinner has been popped in the oven and every single person in the whole household is behaving charmingly. Homework has been done, emails sent, the baby is happily whacking his doll repeatedly into the cupboard doors, the flat is still tidy from that lovely cleaner.

And then.

And then Charlotte, Houseguest with Extras, comes in to report on Two Bad Things.

1) Noah, far from being happily ensconced in some PlayMobil-related pirate drama in the bedroom, is hiding away under the bed smelling of poo, and

2) the belgian waffles have gone.

!!!

I had to drop my glass of wine and shake my fuzzy head and march into the boy’s bedroom and force open the door and there he was! Naked! With a whole packet of Sainsbury’s Belgian Waffles, stolen from the kitchen bench and spread about the (newly vacuumed) carpet in various degrees of munchedness, and amongst that, was a whole lot of little boys’ poo. And Noah, naked and crumbed-faced, with one gumboot on, one gumboot defiled forever, sort of grinning, sort of panicked-looking, said “Poo!”. Ah yes. That capped things off rather nicely.

But I do have some actual cheering good news. I have three enormous letters to start hanging on my wall. After Monday’s very pleasant Carluccio’s lunch with one of Twitter’s finest @ClareHR, I wandered back along Westbourne Grove and noticed The Standard Indian, a long-established Indian restaurant which had been closed for months, was having its lovely sign taken down. And so I hovered and went back and forth and looked for someone in fluoro to ask for some share of the booty – eventually a big Polish guy came around and hacked off the “S”, “a” and “n”. I know, the letters do not spell anything as such, but they are very stylish and one day can hang proudly on my wall. Along with “E”, “R” and “N”, similarly taken from another Westbourne Grove bankrupted establishment. So Stylish it hurts. Here is the sign before Polish Man did his worst:

Note the poised chisel.

Anyhoo, I am soooooooo going to bed. The poo and the waffle thieving have done me in.

PS If my apostrophes are behaving erratically, that is because I do not know my grammar rules as well as I should do. This is an ESPECIALLY unfortunate thing as I cracked and told Barnaby’s teacher she had been screwing hers up in the school newsletter. Of course, karma being what it is, I now no longer have any recollection of when and where they are supposed to go and are DOOMED grammatically to look like an apostrophe hypocrite forever.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged belgian waffles, grammar, Westbourne Grove | 9 Comments