And in other news...

... there were unconfirmed reports today of sightings of the Bottom of the Laundry Basket at Potski Mansions, a mere 11 days after the family's return from holiday.

Potty Mummy (46), a work-at-home mother of two, was unavailable for comment due to what is believed to be a severe case of exhaustion having reached the top (or bottom) of Laundry Mountain, although her neighbours stated that at approximately 11.00 this morning they had heard the popping of champagne corks and witnessed a blizzard of chocolate bar wrappers being thrown like ticker-tape from the upstairs windows.

Reliable sources, however, discounted the claims as premature, commenting that the Bottom of the Laundry Basket, like Shangri-La,  the Yeti, and the Loch Ness Monster is in fact a figment of somebody's over-active imagination, and that a nice sit-down with a cup of tea and a dark chocolate digestive should quickly restore a sense of reality and proportion to the residents of the property.

Indeed, following the return from school of the children known affectionately as Boys #1 and #2, along with their assorted paraphanalia of dirty socks, ripped jumpers, sports kits, and muddy trousers, the earlier claims have been withdrawn.

Potty Mummy remains unavailable for interview.

A long distance broadcast from Footballer's Knees...

... who you may remember as my sis, and who is much much funnier than I am.  Nowadays she no longer blogs but posts on fb under a different name, and is as entertaining as ever.

Here's one of her recent posts, to which I can only add 'what she said...'.  (And 'why can't I write like this?')


A few things we are not warned about on reaching our forties:

You get angry in a queue just because someone near you has an annoying voice. And the inflection they use at the end of a sentence makes you want to commit murder?

Fat just rushes to join your stomach and triple boobage. You can put on half a stone over Christmas just through eating a few After Eights and a couple of peanuts, despite going to the gym for FIVE days in a row.

Tepe brushes - the instrument of the devil and the invention of a Swedish masochist. It's like a crime scene in your mouth when you've finished.

And speaking of teeth - you need to allow an extra 20 minutes each night for cleaning. By the time we've reached mid forties, we've invested more in our teeth than in our kitchen so need to spend extra time fiddling with brushes, retainers and various solutions whilst staring soullessly into the bathroom mirror and wondering how life got to be this way.

You shout at news reports that quote Tweeted reactions from 'celebs' to validate the stories and add extra interest. Who cares that Harry from One Direction is very sorry to hear about the death of Nelson Mandela? Who cares?

You get angry just because someone is wearing annoying hipster spectacles.

You start to 'invest' more in lottery tickets in a desperate bid to end the relentlessness of a job you certainly didn't discuss as a possibility with your useless Careers Advisor thirty years ago.

You realise that there is no such thing as a cheap holiday now because you refuse to book anywhere less than 4 star and won't use an airline that doesn't reserve seats. Or share a pool - the last holiday with a shared pool resulted in you getting up at 6 every morning to reserve the sun beds so that you could be a far away as possible from that annoying family from Birmingham who turned the whole area into a Grazia, OK and inflatable crocodile strewn family compound and who discussed Fifty Shades in excruciating detail whilst applying Factor 2 Carrot Oil to their husbands' hairy backs.

You look around at your peers and wonder why they can still drink a bottle of wine/wear cheap onesies without embarrassment/go out for 2 nights in a row/enjoy going out for two nights in a row whilst you struggle to stay up past 10.30 at night and won't step foot in Primark.

And then you realise that you need to get a grip, lighten up and embrace the choices and opportunities that life offers you before you turn into a sad old lady who shouts at strangers in the street. Although you will never, ever wear a onesie.

It's been a while...

... so I figure the best way to get my blogging thang on again is to simply jump back into it.

You know that expression 'the best laid plans...' (of mice and men etc etc)?  Here, your honour, is a case in point.

It's Monday today.  I thought we were fairly well-prepared for it.  The Boys were rested after a relatively relaxed weekend, I had chivvied them out of bed in enough time (although, really, is there ever enough time on a Monday morning?) to walk to school instead of making a last minute dash in the car, and everyone had on the right gear for the -12degC outside.

What?  -12degC?  Minus 12degC is for sissies.  It's only when it hits -18degC that it starts to feel properly cold.

We were about to leave the house.  Boy #2 had forgotten to pack his lunch box.  He packed his lunch box.  Boy #1 hadn't put on his sweater under his coat (don't get me started - the boy is a regular walking immersion heater, anything warmer than -18degC seems not bother him).  He put on his sweater.  Boy #1 hadn't packed his ski socks for skating.  He ran upstairs to fetch and pack his ski socks.  Boy #1 left his gloves upstairs.  He went back to fetch his gloves.

We were still on time to walk to school.

We reached the end of the drive; I glanced at Boy #2 - no rucksack.  We walked back to the house to fetch his rucksack.  Boy #2 put on his rucksack.

We were still on time.

We walked to school - still on time.

We got to school.  I glanced at Boy #2's rucksack, which suddenly appeared suspiciously light.  Did he have his indoor shoes with him?  No, Mum - but I'm sure they're in my locker.

They were not in his locker.

That would be because they were sitting on the floor by the back door, at home.

And since the children are not allowed to wear their outdoor shoes indoors at school (or, indeed, anywhere inside during the snowy messy Russian winter), guess who had to then walk home again to fetch said shoes?

As I said - the best-laid plans...

All those people who told you New Zealand is AMAZING?

They are playing it down.

(We've been travelling.  More to follow)

(Oh, and Happy New Year!)

On the 17th Day of Advent...

... I went to the supermarket.

I've written about doing the shopping in Russia before, and won't bore you again with tales of tussles in the vegetable aisle or negotiating pallets of baked beans blocking access to the chocolate fixture (a particular bugbear of mine...).  Actually, I can't bore you with tales of the former - ruckuses over radishes - because actually, times have changed.  Either I am now immune to the hurly burly of an average visit to one of Moscow's larger hypermarkets - which, I am prepared to admit, may be at least partly the case after 4 years here - or (whisper it) the Lesser Spotted Russian Supermarket Shopper has evolved.

Certainly, their natural habitat, The Reasonably Priced Russian Supermarket, has done; I can now buy Cathedral City Cheddar, organic groceries, and reasonably priced French red wine nowadays, none of which I was able to do when we first arrived (and yes, I know there are plenty of good Russian cheeses, but sometimes only proper cheddar will do for your toastie).  I also find that it causes less consternation to the checkout staff when I pack shopping into my own bags these days, but to my shame I can never remember how tell them in Russian that that's what I'm planning.  I usually end up pulling boxes of cereal out of the flimsy pakyets (plastic bags) that the store provides and repacking them into my own tougher bags in a pantomime of inefficiency, before we understand each other on this matter.

Today, however, there was no problem.

Things started out as usual; I greeted the lady at the checkout, and then proceeded to go into my usual dumb foreigner pantomime of showing her I intended to pack the goods myself before I stopped.  Why not just ask her how to say it?

So I launched into my rudimentary Russian.  "Как сказать... *"  How do you say... intending to finish by miming the action of packing the shopping into my own bags  (I told you.  Dumb foreigner).

She interrupted, smiling.  "Where are you from?"

It turned out that this lady was an English teacher, originally from Kyrgyzstan  (and no, you're not seeing things.  There is not an a, e, i, o, or u in that word...).  She had recently arrived in Moscow and was unable to find a job in the profession she'd been trained for.  She told me how she was here with her husband, daughter and son, and had come to find work.  She told me that she missed home and speaking and teaching English, and that working in supermarket was - she hoped - a stop gap until she could find a job in a school.  And then she told me, without rancour or bitterness, that to do so was proving difficult, because she looks Asian.

For her, that is just how life is.  It seems that things here are changing - but not that much.


Merry Christmas.


*  Pronounced: Kak skazat'...

On the 16th Day of Advent...

... I met someone who has - gasp - never watched 'The Polar Express'.  I promptly came home, dug it out, and watched it with Boys #1 and #2 after school, and despite the fact that it must be the nth time we've seen it, it did not disappoint.

Just in case there are any more of you out there who have never seen this delight of a movie, here's one of my favourite scenes.

And yes, that is an animated version of Tom Hanks playing The Conductor (one of the 5 roles he plays in this film).

Enjoy!

On the 15th Day of Advent... Open Your Eyes

(I have no words for this one)