E-buzzing Tart...

...that's me, right now.

Mainly because I'm taking not one, but two ads into the shower of my sidebar today. I didn't intend to, you understand; it's just that I installed the Intel ad on the right (Havainas, the previous incumbent, just didn't seem appropriate given our current British Summer weather) and then on the ebuzzing site I also saw the one above it, with Jensen Button and Lewis Hamilton. I'm afraid to say that to my jaded eyes at least, that was far more entertaining...

However, just because I'm not bowled over by the Intel ad, that doesn't mean others won't be, which left me with the dilemma of which of these ads to use for blog decor for the short term future. (Oh, the dilemma of the big-hitting blogger, haha...)

So I've put both of them up there.

I mean, Jenson, Lewis, and the chance to pimp your facebook page? What's not to like?

The curious case of the interchangeable grandads

On a trip out with Grandad yesterday afternoon, Boy #2 followed him across a carpark and temporarily lost sight of his grandfather when Dad walked around the back of the car to put something in the boot. So I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by the confusion that followed when, as Boy #2 reached the side of our car in the busy carpark he saw an older gentlemen sitting in the driving seat of the car next to ours with the window open and his head down as he sealed an envelope. Like my father, this man had grey hair, glasses, and was wearing a checked shirt. The similarities ended there, but when you're five...

Boy #2 walked up to the car and then inquired incredulously what the man was doing, in that car. It was immediately clear to me that he had got grandads confused, but of course the man didn't know that and was quite shocked to be accosted by a small boy when he was quietly going about his business.

I cleared the situation up for both of them (Boy #2, that's not your grandad; Non-grandad, so sorry, he thought you were his grandad), and they proceeded to have a short chat about what the man was actually up to. It transpired that he was writing an envelope to post to his grandson, and was delighted to have the chance to chat with a substitute. This made Boy #2's next pronouncement - thankfully made from within my father's car just before we were driven away by the Real McCoy - all the more embarrassing.

"Mama? That man looked eeeeeevillllll."

He didn't, by the way. Luckily the windows were closed so I hope he didn't hear my son's libellous remark..

Splinters, shoes and word replacement therapy

If I were writing a script for a movie of my life right now, today's effort would probably feature the following line:

"One splinter in your child's foot is unfortunate, PM. Two? That looks like carelessness..." (substitute 'neglect' 'fecklessness' 'unfit mothering' for 'carelessness' as you wish).

Never mind how it happened; today I had to pull not one but two splinters from Boy #1's foot. And I'm amazed that the social services haven't yet come knocking on our door, given the amount of screaming, pleading, weeping and cajoling going on. Amazingly, none of it was even from me...

In the end though, I - and the world's best tweezers - prevailed*, and the splinters were vanquished. The patient has now retired to bed, pale and wan but on the mend, with strict instructions he's not to set foot on any wooden floor for around the next 20 years without shoes on his tender little feet so-help-me-god...

In other news, I've posted here about shoe shopping in Moscow (you may recognise the post as a rehash of something I wrote on this blog a few months back. So shoot me. It's week 6 of the summer holidays; wanna make something of it?), and Boy #2 gave me a lift with his use of the world 'Snortle' for 'snorkel'.

Come on. 'Snortle'. I don't care how stressed you are about the holidays; that's funny, right?

*Not, I have to admit, until I had removed my contact lenses to give my aging eyes better close-work vision; how's that for a wake-up call that you're not 25 any more?

Twinkle, twinkle, little star...

We've moved base - again - on what seems like our never ending merry-go-round of visits this summer. We're now staying at the flat of some friends who flew off somewhere lovely earlier today (don't ask me where, too sick-making to even think of it given the weather here right now), and my sons are sleeping in their children's bunk beds.

It was all going well; we arrived, unpacked, went out to post a letter for our hosts, made the requisite stop at West London's top gelataria for the Boys to indulge in a little taste of heaven and for me to cadge the odd spoonful whenever their backs were turned (no, no, none for me thanks; I'll just steal my children's ice-cream instead), before returning to the flat for dinner and a bath.

And then? Well, then it was time for the Boys to go to bed. They are sleeping in the bunks belonging to the gorgeous children who live in this flat. It must be said, I had a moment's disquiet when I realised that one of the bunks was sporting blue bedlinen and the other pink, but luckily the latter was destined for Boy #1 and he's quite grown-up and sporting about stuff like that these days.

Or at least, he was. Until he pulled back the duvet, about to climb in, only to discover that the little girl who had slept under it the night before had liberally coated herself - and the sheets - with glitter-ised moisturising lotion...*

Meow; Too-close encounters of the Feline Kind

Summer holidays, and it's raining, again. But here I am, a little ray of sunshine to tell you that - no matter how wet you got on your way between the car and the supermarket as you dragged your complaining children behind you, counting the weeks until the end of the break under your breath - actually, life could be worse. For example, you could be a suicidal cat living with your mother, trapped in the cone of shame.

How outlandish, I hear you cry. What the hell is she on about this time? She's making it up just to get our attention...

But actually, no. Gather round to hear a tale of woe from CatWorld...

The Potski family have been staying with Husband's brother in the Netherlands. We arrived to find the younger of his two cats drugged up to the eyeballs, sporting a wicked looking scar running down his now shaved front haunch, and wearing the cone of shame to stop him from pulling his stitches out. The french door to the back garden was boarded up, the older cat (his mother) was sitting sulking and spitting in the corner, there was cat litter all over the floor in front of the litter trays, and a bill for over €600 from the vet sitting on the table.

So far, so 'Anthony & Cleo lay dead on the floor' riddle. (Remember that one?) What had happened was this; Cat B (the younger, injured, party) fights with Cat A (it's mother). Sometimes these confrontations get out of control, as on this occasion when my brother in law, upstairs one morning, was disturbed by the sound of yowling cats and the sound of glass smashing, and then... silence.

It appears that in the heat of the fight Cat B was so desperate to get away from it's mother that it literally threw itself through a plate glass window, leaving only blood, fur, and smashed glass behind as clues to what had happened. Cat A, knowing it had dun wrong, also scarpered, only reappearing a couple of days later to growl and hiss at her son who was now doing an impression of Banquo's Ghost, wandering sadly around with a dark green cone of shame velcro'ed around it's neck, meowing every time someone opened the front door and he realised that he was not going to be allowed to go through it.

So far, so not our problem.

Except.

Except, we were house-sitting for my brother in law, because he and his family were about to head off on holiday whilst we used their home as a base for our Dutch Adventure Week (featuring trips on trains, trams, and too-close encounters with raw herring). So for much of that week we were also caring for Banquo's Ghost (Cat B) who was:

1) unable to leave the house as his wound hadn't healed and so

2) consequently was over-utlising the litter trays

3) which, whilst we're on the subject, he was unable to use properly because said cone of shame stopped him turning around to make his deposit or, indeed,

4) from covering it up when he had delivered it.

5) And also couldn't groom himself (because of, again, the cone of shame) so was shedding everywhere

6) which set off Boy #1's allergies

7) which meant we had to keep the doors to the bedrooms (where the cats normally sleep) shut

8) which resulted in much complaining not only from Banquo's Ghost

9) but also Cat A, who reappeared regularly for food and to bully her son

10) and - once she realised that the way to her normal sleeping spot was closed - to wee on the sofa (repeatedly) in protest.

I think it's safe to say that as a result of this holiday, the Potski Family will not be owning a cat anytime soon...

In which I show my true colours whilst travelling on a budget airline

On a budget flight between the Netherlands and the UK today, my experience of a week or so ago was put firmly behind me. The lovely lady checking passengers in at the gate sent the Boys and I to a special boarding queue reserved for parents travelling with small children, and we were allowed to follow the priority boarders onto the plane before the main bulk of the passengers were released onto the tarmac to tussle for their seats. A far cry from my having to beg an unwilling passenger for the chance to sit next to my own children on the outbound flight, thank heavens.

As a result, today we sat in only the second row from the front, directly behind a rather over-excited mother and daughter who were keen to tell everyone else around them that this was the first time they had sat right at the front of the plane.

They were from the U.S. and I think this was their first experience of budget air travel in Europe, hence their rather optimistic request that the little girl be allowed to go into the cockpit to have a photograph taken with the pilot (some hope). Halfway through the short flight, Boy #2 overheard the mother telling her daughter that essentially they were sitting in First Class on this plane. Since we had spent the last week travelling through Holland by train, taking advantage of a summer offer to travel 1st class for less than the usual price of a 2nd class ticket, this actually meant something to him and so he wanted clarification.

"Are we?" he asked me. "Are we travelling 1st class?"

What I meant to say in reply was that all the seats on the plane were the same class. Honest. I did, really. No, really.

What I actually said was "There is no class on this plane, darling."

Which of course was untrue. Well, we were in row 2, for starters...

Boys & Pocket Handkerchiefs...

... are two mutually exclusive concepts, it seems. Mothers of sons, do you recognise this picture? Please tell me yes and that mine is not the only washing machine constantly running...

Sniff. Sniff.

"Boy #2, come here and blow your nose please."

Sniff. Sniff.

"Please, Boy #2. Come here and blow. Your. Nose."

Sniff. Sniff.

"Boy #2..."

"I don't need a tissue."

Sniff. Sniff.

"Boy #2. Please. Come and blow your nose!"

Sniff. Sniff.

Oh well. Why would you want a tissue, indeed, when you have a shirt sleeve / beloved blankie/ arm of a sofa / mother wearing a long cardigan close to hand?