Creepy-crawlies 'r' us

So here I sit, in our cubby-hole office, tapping away, throwing Smarties down my neck (and feeling slightly queasy as a result, blast my mother-in-law for bringing them for the boys, did she really for one moment think they would actually get passed on?) surrounded by... by... I can hardly bring myself to say it.... spiders.


I hate spiders.


Ever since I was a child, I loathed them. There's something about the way they scuttle about, dropping down silently from the ceiling to sit glaring malevolently at you from corners that really freaks me out.


Don't get me wrong - I'm not phobic. I'm able to make use of a glass and sheet of paper with the best of them. Always assuming the offending creature is on a smooth surface of course - carpets are just a nightmare, I end up with decapitations, amputations, and spider legs all over the shop.

And I'm not a spider murderer. Well, not any more. The days of telephone directories being dropped from a great height - and then dropped repeatedly if the little bugger was on guard, until the deed was done - are long gone. Now I just capture them in a glass and take them out of the flat, up the stairs, across the road and drop them into the garden square where I trust they will find a new and happier home. And if they don't, well, it's too far for them to come back. That's not excessive behaviour. Is it?


My mother used to despair of me. I grew up in a very old house in the middle of the countryside surrounded on 3 sides by a garden. It was arachna-tastic in that house. She spent much of the time racing up stairs coming to rescue me from the wretched creatures as I perched on a bed / chair / the edge of the bath screaming blue murder. But, as time passed, I grew up a bit. And learnt to deal with them.


But when I sit here tapping away and make the mistake of looking up - I wish I hadn't. For some reason this tiny room is what the spiders of South Kensington see as a highly desirable residence. They make every effort to come in here, setting up home in the book shelves and over the spotlights, so wherever I look is covered by fine mesh of cob-webs, rather like that scene in the first Indiana Jones film when he - oh, I can't bear to write about it.


And it's not like I don't fight back. I move them. I dust. I even - when I'm feeling particularly ruthless - hoover the shelves, wall, door and ceiling. And occasionally, the floor. Then we have a spider-free zone for about 2 days before they all come back in with their suitcases and mulitple pairs of shoes. Why? It's not even as if there are any flies in here.



Anyway...



I digress. This post was actually meant to be about my chasing Boy #2 round the viewing gallery during Boy #1's swimming lesson at Chelsea Leisure Centre this afternoon.

Imagine a charmingly reconditioned 1920's style swimming pool with a 3 tier bench viewing platform suspended 20 feet up, with only a set of railings that are set just a little too far apart for comfort between you and the drop, and you'll have the right picture.


Now imagine a cheeky 2 year old seeing just how far his mother is capable of being pushed without cracking. His opening move was the old 'orange peel dropped from 20ft into the pool' gambit. Well, it wasn't, not quite, but only because I clearly have more kung-fu reflexes than I realised. After a pause to lull me into a false sense of security, he decided to race along behind the benches to see if he could beat mama to the next gap - and a clear run down to those worrying railings. And then, when he had me stranded on the other side of the pool, he tried simply heading off for the exit in the hope someone would open the door and it would just be Boy #2 and 20 concrete steps.


And all of this in 27 deg C heat. Which meant I was rather more flustered than I would have liked to be whilst chatting to Boy #1's extremely good looking swimming coach after his lesson. There's just something about those wetsuits...


In any case, I was a little snappy on the way home.


But not so snappy that I have forgotten I still have an award and a tag to pass out. So, firstly, here is the 'Best Blogging Buddies' Award.






As Mya (who was kind enough to give this one to me in the first place) said, it is 'quite nauseatingly kitsch' - but very cute for all that. I would like to pass this one on to Iota at Not Wrong, Just Different, even though she's not blogging right now (not blogging, that is, in the same way that I'm not eating chocolate), and to Tracey at cRaZy tRaCe for being brave beyond the call of duty in cycling long distances and throwing herself down canyons with only a lolly-stick for buoyancy. Or something. And that's not to say that there aren't loads more people who don't equally qualify, but I will get bored with putting the links for their sites on this post. So if you want it, just take it.


Secondly, I need to delight a couple of people with the tag Reluctant Memsahib passed my way a week or so ago. You remember, you need to let us know what, in the last week, you have:

• read
• watched on tv
• listened to
• and surfed

I hope your selection is more edifying than mine, Expat Mum and Beta Mum... Enjoy!

Izzy Whizzy, let's get Busy...

So this evening we were visited by The Great Chico Uno, Magician to the Stars, who decided to stage an impromptu show on the sofa-bed in his brother's bedroom. The show proceeded along the following lines:


Boy #1: Ladies & Gentlemen! Welcome to the Situation!


Boy #2 applauds enthusiastically whilst I wonder exactly what 'Situation' he has in mind and why he sounds like some crisis management expert...


Me: Hurray! A magician! But maybe we could just put some clothes on first?


Boy #1: What can you see, mama? What can you see?


Me (struggling to put Boy #2's nappy on as he does an impression of a particularly slippery eel due to the large amounts of cream I've just smothered him in, and facing in the opposite direction): Oh, I can see...Boy #2.


Boy #1: No, no turn around, turn around! Now, what can you see?


Me: I can see all of the Amazing Magician (are you sure you're not cold?) and... 3 books on the sofa.


Boy #1 (hastily stuffing one of the books down the back of the sofa): No, no. There are only meant to be two. You can only see 2, mama.


Me: I can see - yes, I'm almost sure - TWO books!


Boy #1: Now, close your eyes. No peeking... Now, what can you see?


Me: Wow! The books have completely disappeared and been replaced by two sofa cushions! That's incredible!


Boy #1: Now, say it with me: 'Abrapadaber! Go, on say it mama. One, two - no, Boy #2, leave the cushions alone! He's spoiling it mama! He's spoiling it! (Hostilities break out as Boy #2 attempts to scale the sofa and join in the fun. I pick him up. Calm is restored...) OK, mama, say it with me: AbraViagra! AbraViagra! Why are you laughing?





So I mentioned last post that I have a couple of awards and a couple of tags to pass on. I really am the worst at this sort of thing as I don't want to single anyone in particular out, but in the interests of keeping these things rolling (and in the hopes of being awarded more in the future - not that I need validation or anything), here goes.


The first was handed on to me by Jen at Something to Say : About Life in the Netherlands and in her words:


'It's a big kiss, of the chaste platonic kind, from me to you with the underlying 'thanks' message implied. I really do appreciate your support and your friendship and yes, your comments.'

I would like to pass this one on to Aims, Pig in the Kitchen, Frog in the Field, Dulwich Mum, and Mya - and to all of you, if you have this already, apologies, but tough. Here it is again.

So, having thought about it, I have decided to string this awards thing out a little (yes, as mentioned a couple of days ago, I'm short of stuff I'm allowed to blog about, so got to make the most of material as it presents itself), so am afraid you'll have to wait for the second award, but following on from being tagged by Mya a week or so back to reveal 7 Random Facts about myself (see here if you have a few minutes to kill and no paint to watch dry), I would like to tag...

Tattie Weasle - because I haven't heard from her in ages - and Elsie Button. Looking forward to reading them, ladies, and again, sorry if you already did it for someone else. (And let's face it, they have to be more interesting than my 7 Random Facts...)

Tig TAG Toe...

Lucky me, I've been tagged again, this time by the hugely talented Reluctant Memsahib. If you haven't checked out her blog yet I can highly recommend it; you don't get that much further from urban than where she is now...

Just one thing, though. This tag is the real deal. It calls on me to reveal the following:

• What I've read (OK...)
• What I've watched (are you serious?)
• What I've listened to (help!)
• What I've surfed (Holy Mary, Mother of God, I've been rumbled)

Well, that's it. The game's up. As I said on my comment to Reluctant Memsahib, I am about to be unmasked as the cultural philistine I really am. Farewell; once you've worked your way through the list below you may not pass this way again.

You might wonder at this point why I'm going through with this. Is it because I'm short of ideas? Well, no, actually not. Just short of ideas I can actually blog about. Check out Iota's blog to see what I'm referring to (in brief, the dangers of people you know reading your blog). But enough of my peppering this post with references to other bloggers to try and distract you. I said I'ld do this, so here goes....


What I've read.

(I'm sitting here scratching my head struggling to come up with something not too embarrassing...)

Oooh, oooh, yes! Yes! The Times! I read the Times! Yesterday, in fact. (Thank god, I'm saved). Obviously I paid particular attention to their Times 2 supplement (a glorified gossip sheet if I'm totally honest) with the article in it about Amy Winehouse imploding, and the editorial about how school selection procedures can blight a mother's life, but in my defence I also vaguely remember a more serious piece in the main body of the newspaper about the energy crisis and how we are all going to have pay a lot more to have the lights on over the next few years.

To recover from the overdose of reality (ha!) detailed above, I have also been reading some chick-lit.

No, do I really have to tell you which book?

Damn. 'Me and Mr Darcy'. There, I said it. And no, I'm not saying it again, and no, I'm not commenting on it. Read it yourself and then decide how much you are going to bill the author for wasting your time... Why, you may be wondering, does a clearly educated (University graduate, me, I'll have you know), usually lucid and occassionally intelligent woman in her 40's (OK, just 40 anyway) pick up this kind of title? Well, I could bore you with stories of how, having studied English Literature at uni for 3 years I then foreswore all serious novels for the next 15 and still have to break myself entirely of the habit of reading crap, but really? The clue's in the title of my blog. I'm potty.

Oh, yes, and I forgot, I have also been reading recipe books (Delia Smith, and Tana Ramsay. Separate books. Not together. That would be silly). Partly so I can work my way through the surfeit of vegetables we acquire every week when the Riverford Vegetable Box is delivered, but mainly because if I have to cook spag bol for the boys one more night I shall scream. And probably so shall they.


What I've watched

(Bet you didn't think this would take so long, RM...)

Not much over the last couple of days, actually, since our Sky dish has been playing up, and living in a basement, we don't get terrestrial reception. Well, we thought it was the dish. But then I mentioned the signal failure in passing to the builders working on the first floor flat in our block, asking nonchantly if any wires had been disconnected in the last 48 hours. Of course, they denied everything. But funnily enough, when I switched on the set this afternoon to put a dvd to distract the boys whilst I made dinner, there was C-Beebies in glorious technicolour. Hurrah!

But before that malarky, this week I have been watching (in no particular order)

• The News; So that Husband I can get depressed about the state of the money markets, the resultant impact on the City, and what that might mean for us.
• Larkrise to Candleford; a BBC costume drama special with all the trimmings, escapism in it's purest form and the tv equivalent to chick-lit (except Husband watched it too).
• Charlie & Lola; if you don't know what this is and have kids, you should. Google it now. (BTW - it is for the kids. Even if Charlie does promise to grow up into an upright and talented young man someday. But it's not like I fancy what he might turn into or anything. I mean, that would be sick).

What I've listened to

I should be saying something highbrow like Radio 4, BBC World Service, and Mahler's 5th Symphony, but something tells me that if you've read this far you aren't going to fall for that. So...

• Capital Radio; for the travel and Johnny Vaughan every morning (that man cracks me up), and for the weather. What do you mean, look out of the window?
• XFM in the car during the day, because they really do play a variety of new music (rather than constantly playing the same few hits over and over like, I hate to say it, Capital), and it helps me to fool myself I'm still tuned in to the zeitgeist and can get down with the kids. Which I can't, obviously. I would hurt my back.
• The 'Gym' playlist on my ipod. A mixture of tracks to try and make me forget the awful pain it is running on the spot for 20 (well, OK, 15) minutes. Covers everything from Rolling Stones, to Aretha Franklin, Scissor Sisters and The White Stripes through Jamiroqui, The Arctic Monkeys and Beck, to Sheryl Crowe and INXS. Eclectic, I agree.

What I've Surfed

Honestly? Not that much, actually. Obviously all the blogs on my favourites list, and then some. And frankly, once I've got through that lot, there's not a lot of time for other stuff. I have, though, looked at:

• BBC News website (I'm not obsessed by the news. I just often don't get to watch or hear it during the day so when I'm online I check every now again to make sure I haven't missed anything important. OK, yes, I'm a panicker...)
• Snow report websites. Not that I'm getting excited about going skiing in a few weeks. Ooooh no, not me. No sir.
• A couple of restaurant review sites. Because - just occasionally - Husband and I do get a life and go out, and whilst he's normally been anywhere swanky on his expense account, I haven't and it's nice to know what you're (supposed) to be getting.

And that's it. Revealed, in all my spendour, the shallow being I really am. Nice knowing you...


(BTW: I know I'm remiss, have a couple of awards to hand out, and now two tags to hand on, but I think I've trespassed on your goodwill for long enough this time. Maybe next post...)

Bleeuuurrrggghhhh...

So, I am going to vent. Again. I know, I know, I should learn to get it out of my system at the gym or something. But dammit, this is about the gym! There's nothing worse than going somewhere hoping to work out all your frustrations on the treadmill and then coming away feeling even crosser than when you went in...

Why am I at boiling point? Well...

First off, I discovered when I went to put my stuff in the locker that they do not have a tampax machine in that changing room. I mean, really. It's a woman's changing room. Full of women. Most of whom are at the age when that sort of thing might come in handy at some time - say, about once a month when dates get mixed up and you are unprepared.

Oh, they have vending machines, yes. For mints. For hairspray. For conditioner and deoderant. In fact, for most of the stuff that Tresemme sell in the shops. Very handy, I suppose. But surely - you are much more likely to suddenly find yourself in need of a tampax than shampoo (which, by the way, is also on tap in the shower cubicles). Or is that just me?

So, after searching the other two women's changing rooms (what can I say - it's a big gym), I finally located a machine hidden in the back of the one furthest away. Which was out of stock of all but mini tampax. Without getting too graphic, WHAT THE FXXK? (I am no longer 18. I have had 2 children. Know what I mean?).

After complaining to a completely non-understanding 18 year old Polish girl the size of a twig on reception, I made the most of what was available and stomped into the gym. Only to be confronted with a succession of nubile lovelies writhing about on the tv screens in front of the bank of cross-trainers, stair masters and treadmills. To be fair, there were also other programmes on view. Jeremy Kyle shouting at teenagers for getting pregnant and then treating the whole situation as if it was a playground spat. Fatuous morning tv shows discussing soap operas. Children's tv. Sky Sports.

Shoot me now.

Of course, the gym can't be held responsible for the rubbish quality of what's on tv. They can't be held responsible with MTV's fascination with Shakira and Beyonce writhing around on the floor and pouting provocatively at the camera. But here's the thing. Out of around 10 people using this bank of machines, NOT ONE was a man - surely the target audience for this soft porn. You'ld think at this time in the morning - straight after the school run - they would put on some equivalent for their Mummy users. I don't know - maybe some gratuitous shots of the England rugby team? Perhaps some marines in training? A few shots of some Himbo's in Baywatch?

So, having crossly used up a few hundred calories, I left. The visit wasn't a complete loss. On my way out I heard two women discussing how they could just never get organised. One was complaining how she had managed to forget her socks again.

"That's nothing" said her friend. "Yesterday I forgot my underwear. Now that isn't pretty."

Indeed.

Suckered

So. Boy#1 has succumbed to some nasty virus which resulted in a sick day for him today. Last night was a 'difficult time' for all involved (i.e. all of us except Boy #2 who calmly slept through the whole affair), in much the same way that it could be said Mr Brown has had a 'difficult time' since he finally got the job he wanted last June. That is, surrounded by unpleasant brown smelly stuff with no paddle in sight...

Following our tumultuous night, I decided that it was best to let Boy #1 sleep rather than go into nursery this morning. Besides, I think I mentioned the heavy-handed mobsters waiting outside the Boy's school with their 'search and destroy' approach to all who enter for infectious diseases or nasty colds, and I didn't fancy a repeat of the Oh la la! incident. So Boy #2 went trotting off sans brother with his father, proudly carrying his little green school bag and turning to wave and blow kisses before he got into the car (cue collective aaaah....).

The moment the door shut behind them, Boy #1 opened his eyes. I should have realised then that something was up.

Me: 'How do you feel, darling?'

Boy #1: 'My tummy huuuuurrrrts.'

Me: 'Do you need a poo again?' (Please, no)

Boy #1: 'Noooooo.' (Breaking down into little whimpers)

Me: 'Oh dear... Shall we read a story?'

Boy #1: 'Nooooooooo...'(more snuffles)

Me: 'Perhaps you might feel better if you had some water.'

Boy #1: 'Yes. And then, I know what might make my tummy feel alright.'

Me: 'What would that be, sweetie?'

Boy #1: 'Chocolate. And television.'


I don't know where he gets it from.


Note - I should say here that he really was ill last night. Just not, it seems, this morning. Or since...

Fully Formed at 7

So following on from the ketchup debacle, the boys and I spent a slightly tetchy weekend alone-ish.

Not entirely alone, obviously; we went to Holland Park on Saturday morning and got sand into places you wouldn't expect, until even I was forced to agree that that it had 'stopped raining slowly' and was now bucketing down. Then in the evening I took them over to friends for dinner so that they could trash their children's toys and then refuse to eat part of the dinner which had kindly been prepared for them. Not completely refuse, of course: Boy #1 ate everything except the broccoli, and Boy #2 ate everything except the chicken. You'ld think I would have learned by now to cook only one meal for them so that they could share it out between them like Jack Sprat and his wife.

My beloved then arrived back from his trip to the white stuff yesterday lunchtime. This was 5 hours earlier than scheduled - hurrah!

Determined to have some time off, I refused to cook dinner in the evening citing extreme cabin fever, and the fact that if I didn't get out of the house I was likely to implode - or at the very least, make him unpack his ski stuff before he planned to. Things didn't work out completely as planned, however, when the planned walk to a local Italian restaurant was rained off and I decided that dragging Husband and the Boys away from their train set was tantamount to cruelty. They looked so idyllic, playing together on the floor, that I just couldn't face suiting them up and getting soaked on the way to the car, only to sit in a noisy restaurant for an hour trying to get Boy #2 to stay put and Boy #1 to eat without whining.

So I went out to get pizza. By the time I got back it was only Husband playing with the train set whilst both Boys were glued to the tv. Hmmm....

The pizza delicious and both children shovelled it down as if they had not been fed in weeks, until Boy #1 said "I love pizza, mamma. Thankyou for making it." Deciding I couldn't really take credit for Strada's work, I owned up and said "Well, I didn't actually make it darling. I went and got this from a restaurant." Silence. "That's not very nice!" Shocked, I asked, "Why on earth not?"

"You can't just go into a restaurant and take people's food off their plates!"

Clearly he thinks I am the type of person who would make a hit and run attack on a pizza parlour. And I don't even own a striped shirt, black hat and mask... well, not since I left university, anyway.


On a more prosaic note, I read recently that the latest thinking amongst the child psychology community is that by the age of 7, most children's characters are fully formed (in their basic state). For example, a child of 7 will be passionate about 2 or 3 things, and these same things are the ones that - all being well, and barring any problems in development - they will remain passionate about for the rest of their lives.

This got me thinking of course about my boys, but also trying to think back how I was at 7 years old. What got my motor running at such a tender age? I should of course ask my mum, but she is out gallivanting as usual (when did my parents get a better social life than me? Aah yes - with the arrival of my children, of course), so I forced myself to think back on what was important to me at that age. This is a struggle because I can't remember what I had for dinner the day before yesterday, let alone what I did 30+ (ahem) years ago. It almost made my brain hurt - I could practically see the steam coming out of my own ears.

Still, after a good 5 minutes of intense brain activity, I came up with the following:

• Reading
• Learning - and regurgitating - useless facts
• Telling other people what to do

Is it any wonder I ended up working in marketing?

What were your passions at 7? And are they still manifesting themselves in your life?

Apocalypse now...

Panic at Restaurant Chez Potty ce soir. Well, to be honest, mayhem set in somewhat earlier than that. After a stupidly busy day ('stupidly busy' in so far as I'm not sure what I actually achieved, but I didn't stop moving from getting out of bed to - well, around now), at nursery pick-up time I also collected a friend of Boy #1's to bring him home for a play-date. (Cue deep-felt shudder from any Mums reading this post).

After marching away from the nursery - Boy #1 and Friend had clearly been reading military history in their Quiet Time, given the rate at which they were issuing orders to each other, Boy #2, and me - we stopped to cross the busy road.

Me: OK, stop, everyone. Wait here until I say go.

Friend: I am the Captain, I am in charge. I say when to go.

Boy #1: No, I am in charge. It's my turn.

Me (picking up Boy #2 and firmly wedging his considerable weight under one arm whilst doing a balancing act with their school-bags, a couple of cards - please, no more party invites! - and a flimsy plastic freezer bag containing Boy #2's baked offering of the day, chocolate rice crispy cakes, yum): No, you're both wrong. I am the general, and I am in charge.

Friend: No, no, I am the general.

Note: we had missed at least one opportunity to cross during this exchange, so I decided to take control.

Me: I am the Brigadier General (having no real idea who outranked who here, but banking on the fact I was dealing with a four year old, for chrissake), because I am the Mummy and we are going to cross the road when I say. Now let's go!

Eventually we got home after more arguing from the back seat of the car about army ranks and whose Daddy goes to the bigger school, and then things started to get interesting.

Demands were made by the Friend for bread with jam on (thankyou MIL, for providing home-made bramble jelly that sits waiting forlornly at the back of the fridge for a hungry visiting child to demand a snack that doesn't involve ham, cheese or chocolate), by Boy #1 for me to time how long each of them wore the knight's outfit to avoid outright hostilities, and by Boy #2 for me to carry him round on my hip in the kitchen whilst he wrapped his legs around me like a monkey and tried to reach the contents of the knife block, the recently boiled kettle, and the controls for the oven.

When Husband arrived for brief visit on his way to the airport (don't ask me where he was off to because I'm too envious to talk about it, but it involves ski-boots, dammit), he stood there blinking whilst the maelstrom whirled around him. The air of chaos was not helped by the fact that for some insane reason I had chosen this afternoon to make some curried parsnip soup (to cap it all the new veg box arrived this afternoon, and I couldn't face throwing yet more food away without making some attempt at being a home-maker), so it smelt somewhat more fragrant than I would have liked.

Husband left again (only to return somewhat later when his flight was cancelled due to recent events at Heathrow), and in the meantime the Friend was picked up by his mum and left, restoring relative calm to the flat.

But then disaster struck.

The menu this evening? Sausages (done to rather more than a turn, must fix that timer), potatoes (what's this stuff, mummy? The skin, darling. Needless to say, not eaten), carrots, and (in an effort to kid myself my children have a varied diet), purple sprouting broccoli. With the exception of the broccoli, fairly bulk-standard pre-schooler food, one would think. But wait. Something is missing - apparantly. Some vital food group. Something necessary to complete any meal with sausages. I was sent post-haste to the kitchen to rectify the oversight.

Imagine the horror then, when I opened the fridge door to find out...

...we had run out of ketchup.