Un-seasonal musings from Boys #1 and #2

At dinner this evening:

Boy #1:  "Do you think the Easter Bunny is real, Boy #2?"

Boy #2 narrows his eyes.  "Well.  I think that he is in certain parts of the world, but I think that here in Russia people put their own eggs out."

I look hard at Boy #1.  If his brother still believes, let the myth continue for a little longer, I think.  But there's no need to worry - Boy #1 agrees with his younger sibling.

Boy #1:  "And the Tooth Fairy?"

Boy #2:  "Oh, the Tooth Fairy is DEFINITELY real.  But I was talking to J (one of his best mates) the other day, and apparently, in Belgium, the Tooth Fairy is not a fairy but a little mouse with wings that wears a tutu and leaves sparkles behind it..."

There is a pause, whilst they both consider this and I puzzle over the fact that up until this conversation started I would have bet good money that there was no way my older son still believed the 50 rubles he gets per tooth comes from a winged sprite.  Then...

Boy #2: " ... but that is clearly ridiculous!  Imagine if the Tooth Fairies had a party, and the Belgian tooth fairy couldn't come, one of them would have to dress up as a mouse and throw glitter around!!"

Both Boys fall about laughing at the thought of a fairy dressed as a mouse.  Because, a group of fairies having a party is one thing, but a mouse with wings dressed in a skirt pushes the limits of credulity even for them.

Boy #1:  "Yes, that is ridiculous!"

Boy #2:  "But - what about Father Christmas?  Does he exist?  I think if you asked a teenager they might believe in him 20%, and my friend L in class says she doesn't; she's almost sure that it's her parents who leave the presents out.  Almost..."

I keep schtum at this point.  Best not say anything; after all, they are 9 and 11 years old - surely they can work out for themselves the likelihood of the Big Man being reality?

Boy #1, with an air of great sincerity:  "No, she's wrong.  Father Christmas definitely exists.  When we were at Gran & Grandad's last Christmas I hunted all over the house on Christmas Eve.  I looked EVERYWHERE, and I couldn't find a single present.  Not ONE!  And yet, on Christmas morning, there they were."

Me (somewhat amazed):  "I didn't know you did that, Boy #1!"

Boy #1:  "Well, I did.  But I was very quiet about it.  And I didn't find anything."

Boy #2 nods thoughtfully: "I thought so.  Yes, that proves it.  Father Christmas does exist.  Good. 100% it is, then."

On the 3rd Day of Advent...

...I found myself going through some old blog posts, and chanced across this rather lengthy little Christmas-related number.  Reading it took me straight back to life as the mum of a pre-schooler and a toddler when, it seems to me, I was much funnier than I am now.  Perhaps that was the result of the heady cocktail of those days; part the aroma of pure panic (I'm in charge of two small children and How the Hell did THAT happen?), part steamed vegetables, part Calpol, and part nappy...

Enjoy!


The Twelve (Interminable) Days of Christmas (December 2007)

So, yesterday was the big day. Now don't be coy - I know you're just desperate to find out how the hottest event in Kensington and Chelsea went down, but fear not, I'm here to pass on the good bits...

I suppose I should explain what on earth I'm talking about. Yes, it was Boy#1's Nursery Christmas Show. For reasons known only to themselves (I think they have a new and slightly over-enthusiastic - no, scratch that - a completely over the top drama teacher. But then again, when aren't they?), the theme this year was 'The 12 Days of Christmas' and each class was required to go up and represent one of the verses. Boy #1 was a piper. Hence the kilt. Yes, you heard me - kilt (just in case you missed that nugget a few posts ago). But frankly, looking at the line-up yesterday, I think we got off lucky.

Verse 1; The partridge looked as if the costume had been ordered from Angels Theatrical Costumiers, it was so professional. Except, of course, the partridge was 3 years old...

Verse 2: 2 turtle doves - bulk standard coat hanger wings. I think the ground-swell of parent opinion was 'compared to the partridge, could do better'.

V3: 3 French Hens. Except it wasn't 3 - it was 9. Dressed in breton t-shirts, berets, strings of onions, and doing a turn singing La Marsellaise...

V4: 20 calling birds. Lots of room for variation with 20, as you can imagine. And not much room on the stage, so for healthy and safety reasons there were actually 2 'hits', so we got the same 'show' - 10 children dressed as robins, dancing to Rocking Robin - twice. Hmmm.

V5: 12 gold rings. Lots of gold lame, probably the easiest option as most mums seemed to have simply made a poncho out of sparkly material. Can't remember the turn they gave as I was struggling with Boy#2 who was trying to make a bid for freedom at this point, scattering raisins as he went...

V6: 16 geese a-laying. Hilarious incident with one little boy who's mum had clearly gone to town with his costume, even giving him a padded stomach for authenticity, hogging the limelight and elbowing all the other children out of his way to give himself centre-stage. He was eventually restrained by the teacher and given a good talking to on the sidelines. Was rather losing the will to live by this stage, to be honest.

V7: 8 swans a-swimming. This provoked naked envy on the faces of all the mummies whose little girls did not form part of the 'swan' tableau, as they arrived dressed in tutu's, twirling a pirouette or two to the famous bit from Swan Lake. Sometimes I'm so glad I have sons...

V8: 11 drummers drumming. This did what it said on the tin. Yes, the power-crazy drama teacher had instructed hapless parents to go out and find a drummer costume for their boys. To their credit they had made a pretty good job - and the imitation beaver-skin headwear had to be seen to be believed. Mind you, this being Kensington & Chelsea I was rather disappointed that there was no real fur on stage...

V9: 8 maids a-milking. Consisted of the girls from Boy #1's class complete with mob caps and sand buckets, singing 'Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary' and crying because they had lost their cow. This segued seamlessly into...

V10: 6 pipers piping. Boy #1 and classmates following an honest-to-goodness Scots piper, bag-pipes wailing, up onto the stage. (All sense of proportion had clearly been lost by the drama teacher when she planned this one). They did a little dance and then tried to help the milk-maids find their cow and followed up with a Scottish reel. Boy #1 was grabbed at this point by one of the girls (who was half a foot taller than him), and they then capered around the stage dancing the reel. Not sure who instigated the choke-hold, him or his partner, but it was a relief for all when the dance finally ended without injury...

V11: 7 ladies dancing. Dressed as flamenco dancers and performing that authentic spanish number - you guessed it - the Macarena. By this stage the audience had been flagging, but this perked them up. Or got them riled - not sure which...

V12 (Thank the lord): 7 Lords a-leaping. Boys dressed as frogs, capering onto the stage, leaping around and then dancing with the flamenco-clad lovelies. I was past caring by now, as were Husband and Boy #2...


All this took around an hour and a half, by which time the audience of eager parents had had enough, stampeding out of the venue before the final hymn was even finished. Never has 'O little town of Bethlehem' been treated so caverlierly outside Midnight Mass...

Other Points of Interest:

Boy #1's kilt stayed up. Thankyou, Mother-in-law. Your skills with the needle know no bounds. Really, I mean this; my home ec teacher at school used to just tut and walk past my table as I struggled to make a patchwork cushion, so I am grateful, grateful, grateful, that you were able to step into the breach. 

Just to put my sewing abilities in context, Husband and I once had a huge falling out when he asked me to sew on a button. He was horrified that I refused. I was horrified that he had had the nerve to ask me. Really - if he wanted to ruin a perfectly good coat he could just have let the boys at it with a pair of pinking shears.

I also had a fit of the giggles whilst standing in the queue waiting to be let in to the church where it was all happening. (Oh yes, they couldn't let us in early. I mean, who knows what might have happened? We parents could have ended up throwing pews and everything. Lighting the votive candles, using the holy water, you name it. There is no end to the devilry that could have ensued).  I was having a perfectly normal conversation with the parents of one of Boy #1's classmates when a mutual acquaintance approached us and asked them "Do you like caviar?" Well, that's a conversation stopper if ever I heard one. And more to the point - why wasn't I invited to this apparantly swanky dinner party? Obviously, had she asked me, my answer would have been "only Beluga, sweetie - and of course it does rather depend on which champagne you are serving..."

The Twelve Days of a Parent's Christmas

This post was inspired by Hot Cross Mum and Expat Mum, following a Twitter conversation about boys, loos, and needing to clean the bathroom floor more often than we might like. I'll leave you to join the dots together yourself on the subject... At any rate Hot Cross Mum took that start point and created her own version of 'The Twelve Days of Christmas' - and challenged us (in my 'oh, I'm not competitive at all' head, anyway) to do the same.

Obviously she's already mined the rich seam that is boys and the loo, so I was forced to look elsewhere - to something else that is currently at the forefront of my experience - and have re-written The Twelve Days of Christmas to a children's illness theme...

To be sung - in your head only, please - to the tune of The Twelve Days of Christmas...

On the first day of Christmas, my children gave to me: a headache and a high temperature.

On the second day of Christmas, my children gave to me; 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the third day of Christmas, my children gave to me; 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my children gave to me; 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my children gave to me: 5 broken nights.... 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the sixth day of Christmas my children gave to me: 6 concerned grandparent messages, 5 broken nights.... 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my children gave me to me; 7 hours internet shopping, 6 concerned grandparent messages, 5 broken nights.... 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the 8th day of Christmas, my children gave me to me; 8 days missed homework, 7 hours internet shopping, 6 concerned grandparent messages, 5 broken nights.... 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the 9th day of Christmas, my children gave to me; 9 doctor's notes, 8 days missed homework, 7 hours internet shopping, 6 concerned grandparent messages, 5 broken nights.... 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the 10th day of Christmas, my children gave to me; 10 messed up bedrooms, 9 doctor's notes, 8 days missed homework, 7 hours internet shopping, 6 concerned grandparent messages, 5 broken nights.... 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the 11th day of Christmas, my children gave to me; 11 sweaty pj's, 10 messed up bedrooms, 9 doctor's notes, 8 days missed homework, 7 hours internet shopping, 6 concerned grandparent messages, 5 broken nights.... 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

On the 12th day of Christmas, my children gave to me; 12 'I'm so boo-oo-red's, 11 sweaty pj's, 10 messed up bedrooms, 9 doctor's notes, 8 days missed homework, 7 hours internet shopping, 6 concerned grandparent messages, 5 broken nights.... 4 missed appointments, 3 hits of Calpol, 2 snotty tissues, and a headache and a high temperature.

Update:

Nappy Valley Girl has jumped on board with this one too - click here for a link - and so has Iota at Not Wrong Just Different. If you're inspired to do like wise, leave a comment telling me where to check and I'll add yours here too...

Stop Press: Proof that there is a god...

... or alternatively, that I am a goddess.

(It all depends on your point of view).

So there we were, the Boys and I, making our way home from a friend's house and up against it to get there in time before Boy 1's slimy (I'm sorry, but there is no other word for him) guitar teacher arrived and started charging us for time from the second he clocked in.

Picture the scene; it was a relatively mild late afternoon of only -4 degreesC. It had been snowing, but only a little, so whilst there was a light covering on the road, it wasn't enough to allow the sled to run freely with 2 tired boys on it. I had to choose. Knowing which was the more troublesome of my two sons, I put Boy #2 on it for the first 200 metres, and was planning on putting Boy #1 on it for the second.

Obviously, it was going to be disastrous whichever way I tried to play it. Obviously. And so it proved when I forcibly ejected Boy #2 from the seat of power as we passed the compound Christmas tree (the pre-agreed tipping point), and tried to replace him with an up-until-that-moment-whingeing-terribly Boy #1.

Boy #2 retaliated against his fall from grace by shouting even louder than his older brother had previously been doing ('anything you can do Bro, I can do better...'), and bodily hurling himself across the back of the sled (one of those picturesque wooden number on raised runners that actually works quite well), and holding for dear life as I tried to tug both him and his older brother along. Since their combined weight was around 50kg, the sled was having none of it and stuck fast on the meagre snow covering as I slipped and slid around, cursing somewhat, on the icy road.

Oh boy. It wasn't pretty.

But then, a brainwave.

"I tell you what, Boy #2. You come up front with me, stand inside the rope of the sled, and you can be Rudolph and help me pull Boy #1 along..."

I held my breath.

"Oh yes! Yes! YES MAMA! Quick, quick, let me come in!" And he shot around to the front of the sled in 2 seconds flat and ducked under what were now to be known as 'the reins'. But that's not all. We walked 10 meters before animal crazy Boy #1, reclining in splendour on the seat of power, spoke up.

"Can I be the reindeer, Boy #2? You be Father Christmas, and I'll be the reindeer."

"OK."

And with much dashing, prancing, whinnying (because reindeers do that, you know), and 'Faster Donner! Faster Blixen!' and pretend whip cracks from the sled, we were home faster than you could say 'And when we get home Boys, let's make glittery paper snowflakes to hang in the window.'

Who would have thought the solution could be so simple? So I rest my case; either there IS a god (and he put that thought into my head), or I am a goddess.

And in honour of that second possibility, here is the last of the illustrations from Next's 12 Days of Christmas campaign (yes yes, I know it's the 13th today), and my final pick from their catalogue. Cue - appropriately - drumroll...

After this afternoon's brush with divinity, I decided to look for something suitably goddess-like - or at least, that might make me feel that way.

I think these might do it. On the other hand, I might instead end up with a muffin top, and get all hot and sweaty whilst I stick to the seats of a leather sofa, but a girl can dream, can't she?

This was a sponsored post - and if you click here you can still enter Next's Christmas Giveway where £1000's worth of prizes are being given away, wrapped, and delivered to you in time for December 25th...

On the 10th Day of Christmas, this expat blogger is looking forward to:

Being able to read the ingredient labels at the supermarket. Or even, the product names, if I'm honest. Memorable purchase mistakes to-date have included:

• Hair lightening cream for moisturiser (realised after the first smear that this was not going to deal with my dry skin - or indeed make any difference to my freshly shaved legs..)
• Spicy tomato ketchup for normal (Boy #2 was NOT impressed)
• Potato starch for corn flour (the former does not make good shortbread)
• Tuna in oil for tuna in salt water (yeuch - Russian tinned tuna is not the best quality to start with, so throw in cup of oil as well and...)
• Salted salmon steak for normal (just too horrible to even begin to describe. Christ knows how the Russians cook it, but there must be some secret way to use it or it wouldn't be everywhere masquerading as an edible foodstuff)
• Russian hard cheese for non-Russian. (Because - and apologies to anyone who likes the local version here - Russian hard cheese is rubbish. Think; the blandest edam you ever tasted, take away the flavour, and bob's your uncle).
• Sweetened fruit juice for non-sweetened (Kids on a sugar high just before bed, anyone?)

So yes, I am looking forward to being able to decipher packs without the help of the dictionary I invariably forget when going to the supermarket when I get back to London for the holidays...

Today's Top Pick from the Next Catalogue

(Thanks again Next, by the way, for the lovely illustrations, and this is why I'm including this). Now, who knew that the Next site sells electricals along with clothes, homeware, and shoes etc? Not me, that's for sure. So I took a quick look and bingo; In amongst the tv's, ipods, and camers etc, I came across this Ben 10 toy for Boy #1... I may even get my Christmas shopping sorted yet...

And click here for the chance to participate in Next's prize draw; they're giving away prizes each day, wrapped and delivered in time for Christmas...

On the 4th Day of Christmas, this expat blogger is looking forward to...

... meeting up with old friends.

Post 4 from the Next Christmas campaign (click here to go to the post where I explain what that is), and my wish today is for some unhurried time with my girlfriends over the holidays. This has probably been prompted by the weekend I just spent back in the UK without my family at a christening, when I suddenly realised that my oldest girl friends, a gang of 5 who have been close since university, and who have been meeting regularly for the last twenty-mumble years, are shortly to be scattered again. Obviously, this is partly my fault (although Moscow is a suburb of London, surely?), but over the last 4 days two of them announced they too are leaving London, one for the north of England and the other for the far east. (Some people just have to go one better, don't they?).

I know it was foolish to think so, but I kind of imagined when I moved over here that nothing would really change back home, and that when we do return I would just be able to fit seamlessly back in to my old life.

Silly me. My life has moved on, why shouldn't everyone else's?

Today's Top Pick from the Next Site

I'm going to pretend that money is no object here (it is, obviously, since I'm writing this post), and think about what I would buy for these 4 long-standing girlfriends if I had a few hundred pounds to spare. I think it would be this - or something like it. Plus one for myself, obviously. Well, you can't expect others to wear what you wouldn't yourself, surely?

Plus, PLUS, click here to enter Next's fabulous Christmas Giveaway. (Today's object of desire is an Ipod Touch and accessories worth over £300...)

On the 3rd Day of Christmas, this expat blogger is looking forward to..

... a heart attack on a plate, aka 'Christmas Lunch'.

Continuing my theme using the twelve illustrations for each verse of the carol 'The Twelve Days of Christmas' kindly sent to me by Next , here's another item on my check-list of what I'm looking forward to once I get home for the holidays....

I mean, obviously Christmas lunch had to be on this list, right? Right? (Especially when using the illustration above). It's the biggest meal of the year, both physically and metaphorically. And this morning, when I sat down with my Russian teacher and she asked me to describe in Russian what a typical English Christmas lunch consists of, the realisation of the former - of how much we actually put away on this day of days - came home to me quite strongly.

Thank god I hadn't even considered mentioning the smoked salmon starter that has - at least in our house - become a tradition in addition to everything else, and instead kicked off with a description of the main event; The Turkey. Accompanied, obviously, by roast potatoes, roasted onions, stuffing, carrots, creamed parsnips, broccoli (I know, it should be brussels sprouts but the only way I can eat them is in soup), and cranberry and horseradish sauces (don't come here trying to sell bread sauce; my only question there is why?). At this point, she assumed that was it, meal over.

So when I launched into a description of Christmas Pudding with brandy butter or cream it seemed churlish to mention the pavlova's or Christmas Pudding ice cream that have been known to also make an appearance, for seconds. And when I then said that dessert was followed by cheese, her eyes widened to the extent that I couldn't possibly mention the Quality Street or chocolate truffles that follow with coffee.

What, of course, I wasn't able to convey in my extremely paltry Russian (and let me make it clear, I did not have the vocabulary to communicate this all on my own, there was a lot of help from my teacher) was how, with the chance to sit down and enjoy the company of your nearest and dearest. this meal is so much more than an opportunity for excessive consumption. Or at least, it should be.

But as I don't think any nation has the exclusive on that element of celebratory meals, I imagine that all that - all the really important stuff, the emotions that count, the chance to reaffirm family ties, and the opportunity to remember you're part of a family - didn't need saying in any language, either in English or Russian.

Thank god - we'ld still be sitting there now if I'd tried that...

Today's Top Pick from the Next Site

Today's post got me thinking about the Christmas lunch table. Most people, I know, like to make a special effort for this one, and I wanted to see if there was anything Next had to offer that would help make that happen. Guess what? I think this table runner - if I was cooking Christmas lunch in my own home, which sadly (ha!) I'm not - would do the job nicely... And, if you ever wondered where I sit on the silver vs gold theme for Christmas decorations debate (and I'm sure my position on this vital question is top of mind for most people), this will answer that question for you...

This was a sponsored post...(in case you hadn't guessed)

On the 2nd Day of Christmas, this expat is looking forward to:

...Proper mince pies.

For those of you not aware of what I'm up to here, Next have very kindly sent me twelve beautiful illustrations for each verse of the carol 'The Twelve Days of Christmas', and to use them wisely I've decided to write about what I, as an expat due to be back in the UK for the holidays, am most looking forward to when I get there.

Which brings me to proper mince pies. I don't care if they're home-made or shop-bought (although obviously - OBVIOUSLY - my mother's are the most delicious in the world), just as long as they are deep-filled, full of delicious spicy mincemeat and, in an ideal world, topped with icing sugar. AND cream. Or brandy butter. If I must. (Well, it would be rude not to, don't you think?)

In the spirit of intrepid expat-ness, I tried to make them here, but unfortunately they came in under the bracket 'sorry excuse for a proper mince pie'. This was last weekend; I had made them to take to my first ever Thanksgiving Lunch.

'Bring something festive from your country of origin' the invitation said. I didn't think a plate of tinsel would do it, so found some mincemeat (purloined from a generous neighbour) and for the first time in my life, made sweet pastry. They tasted - all right. If a little dry.

But I shouldn't have bothered. After the fact, I remembered past experience of having to educate friends of different nationalities that the 'mincemeat' in mince pies doesn't actually contain any meat. (Or at least, it hasn't done for a couple of hundred years). We arrived at the party, along with 12 mince pies that could have done with a slightly less dry pastry. And back home we came again, with 11 of them. Not a single person there - other than me, who took pity on the plate of pies sitting forlornly on the table surrounded by empty dishes - could bring themselves to try something that was supposed to be sweet with the name 'mince' in the title.

But yet, everyone else there was happy to eat pumpkin, in a pie. And I stand by my mince pies in light of that, when I compare them to the pumpkin pie which was served. I tried some. It was OK. Not great. Not earth shaking. Just - all right. Actually, I'm told it was pretty good pumpkin pie as pumpkin pies go, it's just that, well. Pumpkin? As a pudding?

On the plus side, I was able to say hand on heart to my hostess that it was the best pumpkin pie I had ever tasted.

What I left out was that it was also the only pumpkin pie I had ever tasted...

Today's Top Pick from the Next Site

This was a toughie - but only because my chosen area of interest for today, boots suitable for the Moscow winter, was mainly sold out. Living in the UK, as probably most readers of this blog do, I imagine that most people don't need to factor temps of -25degC and below along with the ability to deal with the chemicals etc that get thrown on the roads and pavements here into your choice of shoe; in which case, click here and enjoy!

On the first day of Christmas I suffered a crushing blow to my self esteem....

This is a sponsored post...

I would like to thank Next for inviting me to take part in their '12 Days of Christmas' campaign, not only because they've sent some very fetching pictures to illustrate each day, but also because they prompted one of those classic mothering moments that you treasure and hold close to your heart...

Inspired by their timely reminder of this traditional carol I was moved to sing the song to my younger son who happened to be off sick from school on Tuesday. He appeared to be quite taken with it - initially. I have to admit that the hand movements on 'FIVE. GOLD. RIIIIIIINGS' might have added to the entertainment factor somewhat, but what the hell, you have to start putting your Christmas list out there sometime, right?

However, as I reached '7 swans-a-swimming' and he began to realise that I really WAS going to sing 12 verses of this song, his eyes started to glaze over. I drew breath for '8 - um - maids a milking', and he decided enough was enough. "Stop singing now mummy. You're distracting me." "Distracting you from what?" "From being sick. And you're hurting my ears."

Ouch.

Now, the communication from Next not only encompassed the offer to use their charming illustrations, but also to incorporate them over 12 posts. I've decided to do that by telling you what, as an expat, I am looking forward to most when I get back to the UK for the holidays.

So, on the first day of Christmas, this expat mum is desperate to walk along The Kings Road in Chelsea, looking at the decorated Christmas shops, stopping along the way for a skinny hot chocolate, breathing in crisp winter air (air that hopefully will be somewhat warmer than the crisp winter air of -19degC currently on offer here), and returning home laden with presents that have to be squirrelled away from curious eyes and prying fingers until the 25th December.

Oh, and if I send you over to the Next website to take a look at their products, I get additional brownie points if you visit, so I will also recommend something for you to take a look at there as part of these posts too...

Today's pick- in light of yesterday's post about dressing for the weather - is this boys' hat; it would perfectly replace Boy #2's similar one which, after I wrote yesterday's post, I realised was straining at the seams with his growing head... (Bad mummy)

The 12 (Interminable) Days of Christmas

So, yesterday was the big day. Now don't be coy - I know you're just desperate to find out how the hottest event in Kensington and Chelsea went down, but fear not, I'm here to pass on the good bits...

I suppose I should explain what on earth I'm talking about. Yes, it was Boy#1's Nursery Christmas Show. For reasons known only to themselves (I think they have a new and slightly over-enthusiastic - no, scratch that - a completely over the top drama teacher. But then again, when aren't they?), the theme this year was 'The 12 Days of Christmas' and each class was required to go up and represent one of the verses. Boy #1 was a piper. Hence the kilt. Yes, you heard me - kilt (just in case you missed that nugget a few posts ago). But frankly, looking at the line-up yesterday, I think we got off lucky.

V1; The partridge looked as if the costume had been ordered from Angels Theatrical Costumiers, it was so professional. Except, of course, the partridge was 3 years old...

V2: 2 turtle doves - bulk standard coat hanger wings. I think the ground-swell of parent opinion was 'compared to the partridge, could do better'.

V3: 3 French Hens. Except it wasn't 3 - it was 9. Dressed in breton t-shirts, berets, strings of onions, and doing a turn singing La Marsellaise...

V4: 20 calling birds. Lots of room for variation with 20, as you can imagine. And not much room on the stage, so for healthy and safety reasons there were actually 2 'hits', so we got the same 'show' - 10 children dressed as robins, dancing to Rocking Robin - twice. Hmmm.

V5: 12 gold rings. Lots of gold lame, probably the easiest option as most mums seemed to have simply made a poncho out of sparkly material. Can't remember the turn they gave as I was struggling with Boy#2 who was trying to make a bid for freedom at this point, scattering raisins as he went...

V6: 16 geese a-laying. Hilarious incident with one little boy who's mum had clearly gone to town with his costume, even giving him a padded stomach for authenticity, hogging the limelight and elbowing all the other children out of his way to give himself centre-stage. He was eventually restrained by the teacher and given a good talking to on the sidelines. Was rather losing the will to live by this stage, to be honest.

V7: 8 swans a-swimming. This provoked naked envy on the faces of all the mummies whose little girls did not form part of the 'swan' tableau, as they arrived dressed in tutu's, twirling a pirouette or two to the famous bit from Swan Lake. Sometimes I'm so glad I have sons...

V8: 11 drummers drumming. This did what it said on the tin. Yes, the power-crazy drama teacher had instructed hapless parents to go out and find a drummer costume for their boys. To their credit they had made a pretty good job - and the imitation beaver-skin headwear had to be seen to be believed. Mind you, this being Kensington & Chelsea I was rather disappointed that there was no real fur on stage...

V9: 8 maids a-milking. Consisted of the girls from Boy #1's class complete with mob caps and sand buckets, singing 'Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary' and crying because they had lost their cow. This segued seamlessly into...

V10: 6 pipers piping. Boy #1 and classmates following an honest-to-goodness Scots piper, bag-pipes wailing, up onto the stage. (All sense of proportion had clearly been lost by the drama teacher when she planned this one). They did a little dance and then tried to help the milk-maids find their cow and followed up with a Scottish reel. Boy #1 was grabbed at this point by one of the girls (who was half a foot taller than him), and they then capered around the stage dancing the reel. Not sure who instigated the choke-hold, him or his partner, but it was a relief for all when the dance finally ended without injury...

V11: 7 ladies dancing. Dressed as flamenco dancers and performing that authentic spanish number - you guessed it - the Macarena. By this stage the audience had been flagging, but this perked them up. Or got them riled - not sure which...

V12 (Thank the lord): 7 Lords a-leaping. Boys dressed as frogs, capering onto the stage, leaping around and then dancing with the flamenco-clad lovelies. I was past caring by now, as were Husband and Boy #2...


All this took around an hour and a half, by which time the audience of eager parents had had enough, stampeding out of the venue before the final hymn was even finished. Never has 'O little town of Bethlehem' been treated so caverlierly outside Midnight Mass...

Other Points of Interest:
Boy #1's kilt stayed up. Thankyou, Mother-in-law. Your skills with the needle know no bounds. Really, I mean this; my home ec teacher at skill used to just tut and walk past my table as I struggled to make a patchwork cushion, so I am grateful, grateful, grateful, that you were able to step into the breach. (Husband and I once had a huge falling out when he asked me to sew on a button. He was horrified that I refused. I was horrified that he had had the nerve to ask me. Really - if he wanted to ruin a perfectly good coat he could just have let the boys at it with a pair of pinking shears)

I also had a fit of the giggles whilst standing in the queue waiting to be let in to the church where it was all happening. (Oh yes, they couldn't let us in early. I mean, who knows what might have happened? We parents could have ended up throwing pews and everything. Lighting the votive candles, using the holy water, you name it. There is no end to the devilry that could have ensued). I was having a perfectly normal conversation with the parents of one of Boy #1's classmates when a mutual acquaintance approached us and asked them "Do you like caviar?" Well, that's a conversation stopper if ever I heard one. And more to the point - why wasn't I invited to this apparantly swanky dinner party? Obviously, Dulwich Mum, had she asked me, my answer would have been "only Beluga, sweetie - and of course it does rather depend on which champagne you are serving..."