Happy Half Term

It doesn't get much better than the first Saturday morning of any school holidays; well, it wouldn't get much better, if only I was alone. Unfortunately, my children always seem to be fairly hideous for the first few days of any holidays which does take the shine off a little.

It was doomed from the start as Zak finished school two days before Sebi and me. I threatened him with death or loss of X box, (which is worse), if he even breathed a moment's boast to Seb of his longer holidays. To give him his due, he didn't, really. There were a few smug smiles behind Sebi's head as he got into his school uniform but it was all just for my benefit. The problem was that Zak now got two full days of being at home alone. First day, not too bad. He went out and met his friends and played football. Day two however, he was in, ALL DAY, apart from a trip to Sainsbury's to get lunch. There were two problems with this; one, he had unlimited screen time all day with no adults in the house which turned him into Voldermort's more evil twin, and secondly, the mess he managed to create. I kid you not, I walked into the kitchen last night and if somebody had told me I had been burgled I would have believed it. Zak's default way for travelling around the house is with an Ipad in both hands and kicking a football in front of him no matter what he is doing or what he is carrying. When I enquired why the kitchen floor was crunchy he told me that whilst getting a glass out of the cupboard he had knocked over the sugar jar and didn't know how to clear it up. That was obvious. What he didn't add in was that he then spilled apple juice on top of it, (which he left too), and then, (and this is the bit that really hurts), he had moved a half full bottle of champagne with a stopper in on its side in the fridge to fit the apple juice back in the door. The champagne then dribbled down the side of the fridge. Most things I can forgive but sacrificing champagne is not ever okay in this house.

Anyway, he's off on a sleepover in an hour. He just came down and told me he was packed. There is a sleeping bag with an Ipad on top ready to go. I mean, I travel light but that is ridiculous. Apparently there is no point taking his toothbrush because he won't use it, likewise clean pants and socks. I have managed to get his onesie into the mix however as I don't think at 12 he is going to 'one of those' kinds of sleepovers yet.

Stu has gone to Manchester to rekindle his bromance with Gibbo, not even Storm Dennis can keep them apart. I didn't check his packing but I wouldn't be surprise if it is of the same ilk as Zak's. Sebi and I are therefore looking forward to 24 hours of one-on-one perfect contentment. It would be wrong to say that we don't love the other two members of our family but we are seriously happy when we are left alone too. The place is harmonious, cleaner, less smelly and quieter. We can read without music playing or footballs hitting our heads. We can eat meals without meat and watch films without guns.

I'm sure once I've sanitised Zak on his return and put him to bed early tomorrow night our half term will then be great fun for all three of us. I will ensure I drink a full bottle of champagne each night to save any future spillages. I really do only have myself to blame...

Cats (not the crap film that ruined Ian Mckellan's hard earned reputation...)

We are two months in to the adoption of two rescue kittens; aptly called Bubbles and Fizz. Bubbles is scared of her own shadow, cries for attention and then runs away from you when you give it to her. Fizz is out and about and picking fights with cats three times her size.

We arrived home on Wednesday this week to find that Fizz has completed her first successful hunt. There were feathers everywhere and we began the fun game of 'hunt the corpse'. The boys joined in with gusto and it wasn't long before Sebi discovered a furry ball under the largest and heaviest bit of furniture that we own. My feminist tendencies left the building and I dispatched Stu to lie on his stomach with a torch, a long stick and a carrier bag whilst I pretended to stack the dishwasher. Stu's masculine tendencies left him when he poked the 'corpse' with a stick and it moved.

"It's a rat", declared my husband, as he showed more agility than he has done in a while, as he rapidly did the worm backwards across the kitchen. Although I was aware that he was the one (a) with the torch and (b) that was nearest, I did dispute the rat call because of the aforementioned enormous amount of feathers. It would have been one hell of a coincidence if the cats had killed a bird in the house on the same day a rat has just decided to take up residence underneath our sideboard.

With a second look Stu decided that the rat had a beak after all which made our lives slightly less complicated. Then followed a rather painful twenty minutes of Stu poking a terrified bird out into the open and me flapping at it with a towel until it eventually went out of the window, probably straight back into the jaws of an eagerly waiting Fizz.

It got me thinking back to when my last cat Toby was in his heyday. I have never, ever, known such a determined hunter as he was; he would tackle anything, no matter what size it was. He managed to drag in pigeons through the cat flap which made the most almighty mess. When I turned my nose up at a common old garden pigeon, he outdid himself by bringing in a very expensive racing pigeon instead. (That was an awkward phone call.) Toby half killed a squirrel and then grew bored and left it suffering. I couldn't cope with watching it slowly die, or with doing anything with it myself, so I called my poor father who had to travel half an hour to my place to bludgeon to death an equally poor squirrel with his garden spade. Toby decided to bring in an enormous rat, alive, that my partner at the time managed to shoot in the lounge with his air rifle. What on earth the neighbours thought was going on, I don't know.

Toby's finest hour however came after his death. Shelley had moved into the flat with me by this stage and we were staggering back from the pub next door one night, as normal, when we bumped into one of our neighbours on the path. She told me that a ginger cat had been run over on the hill and she thought it was mine. Shelley and I were distraught. We went up to the flat for another drink whilst the neighbour valiantly offered to scoop up the cat remains and bring them to us. She delicately presented me with a dead ginger cat in a cardboard box and we all sobbed and drank a little more. The neighbour, (by then our new best friend, can't remember her name now though), decided it was time to leave and as we were elongating our effusive farewells at the top of the stairs, the cat flap opened and Toby came in. Silence. Shelley turned to me and said, "you can see that cat can't you?" I think she thought the ghost of Toby had come to see us instead! Toby thought we were insane as we all landed on him kissing him and crying, he turned around and went straight back out again. We were, of course, then left with the problem of having a dead ginger cat in our flat in a cardboard box. Technically, I think the neighbour should have taken it with her - she had brought it in in the first place after all, and, it was now nothing to do with us. Of course, she didn't, she scarpered and we all went to bed, exhausted. I wonder what Toby's reaction was when he found it on his return... Must have been rather disconcerting. I took the corpse to the vet the next day and let it become their problem instead.

So, here we go again. Another fourteen or so years of active contributions to the housekeeping by our feline friends. Once Bubbles dares to stick her nose out of the cat flap it will be double trouble too. Most days the boys are home at least an hour and a half before I am though so surely the responsibility must lie with them? I am sure however that I will walk through the door and still find them in ignorant bliss sucked into their X box, even if they are surrounded by half of Hertfordshire's rodent population... I'll keep you posted...

I ❤ the Summer Holidays!

Five and a half more blissful weeks of lay-ins and relaxation, (apart from the normal couple of twitchy days before results are released of course).  I came up with a new plan this year to stop me drinking every day; I would only drink champagne this summer.  Hooray.  So far this hasn't quite worked as I seem to be just drinking champagne...every day...  This fail safe plan could just end with me being seriously broke as well as having alcohol poisoning...

After an extremely heavy weekend, I found myself on Monday morning at 9.30am in Beaumont gym, being pounded by Miss D, with Ms D and our five little boys for company.

"Have mercy", I begged as the weights were increased and the Lanson ran from my pores.

"Never", the torturess replied whilst piling on the weights and increasing my pain. "Hanh has done 75 of those reps and you have done 40; are you going to let her beat you?"

Wrong audience.  I become decidedly non-competitive when in agony.  As ever, I loved it when it was over and as I couldn't straighten my hair for two days afterwards as I was unable to lift my arms, I'm guessing it has done some good.

On Tuesday we headed into London.  First stop the eye hospital in Fulham, (don't tell me that I don't take you to all the best places kids)!  Our tickets didn't work at Blackfriars and it flashed up with 'Seek Assistance'.  This I did and the helpful man let us through the barrier.

"Mummy did you pick the brown man in particular to help us because he was a Sikh?  Are you being racist Mummy?"  Wow.

What's the worst thing to happen when you arrive after a long journey with two bouncy boys to a posh private hospital in Fulham for an 11am appointment?  To discover that the hospital have cocked up and have given you an appointment for 12.

"It's fine Madam, you are very welcome to wait here and use our facilities."

Was she actually insane?  Like we would survive the hour (and a quarter) without creating complete carnage.  I explained, firmly yet fairly, that this was not a viable option and that possibly her customer service skills were not quite being pitched as they should be in this situation.  She handed me over to somebody else, equally as unhelpful and equally as snooty.  This second useless lady at least apologised for the cock up but then asked if Sebi would not lie down on the sofa.  He was lying QUIETLY READING A BOOK after having been lodged in a waiting room for 20 minutes.  I'm sorry would you rather he ran around a bit screaming instead; Sebi and I locked eyes and with mutual silent agreement decided that this would be the next course of action.  Thankfully my Professor decided to enter stage left just at this moment and swept me off into his consultation room before any blood was shed.  Pizza for lunch and then an afternoon at Madame Tussauds sorted out the rest of the day.

I really am fairly healthy during term time but if I carry on eating and drinking for the next five and a half weeks, the way I have done for the first few days, I think I will need to being personal trained 24 hours a day up until Christmas!  Cheers.  Happy holidays!  :-)

D-I-WHY-OH-WHY

My husband and I are perfectly capable of falling out and bickering without any external pressures. but I think we are probably at our worst as a couple when we have to deal with anything DIY based.  We tend to avoid it therefore at all costs.  So we were both dreading this afternoon when we knew we had to assemble a 12 foot trampoline for Sebi's birthday tomorrow.

The instructions said that it would take two people two hours.  We therefore reckoned it would be three and painful for us.  We have just finished, in the dark; it took us seven. Seven long and hideously unpleasant hours.  I am fairly dire at DIY and Stu is definitely much worse.  Unfortunately, a trampoline is something that cannot be done single handed and so tackle it together we had to.

It started badly.  I had separated all the washers, nuts, bolts, screws etc. etc. into piles so that we could be clear about what was what.  Stuart took a screw number 12 and started putting it where a screw number 8a should have gone instead.  Cue first enormous flid from his wife, two minutes into the task.  At this point he shuffled off inside and started phoning every handyman in St Albans.  Unsurprisingly, every handyman in St Albans did not want to come and build our trampoline at 3.15pm on a Friday afternoon, they wanted to be in the pub.  Fair dos.  Me too.

By the time the aforementioned sheepish husband reappeared, I had pretty much built the frame single-handed and was irritatingly smug.  We got it on its feet and it was Stu's turn to get involved and stretch out the springs.  To those of you lucky buggers that have never put together a trampoline, you have to do this in a balanced way, doing opposite springs and then a cross section to ensure the stretch stays equal whilst you're putting it together.  Stu was stretching, I was counting springs.  How the mighty fall.  I miscalculated one spring when we were halfway through which meant then moving half of the springs again.  They are so taut that once they are in they don't want to come out again.  Cue lots of swearing and shouting from Stu.  I was trying to offer helpful advice, (maybe feeling the tiniest bit guilty that this bit could have been my fault), stuff like, "are you sure you've got the angle right?", and "I think you maybe just need to pull a bit harder?"

About this time, Stu announced that he was going to go down the pub and we could finish it later.  That went down like a cup of cold sick.  He didn't go, (although he is there with my blessing now), but he did mention it approximately every 10 minutes between 5.30 and 10.15.  Not ideal.

The boys had been told they would be able to use this new, fun, shiny trampoline after tea tonight.  Luckily, their mother was too hot, busy and grumpy to even make them tea, so Zak made them toast and they put themselves to bed, wondering if Mummy and Daddy would still be together by the time Sebi turned eight.

The second mistake I made was when I had tied half tied the safety net around which took about 25 minutes.  I have never been into weaving/sewing/knitting and this was like a nasty combination of all three.  Stu tried to really go to the pub again at this point but was threatened with death by trampoline tool if he dared to try and step out of the garden.  He therefore joined in with the heinous knitsewtrampoweaving until I realised that we were tying the net onto the outside of the springs whereas it should have been tied on the inside instead.  We then had to UNDO our last 25 minutes work and start again. So horribly painful.  Plus it was getting dark.  I had a pang of historical empathy for the 19th century matchstick girls as I squinted at my throbbing fingers that I couldn't see and which had stopped working properly anyway.

We did it.  We have started talking in a fairly civilised manner again.  I am hoping that we may someday see the funny side of all this.  I look forward to my ohsohandyman Dad's take on it tomorrow.  Stu had to go and borrow a couple of washers from him at some point so he was aware of the extreme pain of our situation.  We didn't ask for his help, and so he didn't impose himself.  I reckon at the age of 77 he could have possibly done it in 90 minutes standing on his head however.

Handymen of St Albans - we are an easy target for your marketing right now,  Ring on our doorbell and we will probably stick you on a fantastic retainer for twenty years.

We live to fight another day.  Although, as tomorrow is a special one, we may try not to fight too much.

Marvellous Muscat

I reckon I have pretty much done forty now as hard as it could possibly be done.  It's been going on for about a month and I'm absolutely knackered.  It started with a weekend in Dorset with my besties, followed by the party to end all parties and ended with eight days in Muscat.

With my previous track record, I don't blame my Dad for checking every day in the week previously that I was definitely going to get on the plane.  For the large majority of both the inward and outward journey, I was very calm and occasionally relaxed; it's amazing what free-pour champagne achieves really isn't it?  I reckon we have ruined the boys forever - Ryan Air just isn't going to cut it from now on. Zak was in heaven with his fully reclining seat, free choice of games and movies and someone who brought him food every time he looked at them.  Sebi, was, of course, more suspicious:

"Why have they just offered me coffee and a newspaper?  I'm seven.  Obviously I don't need either of those things."

"Well darling, they just don't want to treat you any differently."

"Do I LOOK like I drink coffee and read newspapers?"

Cue Sebi retreating underneath a duvet with a game of Space Invaders for the next hour and a half with his bottle of seven-year-old-appropriate water.  To be honest, it was a relief for everyone.

They were, of course, very grateful to Granny and Grandad for the amazing treat, as were we all, but there were some seriously cringey 'say what you see' moments too.  Oman Airport is beautiful and we were whisked seamlessly through check in, fast-track security and the Business Class Lounge.  When we were about to board the plane and we were in the queue for the bus by the gate, Zak said, rather too loudly:

"But Mummy, we're in the wrong bit.  We're with everybody else.  Where is the Business Class queue for this part?"

An innocent question from an actually not generally that spoilt child.  The 300 people around us however thought they had just encountered the world's largest over-indulged brat.  Fortunately we didn't have to put up with the disgusted looks for long as we were soon back in our classy bubble.  Now, where did I put that free champagne? ;-)

The hotel was suitably amazing.  I couldn't believe I bumped into Sally who I went to school with on Day 1.  Surreal.  It always does my head in that when we are in the middle of London, Zak will say, 'oh look, there is Mrs so-and-so from school', or 'there is our next-door neighbour'.  I've got really cross with him in the past and said that there are billions of people all over the place and we are unlikely to ever bump into anyone we know.  That argument doesn't wash anymore I feel...

It really was the holiday to end all holidays.  I'm not sure that other families in the future will benefit from the 'children eat free' at the buffet situation as the waiting staff realised that Zak was cheerfully putting away what they could have charged three grown men for at every meal.

So far, forty, so good.  As long as this kind of lifestyle continues, I reckon I will cope with the next decade just fine!  :-)

Birthday Blessings

Granny's seventy-somethingth birthday today.  I announced to my husband last night that I was going to get up this morning and go to church with her.  He didn't believe me at all which is fair enough as I normally don't open my eyes until at least 10 on a Sunday.

I rose at 8.45 as promised, and was going to take Sebi with me anyway, but found that hockey had been cancelled due to ice, and so as Stu was going to the gym it was going to be three of us going to church.  I had less resistance to the idea than I expected; the boys are rather devoted to their Granny.  They bounced into church and she was completely delighted and surprised to see them.  Lovely.  Now just an hour's service to get through.

I explained to Sebi that the vicar read the words in normal type and we read everything in bold.  Thus when we stood up as the service started, the vicar started speaking and Sebi joined in with:

"Introduction and Opening Hymn."

"Not that bold writing Darling", I hissed in his ear, "that's a title, you don't read that bit".

"But you said..."

My fault.  Entirely.  I accept it.  The rest of the service passed without incident, (apart from the 50 times that Zak dropped his hymn book and service sheet on the floor), until we reached the Peace.  Whilst Zak was quite happy to shake hands all around the church, Sebi was questioning me as to how he knew if he was going to want peace to be with people if he didn't know them.  He could not like them and then he wouldn't care if they had peace or not, or maybe even would prefer that they didn't.  We compromised on a handshake for everyone without him saying anything.  He eyeballed me whilst shaking all of these hands making it perfectly clear to me that he was not wishing peace upon anyone. Hopefully the congregation thought he was a mute.

They didn't want to come up for Communion as they thought it was unfair that we got bread and wine whilst they just got a pat on the head.  I see their point I suppose.  The last hurdle was when Sebi read ahead to the last page and told me that he didn't want to say that he would give his body and soul as a living sacrifice to Jesus Christ as he would rather keep his body and soul to himself.  Rather than getting into a theological debate I just told him that he could stay quiet during that bit, which he did with great vigour.

At the end of the service Granny thanked her Grandsons for their fantastic behaviour and said that it had made her birthday them being there.

"At least we only have to do it for one week", quipped Zak, "it's so boring I feel sorry for you having to go every week".  I don't think the vicar heard.  When he said goodbye to me at the door and said it was lovely to meet me whilst I was visiting my Mother, I didn't correct him.  He doesn't have to know we live down the road and I don't think he'll be seeing us again any time soon.  Happy Birthday Mother! :-)

Sebi's Stroppy Sunday...

Normally our Sundays are spent scoffing roast beef and apple pie at my parents' house. Today however, Sebi was going to a football party at 12 so Mum and Dad got some respite and we arranged our Sunday around that.  Stu and Zak were going swimming then I was going to drop Seb at the party; the three of us were going to go to lunch and then I would pick Sebi up again.

The best laid plans and all...

We arrived at the football party and as the doors to the hall opened, every little boy that had been waiting eagerly outside grabbed a football and started running happily about. Every little boy that is, bar one.  His eyes filled with tears and he looked balefully at me and said:

"Why have you brought me here?"

Erm, because you bloody asked me to?!  Fortunately, most other mothers had dumped and run whilst their little darlings enjoyed the activity on offer but I felt really sorry for the mum-of-birthday-boy who I have never met before who was hovering helplessly nearby.  If it hadn't been for her I probably would have booted him through the door and legged it out for lunch but instead I put on my best sympathetic face and coaxed my little anti-footballite into the hall.

A very well-meaning party leader immediately noticed the small sad face and tried to encourage Sebi to participate.  I could have told him straight away that he was wasting his breath and there was no way Seb was going to engage with him, but instead I pasted on a concerned motherly gaze and acted surprised when Sebi didn't immediately spring up and participate once the man had asked.  Once he was safely out of the way, I hissed at Sebi:

"Why don't you just go and kick a ball about - everybody else is?"

I received a withering glare that was like looking in a mirror whilst Sebi painstakingly explained to me that he didn't know WHICH ball he was meant to play with.  Equally patiently I explained to Sebi that there were so many balls around he could just kick any one and then if somebody else kicked that one he could choose another one and run about with it.

"What's the fun in that?"

I'd lost the battle.  I knew this now but felt I should show willing for another few minutes. Back comes the eager party man and suggests that Sebi might like to join in with the warm up that doesn't even involve any footballs, just running.  Big, fat, awkward, three-way-stary silence, broken only by me saying that we were perfectly happy sitting and watching.  The minute he turned his back we were up, coats on, apologising profusely to mum-of-birthday-boy and legging it for the exit.

I said my piece as soon as we got in the car and then we both fumed silently until we reached home.

"Change of plan", I yelled as we walked through the door, "we're going to Cafe Rouge, they sell champagne".

My husband began to remind me that I don't drink on Sundays but as he arrived in the hall and saw his youngest son who was meant to be at a party and the expression on both of our faces, he inwardly waved a fond farewell to his cheap greasy burger meal for three and resigned himself to a champagne lunch for four instead.

Later, as we had a moment alone, I informed Stu that I thought this proved Sebi was definitely floating somewhere near the autistic spectrum: unwillingness to participate in new activities, preferring to play on his own, resistance to change not to mention unable to look at anything from a non-literal perspective and his rather impressive OCD tendencies...

"Maybe he's just tired instead", (subtext 'and a little fucker that you have created by pandering to him for seven years'). suggested Stu, who then told me that I'd once again slept through the middle of the night nightmare situation.  Somebody told Sebi a riddle in the week about a girl who was murdered in her bed and it has unsettled his sleep somewhat since.  When I've been putting him to bed, I have comforted him and promised him that no murderer would ever make their way through Mummy and that I would lay down my life to protect him.

"What good is that if you have drunk a bottle of champagne and got your earplugs in; you won't even wake up", he replied.  Good point, well made.  I'll just leave Daddy to sort that one out too then.

(Loving the fact that he comes with a warning on him...😠)