The Harridan

I am struggling with something that I am not sure I should be struggling about. It seems a bit pedantic and petty and a bit nerdy, but every time I am at Barnaby’s school, and I see that nice, home counties-esque young teacher who has a ready smile for me, and who does a good line in inoffensive linen trousers and florally sprigged blouses, I am bluntly reminded.

Reminded of her Bad Grammar.

Specifically, in the classroom newsletter that is given out once a week, which (unfortunately for her and me) has the offensive errant apostrophe reprinted each time as it is part of the school schedule, duly repeated to remind us that “Tuesday morning’s = P.E Kit”. Like that. It shouts at me, that little sneaky apostrophe, and I am confused as to what to do. Mention it flippantly to the headmistress? No, no. She has proper work to do. Mention casually to the lovely teacher? No, as she would hate me, and have her confidence destroyed and ebb away over the year and she may never come back to teaching after the holidays and instead she might consider a career in something that avoids paperwork, i.e. life-drawing nude modelling/roadworking/burlesque artist and it would be All My FAULT.

So I say nothing, but have a feeling that this is all wrong. But then Charlotte, Houseguest with Extras, pointed out that the lovely teacher doesn’t teach that kind of stuff, but rather sings songs and pushes phonetics, and I should get a grip. Any thoughts?

I am also concerned as to what level of quirky dressing a pregnant mother-of-three can go to. As I may have twittered, Barnaby’s first day at school had me turn up in a £4 vintage polyester swirly vaguely-see-through vivid red summer frock. I fancied I was channelling Princess Margaret in her Mystique heyday, but I was actually a badly misjudged lone tropical fish in a sea of mostly head-scarved cod.  And my penchant for exposing my enriched cleavage could be said to verge on inappropriate,  as was today’s short Kate Sylvester puffed sleeved bias-cut black and silver-threaded tunic. Frankly, my legs have never been lovely in a mini, and now they are filled with water and resemble badly-stuffed sausages, should I learn to dress more appropriately? Pop the charity-shop finds away in acid-free paper and go boldly into the maternity section at Gap and cover up in pastelly wrap-around cardigans and cargo trousers? It may be more comfortable but where is the fun in that, I ask you.

Signs That I Covet For My Wall#5

I am also disproportionately in love with Tiffany Celebration rings, Prada Neroli perfume (mmmm sprayed on at all times, even worn to bed just like Marilyn), Selfridges Beauty Hall at about 10:30am when the beauty counter girls are gagging for a first sale and are a bit bored and so they give you free makeovers and samples and pretend to be charmed by your baby.

It has been a week! A whole week and I have not written anything and I feel removed and lost and neglectful and deep, deep shame. But I am also tired from my new life. My new life of 6:30 am false starts where you get up to have a shower but realise your conditioner is in the boy’s ensuite and so to get it you risk waking them but you need to condition your hair as yesterday was a swimming day (which is a whole other story – expelled screaming babies and the like) and so your hair is a bit crunchy-feeling and you have the faint whiff of bleach about you and so you enter the room which smells of clean little boys and sounds of congested sinuses and you creep in and then – the baby wakes. A convoy of waking ensues, and so the day has begun badly once again. And so I am tired. And of course this morning we had the Scooter Argument. Which goes like this.

8:03am – we are two minutes late – we should be out the door but are not, and Barnaby still has Nutella smeared over his teeth and Noah has only just recovered from his hissy fit owing to having to put on Some Clothes.

8:04 – Barnaby sticks one of the flayed communal toothbrushes into his mouth, then out, I pronounce his teeth as  “very shiny, well done” and we grab the double pushchair (still whiffy of dog, despite the scrubdown on Saturday) and yank it up the stairs, then grab the baby who has been playing in the rotting leaves and has no shoes on, and we head out the door

8:08 – we race along our road and get to the top and Barnaby has stopped and is crying and yelling. “WHAT?” says me, all cranky and loud with a wild angry look in my eyes and a bit of madwoman-spittle at the corner of my mouth. “I want my SCOOTER!!!!!” wails Barnaby.

I make a decision. I have no time to get the scooter, and if we are late we have to sign The Book. Which chills me to the bone. But this crying will continue until we get to Edgware Road – a good 20 mins walk away – and I have not got the strength to endure it.

“GO back NOW and RUN!”

The yelling scary voice coming from deep within my pregnant hormonally-compromised body not only draws the attention of the residents of our genteel street, but also reduces Barnaby to racking sobs, then silence as he holds his breath in deep despair while running back to our flat. And he gets to the top of our stairs, turns bluish and flakes out. As I am actually used to this, and I am scared of signing The Book, I can only sigh and swear a teeny bit under my breath and walk calmly back to the uniform-clad little form lying down on the pavement and say “Get UP! We are LATE!” And he does, and the blood returns to his face, and he grabs the scooter and we get there on time. Just.

So mornings are variations of this. We are all slowly figuring this all out. Bear with me.

School PE kit:

I decided to photograph our way home from school to show you what we see. Consider this a photo essay in the manner of, er, the great photo-essayists, if you will.

The gallery outside school:

The Lebanese deli with amazing baklava and nuts and bottled water for 40p!:

A barber. Maybe not the most stylish place to go, but cheap:

A big fabric shop:

The station:

New building at Paddington Basin:

A sad Barnaby sulking because I did not say “Ready, Steady, Go!” loud enough:

The canal:

Paddington Basin. We HAVE to hang out here going up and down the stairs and jumping on the grassy bits and playing “Freeze” every single day…:

A letterbox:

A leafy basement flat:

School tie misappropriation:

And finally home.

In the spirit of spousely togetherness, and in an effort to avoid watching my husband watch bad sci fi, we have become box set viewers. We started with The Wire. This first foray frankly set the bar too high, and I think we shall never fully recover. We watched all five years-worth of the show, over two cold, dark months of the English winter. And it was excellent. The days were spent in anticipation for the long night ahead where we would grab a couch each, a Brora scottish wool blanket, and watch the best of Baltimore and their police and their drug lords and their senators and their teachers and their addicts all do The Wire-type genius gripping, shattering, shocking stuff. When we got to the end, it was a bit like a death in the family. And so we reached the task of choosing what to consume next, deciding we had best have turns choosing as our tastes are very nearly opposite and so Mark (who is a huntin’ fishin’ shootin’ kind of fella who unashamedly loves romantic movies and musicals) choose Grey’s Anatomy.

UGH!

It is so wet. It makes me cry every episode – not in a worthy way, but in a  sneaky manipulative lazy way. Like “lets have the premature babies die this week!” or “it is cancer time for the kind teenager!” etc etc. And so tonight we have come to the end of the second series, my glasses are streaky from the tears, and I feel a little USED. A little weak, a little ashamed. I need some grit, and that pansy show ain’t giving it. Tru dat.

Baby name musings:

Eli

Jed

Huckleberry

Tom

Thatcher

Wilfred

General musings:

Is it ok to tell your friends you think their husbands are sexy/handsome/a lot fanciable? I do, but I wonder if maybe normal grown-ups hold back from that?

Is it ok to sometimes grab your kid a little too roughly around the legs and haul them out of the living room because they won’t stop wrestling with the baby and you are ten minutes late for nursery and then their head gets a wee bit knocked on the way out and yet you maintain you do not believe in smacking your child?

How much tidying should you do before the cleaner arrives? Should you hide stuff?

How important is teeth cleaning anyway?

Can babies eat Kinder Surprises? (Well, I know they CAN, but should their hypothetical mother let them?)

If people insist on giving you four bags of Pineapple Lumps, and you know from past, painful experience that your husband eats them slowly over about a year, should you just eat them quickly over three days, knowing you will get away with it?

Is it wrong to be 31 and a half, with three and a bit children, and yet be clueless as to how to sew name tags onto school uniforms/shorten the hem on school trousers? 

Spot Woody in my garden:

(Clue – he is the tiny tiny stooped figure in the background)

The children are playing happily in my room. What madness is this??? Admittedly, they have upended all of their toy boxes and have scattered small, pointy, sharp things everywhere, into crevices I did not know our room had, and they are quite possibly drawing on Mark’s pieces of paper that somehow equal a functioning business, but STILL! I am in shock. The grand plan to take them to Portobello Road and feed them up with chocolate crepes has been abandoned. After all, such nice playing where no one is getting garrotted/squashed/poked in the eyeballs is as rare as the Comet ‘o’Haileys. So I am observing, musing, writing, and ah, reading Elle with Lindsay Lohan on the front. I am aware that this calm will last but a short while. And the Mormons (or JW’s – who knows the difference?)  have just visited, dropped off a tract, and then politely left, without talking at length to me about Jesus. Which is also making me suspicious about the spooky ease of today. You never know – I may venture out, push my luck, and find a Hermes Kelly bag in the Trinity Hospice shop for a fiver. I did find some Ferragamo shoes in there for £15 about a month ago. Not the same, but I do feel LUCKY.

Baby Names Musings:

Henry

Jeremiah

Jed

Otto

Samson

Cosmo

Gideon

Wooing of Celebs Progess Report:

1. Josh Brolin – I am thinking we are getting along nicely. There had been quite a bit of jovial banter about Custard, as Custard is clearly a man-magnet. He has been wandering onto the street, shouting an approximation of a lusty “Hello!” to the film crew/Naomi Watts/Josh Brolin – and has on occasion got them to chat back. Furry-faced bear of a man Brolin made some crack about getting together fo coffee with Custard. Code for “Hmm, lovely lady, wanna touch this manly beard with your lips?” I think so. Reckon am about three days away from consummation.

2. Woody Allen – OK, he is about 75, with questionable ethics, and sports the papery skin of the aged, but those glasses – and that neurotic schtick – and that way with the camera! Am thinking he is into me big time.  There was that undeniable moment three days ago when he walked past, I gurned, he looked up, kind of alarmed, but -BAM! – our eyes did the electric connection thing. I think.  

Right. The loveliness is over. The shouting has begun. Time for a chocolate crepe.

By the way – see below what going to a Game Fair does to your kid: