Straw 6

I've cracked.

More of why later....

Oh ye of little faith...

Well, I finally know how to get you guys interested. It seems that chocolate is the key - why on earth didn't I think of this earlier? Just include the word 'chocolate' in a post and hits on the blog go up by 20%. Brilliant!

So....

Chocolate

Chocolate

Chocolate

(Repeat to fade...)


But I know what you're really here for. Did I eat it or not?

Now, I thought about stringing you along for a while in a radio-show host styley, which by the way, really pisses me off.... Don't they think about the heart-rate of the poor person on the other end of the phone when they say; "Sandra..... Sandra...." "Yes?" "How much do you need this money?" "Oh, Chris, you have no idea. It will really make a difference." "And what do you think? Did you give me the correct answer?" "I don't know Chris. I mean, I thought I had, but then my neighbour's sister-in-law knocked on the window during the ad-break and told me that the capital of Spain was Majorca, and now I'm all confused..." "Well, Sandra. She's wrong. It's not Majorca." "Yes?" "So Sandra......" "Yes?"

And so on.

But then I realised you would just skip the waffling and jump straight to the answer, so here it is.




No. I did not eat the chocolate.


But before you click away, muttering to yourself about inhuman will-power and start thinking I am not the down-to-earth everywoman you imagined, let me add this:

I did not eat the chocolate. Yet.


I know, I know. I've come this far. 3 days home alone (with the Boys, clearly, who can forget them?), and I've not given in. Why stop fighting now?

Have you heard about the straw that broke the camel's back? Well, these are today's...


Straw 1

As you know, Husband is away. Whilst I'm generally an emancipated independant sort of a woman, since I had the kids I find it difficult to sleep if there is no snorer next to me. I kind of put myself on high alert in that situation, so if the boys so much as sniffle I sit up in bed and start imagining all sorts of disaster scenarios. For example, last night...

Disaster Scenario 1.

Boy #2 coughs.

What if he's got pneumonia? Who will look after Boy #1 if I have to take Boy #2 to hospital? Will the neighbours answer if I call them to do it (at 3am?). Who else will be in the peadiatric emergency ward if I take Boy #2 in? Will I be exposing my child to TB / Legionnaires Disease / The Plague? Should I pack a bag? What about formula? Where is the Karvol?


Disaster Scenario 2.

It starts raining.

Oh god. We live in a basement. Will the drains take it? What can I do if they don't? I KNEW I should have bought sand-bags. But then where would we keep them? Can't keep them outside because of course then they would get wet in the rain, and then they would be too heavy for me to move them in front of the front door. But we don't have them, so... Gosh, that rain's heavy. Where are the passports? Better have them handy in case we need to get out of the flat. (?????)

And so on.


Straw 2.

Boy #1's whinge-fest when he got up this morning. It sounded as if I was inflicting all sorts of injuries. When I asked him to clear up the blocks he had tipped all over his bedroom floor before we left, you should have heard the moaning. There were tears, shouting, sobbing, and general despair as he tried to explain (through the hysterical hiccups) that he was simply looking for the rest of his Dizzy (Bob the Builder) lego toy, which it was vitally important to find before he went in to school.

Now, I knew that most of this toy was rattling around in the bottom of his toy box, but that would have entailed a full-scale excavation worthy of the Valley of the Kings, with all sorts of treasures coming to the surface to distract and delay us before we left the house at 8.15am, so decided that the upset was better than the chaos that would have ensued if I shared this information.

Bad mummy.


Straw 3

Husband calls from Moscow. When I dutifully enquire after his health he announces grimly that he is alright - now.

Clang (that's the bell of doom, by the way).

It transpires that, whilst staying in a friend's apartment, he was taking a shower this morning, stepped out of it to reach for the shampoo he had left in his soap-bag, slipped, careered across the tiled floor, fell with a mighty thud, and slid into the side of the bath where his foot went through an unbacked tile, slicing open his big toe. (I won't tell you left or right. The poor man has to keep some secrets).

Apparantly, as he was falling, in that split second 'life-flashing before your eyes' moment, he foresaw complete disaster and envisaged breaking his back and having no way to answer the call to the emergency services when they came rushing to the door to save him. (Honestly, talk about hysterical thoughts, or what?).

A hospital visit was required, (although he was able to walk there, hmmm), and shots and antibiotics were prescribed. Unsuprisingly, he is feeling rather sorry for himself.

Great. I'm sympathetic, of course I am, but as we are due to be skiing this weekend (yes, our weekend away, the one without the kids), this is not the best news. And guess who no doubt will be carrying both our bags through the airport?

Bad wife.


Straw 4

Nuts at this afternoon's playdate. None consumed by the Boys, but my condition of 'high alert' was increased until it was one minute to midnight on the Doomsday clock (check the link if you don't know what I'm talking about) for the whole afternoon. Not relaxing. I wouldn't mind but I always let the mums know about Boy#1's allergy in advance. I think that next time this happens I will simply walk around with the Piriton on my belt in a holster.

(It's a shame we all have mobiles in a way. If we didn't I could drive the point about cause (nuts) and effect (hospitalisation) home even further by asking the host mum to make sure she keeps her landline free in case I need to call 999...)


Straw 5

A parking ticket when I came out of both the Boy's parents evening at their nursery. Yes. I know. Parents evenings for a 2 and a 4 year old. (Obviously they are both child prodigies who are delights to teach, but you don't need to know that...).


And so. No chocolate consumed - yet.

Go on, you know you want to...

There's chocolate in the house.


And what's worse, I know where it is.


This is a potentially disastrous situation. Husband left for Russia this morning, so I have been home alone with the Boys all day, with only a diet coke as a treat for solace and consolation. Consequently there's a little voice in my head telling me how good I've been, reminding me that he's gone until Wednesday evening, and pointing out that even should I weaken and consume some (oh, alright, all) of it, I can replace it and no-one will be any the wiser. Except my waistband, of course. Oh yes, and a certain little African Bird who apparantly loves my consuming sugar and will reappear the moment I do.

But even so, I can hear the siren voice of the chocolate calling me from the top of the fridge as I sit here trying to ignore it.


Oh yes. It's in the fridge. That means it's The Good Stuff.


Normally I wouldn't be foolish enough to have such temptation in the house, but we went to Selfridges on Thursday morning. It was ostensibly a trip to the Oxford Street John Lewis to pick out some housey-housey stuff for long-overdue furniture renovations, with a only a 5 minute side-trip to the Shrine of Shopping for Husband to stock up on coffee for his Nespresso machine.

However.... once it had taken him 20 minutes to make the purchase of what had originally been planned as two cartridges of coffee pods and ended up as rather more than that (think presentation display box of every variant of coffee under the sun), we had no time left to schlep down to JL.

(I wouldn't mind, but I don't even drink coffee. This, by the way, is why I call it 'Husband's Nespresso machine', which he purchased in a moment of extreme stress shortly after he got the bad news about his job. He calls it a 'money-saving device', and claims it will stop him from being forced to consume his body-weight in coffee at one of the 4 Starbucks outlets situated less than 5 minutes walk from us at all points on the compass. I call it 'retail therapy', and wonder what's wrong with the machine we already had. But whatever, if it keeps him happy, I am prepared to give up precious counter space in the kitchen.)

So anyway, there we were, standing in Selfridges with time to kill and I couldn't help myself. I had to check out the food hall. And on the way there, we happened to pass the Leonidas stand. For the uninitiated amongst us, I've included a link, but think Belgian chocolate, praline, deliciousness and extreme opportunities for over-indulgence and weight gain. (It's not quite as good as Rococo, but it will do...)

I can't help it. If it's chocolate, and expensive, I'm addicted.

But only if it's in the house. I am capable of walking past these high-end outlets without so much as a second glance - well, maybe without so much as a third glance - but then Husband pointed out that it's Easter shortly. And also that his mother loves this brand and will need a pay-off for looking after the boys for us next weekend when he and I scoot off for our illicit weekend away (hurrah!). It made perfect sense to stock up whilst we were there, he said.

Before I knew it, I found myself unwillingly dragged to the holy of holies. Doesn't he know what this stuff does to me?

Thankfully, we were unable to buy any eggs for the Boys due to issues with nuts (and let's face it, what 2 or 4 year old wouldn't really prefer a £2.99 milk chocolate Thomas the Tank Engine egg from Marks and Spencers - guaranteed nut free - over a plain, boring, unlicensed, totally delicious - oops, getting carried away again - one from Leonidas, Prestat or Rococo?), but we did come away with a box of chocolates for Mother in Law, and - crucially - 2 bags of mini-chocolate praline eggs 'just in case' we needed to give them as presents at Easter.

Presents? At Easter?

If they make it to Good Friday it will only be because I have suffered a blow to the head and have forgotten what the yellow Selfridges bag tucked so obtrusively on the top shelf of the fridge contains....

I would like to think that I could rely on some vestige of willpower to see me through, but with Husband out of the country and sugar levels low following a restricted diet in an attempt to cut out visits from the Bird, resistance is low.

Or should I say futile?

Add to this the fact that we dropped Husband at the airport mid-morning. Picture perfect as it was, this is not a mistake I'm going to repeat. Whilst Boy #1 got the point that Papa was only away for a few days, Boy #2 (at only just 2 years old), didn't. Airports, to him, mean family trips. Holidays. And most importantly, planes. (Or, 'paynes' as he calls them). When he realised that we weren't accompanying his father through the International Departures gate, and that no plane ride was in the offing, all hell broke loose.

He did a more than passable impersonation of Houdini with the straps on his buggy whilst Boy #1 and I made a rush for the exit. The air of chaos surrounding us was not helped by Boy #1, affected more than I'd realised by Husband's departure (silly of me really, but he'd been so matter of fact about it all up until then), getting confused over who is who and starting to wail that he wanted his mama. Yes, mama.

Now, he meant papa. Clearly. You know that, and I know that. But if you were standing in the check-in queue, looking at a harrassed woman rushing two small boys out of the airport, one of whom is crying fit to break your heart, and the other of whom is shouting for his mother, wouldn't it raise an eyebrow?

Amazingly, we didn't get stopped.

I consoled Boy #2 with a detour around the Heathrow perimiter road on our way home, nearly crashing the car any number of times in the process as I pointed out various planes to him (who knew they'd changed the layout due to the introduction of Terminal 5?), and then rewarded Boy #1 for not turning me in to the authorities with an illicit viewing of 'Crocodile Hunter - Collision Course' later in the afternoon.

With Husband out of the house I thought I would get away with this excessive tv viewing and that no-one would be any the wiser as to my poor parenting skills, especially as my original plan (which he was aware of) had been to take them to Holland Park after Boy #2's afternoon nap. But no. The first thing Boy #1 did when my beloved called from Moscow this evening?

"Papa! Papa! We watched Crocodile Hunter THE MOVIE! It was great!"

Busted.

No wonder I want chocolate.

For better and for worse...

So, you heard it here first. The 'credit crunch' is real, and there are human casualties - namely, Husband. He was made redundant in January in the first of what will no doubt be many rounds of firing, by the world's most profitable company. No names, no pack drill, but if you look for details on a bank that is due to get rid of somewhere between 25,000 and 30,000 people on a world-wide basis, it won't take you long to work out which one.

Are we upset? More to the point, is he upset?

Well, yes and no.

It's definitely time to move on, however it happened. He's disillusioned with the structure, he's been there long enough to have a respectable number of years on his cv, he's outlasted almost all his contemporaries and made it further up the ladder than he thought he might, and a bit of time at home with us is going to be great. (He says).

But he's worked his butt off for this company since he returned from his stint in Russia. He's put in hours that make people unconnected with the world of high finance blink and say 'But not every week, surely?', but which we have become accustomed to. I learnt long ago not to count on holidays actually happening (or, when they did happen, that they would be uninterrupted by his needing to fly out for a day or two to a meeting), or to rely on his being available for anything during the week, because the chances were strong that, having started at 7.30am, he would still be unable to get home much before midnight. Around 4 days a week. Or more, if he were working on a deal.

You think this is bad? You should try being a junior associate in one of these companies. All nighters were frequent in his first 2 - 3 years. We often said that it was a blessing we met when he was working in Russia because at least it gave our relationship a better chance of survival - with his working 2000 miles away - than it would have had if we hadn't got together before he started in the depths of the City.

Of course, I hear you saying; but what about the bonus? Didn't that make it all worthwhile? No doubt you've heard tell of these fat cats taking home millions every year to their mansions in Knightsbridge, and storing it in offshore accounts to avoid being taxed.

Ha! And thrice, Ha!

Of course there are people who benefit like that; but let me tell you, as in so many stories that the press pump out, in reality they are few and far between.

So, he is just a little downcast right now. Not only because of his current situation, but also because he enjoyed his job, and it looks unlikely the banks will be hiring again until much later this year. Which leads me neatly on to my dilemma in all this.

No, not will he get another job. Of course he'll get another job. It just won't be tomorrow. And in the meantime...


What the hell am I going to do with him around the house?


And before you suggest it, me getting a job is not an option - much as I might want to. He's likely to be away consulting for the next few weeks, so I still need to be here to hold the fort. (Plus, after 2 years of questioning whether being home was the right thing for our family, I've finally started to enjoy it. So sue me...)

But in the meantime, we've already had the arguments over my incorrect stacking of the dishwasher. I am ineffecient, apparantly. Are the plates clean? I ask. That's not the point, I'm told. I bite my tongue. (I am doing a lot of that recently). We reach a compromise: I won't mention the un-emptied gym bag or the coffee cups left around the place, he mustn't criticise the way I stack the blasted dishwasher.

We've had conversations about the time I leave to collect the Boys from school. Too early, he suggests? Only if you don't have to fight the mafia-black 4x4's for one of only a few parking spaces, I reply. But if it bothers you that much, be my guest, darling. You go.

And do we really need to take supplies of drinks and biscuits on the afore-mentioned school run? Can't the Boys wait until they get home, it is only a few minutes drive, after all? OK, buster (through gritted teeth). You try not taking the in-flight refreshments. I will make sure I'm out when you get back so I don't have to listen to the wails approaching up the street of two hungry and thirsty pre-schoolers who are convinced the world has turned upside down because there is no apple juice or low-sugar biscuit in the car... (Although of course when Daddy picks them up the excitement at such an unusual event cancels out the need for food and drink. Little traitors).

Today's topic was a doozy.

I always try and leave it 48 hours in between trips to the gym (often, of course, it's a great deal longer, but let's not dwell on that fact). This is to give my basically non-sporty body the chance to recover from the shock it gets when I do any kind of fitness-like activity. Not necessary, I'm told. Your body can take a lot more than you think, it seems. Apparantly, since Husband's intensive training and weight loss programme started at the beginning of the year, he has realised that the 48 hour thing is a myth. (How much does it piss you off, by the way, when men lose weight by only doing a few swims and cutting out their mid-morning cappucino? 5 kilos in 5 weeks? Gah!) Anyway, never mind that I have spent 12 years or so slogging away on the treadmill and he is only a convert to the gym for the last couple of months; I am doing it all wrong.

I bite my lip, and stick to my guns. No, I am not going today - not even if it does fit in with your schedule better, beloved.

And so it goes on.


But on the plus side, it actually is quite cool to see more of him. I did marry him, after all...

Time Off...

I've been meaning to post this for a while: it's an account of a weekend off husband and I had in New York 18 months ago, and have finally got round to it after being inspired by Iota and her trip a few days ago. It's not short - consider yourself warned....


Time Off

Thursday 5th October

So Husband and I are off to New York for a long weekend, leaving the Boys in the care of their grandparents for 4 days. Am both excited (I get to sleep, uninterrupted, all the way there if I want!) and apprehensive about leaving them; this is the first time since Boy #2 was born that we’ve done this. Conflicting emotions abound; the bliss of travelling without the kids (and not least, their related luggage) versus the pain of leaving them behind. And don’t forget the guilt… how can I do this to them? The sensible part of me states they won’t remember my leaving, only my return. But the Emotional Mummy part knows I’ll scar them for life…

My father drops us at the airport, following a frantic morning of last minute shopping and writing of copious lists. I never realised it was so complicated looking after the Boys until I had to put it all on paper for grandparents who haven’t done this sort of thing for a while. But the evidence shows that they have done it – and since Husband and I both made it through our childhoods, I can just about force myself to make that leap of faith it will all be OK…

Once on board the plane, the pre-flight glass of illicit champagne never tasted so good (thank heavens for air-miles and free up-grades; I knew there had to be some advantage to Husband having to spend more time in the air than a commercial air pilot…). I watch a movie uninterrupted, such a pleasure – but what is it? ‘Cars’, of course. I just can’t turn this mummy business off…

We arrive exhausted with great plans to go out, but crash before 9pm local time (in my defence, it is 2am at home), and sleep through until 5.30am when my beloved gets up to work. (The fun never stops with his job)


Friday 6th October

Thanks to the time difference, for once we are up early on holiday, and are even out of the hotel before the shops open. We walk down through Soho and Greenwich, getting cold and wet (what happened to the glorious autumn weather we ordered?), and stop for a restorative hot chocolate in a very un-American French bakery. Why does drinking out of bowls seem exotic and right in France (or indeed in a pretend version of it), and just a pain in the backside anywhere else?

Then on to the Rockefeller Centre and 5th Avenue to give the credit card a warm-up, before lunch in the Boathouse in Central Park. We are surrounded by middle-aged ladies (tanned, leathery, with bad posture, and frankly dreadful clothes), all of whom are having reunions, loudly and competitively comparing photos of their nearest and dearest. “Yes, that’s me in our back yard, with a wild turkey” I hear one say. Her friends look less than impressed. I can almost hear them think; is that the best she can do? There is also a wedding party with a shivering bride who looks like she wishes she had heeded her sisters’ advice and waited for better weather next spring.

I notice that there is not a single child in the restaurant. Of course it’s a school day, but where are all the babies and toddlers? And, bearing in mind this is supposed to be a child-free weekend, why on earth do I care?

After a stroll through the park we pay a quick visit to FAO Schwarz. It would be rude not to, really. We pick up a couple of presents for the boys, and admire the enormous stuffed toys (I think Boy #1 would particularly like the moose, almost life-size, yours for a paltry $1599). We also watch some ecstatic kids creating their own ice cream flavours and enjoying a birthday party they will never forget in the store café. It’s hosted by a Robin Hood and a Snow White who put most kids entertainers I’ve seen back home to shame – but then, this is New York. They probably have night jobs on Broadway.

In the evening we go out with a couple of Brits and a very opinionated New Yorker (although that is probably an oxymoron), who talks damningly of London crime rates and dirt. I am desperate to counter with the fact that I’ve seldom seen a shabbier first world city than her home – but decide that to say so might not be the most tactful response. I sit on my hands and keep schtum.

Having kidded ourselves for the evening that we are still young and in touch we finally give it up and go home early around midnight, where we find ourselves in the hotel lobby surrounded by hip locals and tourists from New Jersey who trek in at the weekends to be part of the ‘happening’ crowd in the bar upstairs. Of course, I was much too knackered to take advantage. Life the fast lane…

Miss the boys throughout the day, especially Boy #2’s compact, heavy little body, and Boy #1's mercurial temper…


Saturday 7th October

Better weather (thank god), a visit to MoMA (exhausting – I can only do so many floors of pictures before I start to get art-blindness. I know – I’m a philistine), more shopping and then lunch in a soul-less mall with a nice French cafe. (Don’t worry, we also found room in our weekend to gorge ourselves on local cuisine; did I mention that our lunch at the swanky-sounding Boathouse was in fact a hamburger?). The mall is home to a shrine to cookery on the ground floor, a store stuffed to the gunnels with expensive cookbooks, pots and pans – mostly imported from Europe – which according to friends over here, once installed in splendour in tiny New York kitchens, are destined never to be used. Most should never lose their ‘For display purposes only’ stickers…

In the evening we go to a local Italian in Greenwich and pretend we are in any number of gangster movies / chick flicks. The food is… OK. The atmosphere is priceless. Then back to the hotel for yet more sleep. How much is enough, I wonder? Is it ever possible, post kids, to have too much sleep? Don’t think about this for long however, as I start to worry that the grannies might not be taking good enough care of Boy #2’s eczema (as it turns out, I’m right). And before I know it, it’s morning again…


Sunday 8th October

Our final day, and glorious sunshine. At last, the weather we ordered. We have a leisurely breakfast, another walk, and then go the Frick Collection for a spot more culture, because we really should take advantage of the opportunity to visit these places without having to worry about our children destroying some priceless antique. There is a parade on 5th Avenue – Hispanic Columbus Day – so to avoid the surrounding gridlock we walk the 30 blocks downtown to the Empire State. By the time we get there however we find there is a 2 hour wait before you can go up, so give it up as a bad job and go for lunch in a diner instead. Yes, more hamburgers, delicious. Almost as delicious as the Bloody Mary I precede it with (well, I am on holiday, after all…)

We sit outside, people-watching in the busy Meatpackers district, marvelling at the endless parade of New Yorkers with their dogs. According to our opinionated New Yorker from Friday night, dogs are essential for a proper Manhattenite as not only do they replace the need for children, but they give them an excuse to talk to complete strangers and so create a social life where there was none before. The dogs all seem happy enough, and fall into one of two categories; small and yappy, or big and aristocratic. I wonder if the dog’s size is an indicator of the owner’s wealth & status (bigger apartment = bigger dog?) but am assured that this is not the case, as most of these animals spend their weekdays in Doggy Day Care anyway – where there is plenty of room to run about, sofas to lounge on and TV’s for the pampered pooches to watch. Only in New York.

Find myself peering nosily into passing prams and buggies (I see the Bugaboo, that badge of the uber-mummy, has arrived here too). Feel marginally guilty that I’m doing this on a child-free get-away with my husband until I see him doing it too…

Finally, we go for one last walk in an effort to shift a few calories from our carb-heavy lunch, and finish off at a faux French bar opposite our hotel. One last drink, into a taxi, and back to the airport for the flight and a night of disturbed sleep in an attempt to ready myself for the onslaught of the boys when we get home.


Monday 9th October

Home at last – well, it feels like at last, although it has in fact only been 4 days… Boy #1 greets us at the door with delighted giggling, hugs, kisses and demands for presents (luckily we come prepared). Boy #2 sits on the floor and just beams at us.

How could I ever have left them?

Married bliss

Him (sitting in the drivers' seat of our car, looking expectant): 'Can I have the key, please?'

Me (handing my house and car key over): 'Oh, of course. Sorry.'

A couple of minutes pass, broken only by demands from the back seat for juice,biscuits, the steering wheel, and arguments over dinosaurs.

Me: 'Did you ever find your car key, by the way?' (Knowing of course that he hadn't).

Him: 'No. It will turn up.'

Me: 'Maybe you should think about keeping it on your key ring with all your other keys. Rather than separate, when it's easier to lose.'

Him: 'Don't be silly. Of course it's not easier to lose when it's on it's own.'

Me: 'Have you ever lost your other keys? You know - the ones on a key ring, altogether?'

Him: 'No.'

Me: 'Have I?'

Him: 'No.' Then, under his breath: 'Bollocks.'

Home sweet home...

Hurrah! We're home!

That's not to say that we didn't have a fabulous time (we did), that the chalet we stayed in wasn't perfectly located (it was), or that we argued with the friends we were on holiday with (we didn't), but it's just lovely to be back in your own space.

Even if there are about 5,000 loads of laundry outstanding.

I told Husband this evening that when we win the lottery, my main luxury will be to have someone to do our washing for us. Of course, being a man, and having initially pointed out that you need to be in it to win it (can't remember the last time we actually got round to buying a ticket, but never mind), he got carried away, and started envisaging all sorts of house-keeper type services. Apparantly just laundry is not enough; we need someone living in the grounds of the palatial mansion we will move into, who will be on-call at the touch of a button, who will do all the shopping, tidying, and general admin, will ferry the kids to school, and generally take the pain out of life.

He's clearly missing catered chalet-living already - and we only got back at 3.00pm today.

So this evening, I sent him out to forage for a curry as since we have - yet again - forgotten to buy a lottery ticket, there is no-one to do our laundry other than me, and I am clearly far too busy sorting coloured clothes from whites to consider setting foot in the kitchen - and I wanted to write this post.

I can't blame him for missing the 'help' really, it's addictive. But I think the main thing that has come out of this holiday is how different it was from skiing holidays pre-kids.

For example:

Then: drive through the night to arrive first thing in the morning, bleary-eyed and dehydrated, to dump your stuff in your tiny apartment, and rush down to the ski lifts to get your pass and dash up onto the slopes.

Now: arrive mid-afternoon (after a crushingly early start, mind you - I am not at my best at 5.30am, especially when covered with milk from Boy #2's leaking bottle), unpack - everything, including all the useless stuff you added at the last minute knowing you probably wouldn't use it but hey, that spare pair of sunglasses could come in handy in case Boy #1 loses his at ski school and of course you will be far too busy to walk the 10 metres to the shop to buy replacements there (even if the sales have started already) - and then sit down for a nice cup of tea before sorting out your ski hire.

Then: following an extended apres-ski session at Pub le Ski Lodge, spend a happy couple of drunken hours sliding down the nursery slope on your butt and a tea tray, squealing like a stuck pig and wondering why everyone in the resort isn't out there with you having the time of their lives too.

Now: after an extended bath session with your sons, spend a frustrated couple of hours with them trying to convince Boy #1 that no, it isn't a good idea to put on his ski trousers and go and join the oh-so-happy grown-ups out on the piste, and that it really is time to go to sleep now. Once he has eventually dropped off, and you have woken up from your half-hour nap on the twin bed next to him where you just put your head on the pillow for 5 minutes to convince him to close his eyes, you chunter crossly to the other grown-ups in your party about irresponsibility when drunk, and wonder enviously if those 20 year olds outside could just turn the volume down a little...

Then: leave the apartment each morning at around 8.45am to make the first lift up, spend the day skiing hard (though of course not well), fortified only by vin chaud, tartiflette, mini-mars bars and the odd plate of chips, before skiing home exhausted at around 5.30pm just in time to change your sweaty top and head for - you guessed it - Pub le Ski Lodge, to talk about the number of wipe-outs you had and how funny it was watching Mark take out Rob at the top of that icy slope.

Now: wake up at 7.00am, spend the next hour and 45 minutes cajoling your children to eat breakfast, suit up Boy #1, cover all his exposed skin with heavy-duty sun cream which of course also smears itself attractively across your black ski trousers, and drag him unwillingly across the piste to his lesson.

Once there, he practises his impression of 'The Scream' face whenever he looks at you, but is cheerfully chatting to his neighbour, the teacher and anyone who'll listen about how he'll be skiing down the mountain by lunchtime the moment your back is turned. You know this, because of course you have eyes in the back of your head, but still feel horrifically guilty as eventually, around 9.30am, you leave the edges of the class and head back to the chalet to get your skis. By the time you reach the lifts it is 10.00am, and you have exhausted yourself by simply putting your boots on.

After a gentle of couple of hours on the slopes you decide to call it a day and go home. You are totally knackered, and fall asleep on the sofa to the accompaniment of children's dvd's (Winnie the Pooh in Dutch - guaranteed to be soporific) at around 3.30pm.


Needless to say, we will be booking next year's trip toute suite...