Hams and Wings
It’s funny but until now I’ve never had enough fat to be able to grab handfuls of it and know what it really feels like.
I have, however, been cultivating a fairly impressive spare tyre over the last year or so and now have enough of it that it sits atop the waistband of my jeans, quivering like a jelly when I cycle down cobbled streets. It makes me look as though I have been poured into my jeans like a thick milkshake might be poured into the glass , but there is just a little bit too much of me so it accumulates at the top, spreads out as far as its skin bag will allow and then just sits there hanging over the edges and wobbling every time I sneeze or cough.
The strange thing about it is that, well, it’s so soft. It’s really quite nice to take a little handful and sit there squelching it between your fingers, like one of those stress toys training companies always give away for free.
It’s nothing like the fat that babies have. Thirteen, my first, was a little Michelin girl when she was a toddler, with sausages for legs and elastic bands around her wrists but, although her fat was lovely to nuzzle, it was still quite firm and beautifully smooth. Mine, by contrast, is uneven, slack, wibbly and quite malleable. Although it’s nice to squeeze, as I said, it’s also quite shocking. The novelty is also wearing off – especially as I’m now growing some on the undersides of my arms. I dread going into a self-perpetuating wobble and falling over when I wave goodbye to people. It can stop now – I really don’t want any more of it. I would quite happily give it back but I don’t think it comes off as easily as it goes on. Perhaps it could be sucked out of my midriff and injected into my boobs or lips…
As I typed the word ‘boobs’ back there, Husband appeared (radar must be switched on) with a cup of tea, accompanied by the heavily-laden biscuit tin. It’s not as though I need any encouragement! A little will power really wouldn’t go amiss…
Slow Cooker… or Slow Learner?
I have spent the last two months lacking inspiration and am therefore dredging the safety net of my histroical musings for sustenance. The result is that I have just raided the blogpost larder and filched the very last titbit therein, which you will find below. This means that I now have to get serious about inspiration for writing. I need to stir up the porridge that resides in my skull and try to jump start some synapses or spark some ganglions into action. I wonder what synapses look like and I wonder where ganglions reside. On the sunny Islets of Langerhans, perhaps, where we’re going for our holidays next year, by the way.
So here you are, then. We find ourselves transported back to sunny Sidcup circa March 1997:
Due to the fact that we have just moved into a house devoid of any pleasant décor whatsoever, we have begun with redecorating the kitchen. As a result, the only fixture is a sink with a single cold tap which is held up by ropes attached to the window handles, as the base unit now resides in the skip out front.
We do not even possess an oven, having had it written in to the contract that the vendor should have it professionally disconnected and removed from the premises before we signed, so grim was its condition. Oh, bad memories of the house of horrors that this place used to be before it became the shell it now is, ready to be refitted and, we hope, transformed in to our home. I will save the gruesome skin flake story for another day and believe me, that is not one to be read before, during or immediately following meal time.
Anyway, I digress. Our kindly neighbours took pity on us and decided to lend us their slow cooker. I now suspect that this was a devious ploy to rid themselves of the cursed appliance that had cost them too much to justify dumping it straight into the aforementioned skip out front.
Have you ever had the pleasure of a one to one with a slow cooker? This wretched invention has the unenviable ability of draining whatever is thrown in to it of any flavour, colour or texture whatsoever. It’s weird really, because all it seems to do is keep your meat warm in water all day and it comes out tasting of, well, meat that has been kept warm in water all day. Uncanny! No matter what tasty additions you contribute to the pot, the slow cooker can secrete them somewhere other than within the food! I made a Thai red chicken curry recently and strangely enough it came out tasting like boiled chicken. What I would like to know is where did all the chilli, coriander, lemon grass etc that went in at the beginning go? It must be magic. I mean, if you tried to reverse the curry process, you couldn’t do it, could you? And actually, why would you want to, but you know what I’m saying. Maybe I’ll try putting cucumber in and see what it makes of that. Perhaps Husband could be persuaded to eat it once it had spent the day getting the slow cooker treatment and no longer actually resembled cucumber in any way, shape or form. If that works, maybe I could try throwing in my dirty washing and seeing how it deals with the stubborn stains. The trouble is, if it can suck out all of the flavours and aromas from the foods you put into it, I bet the nutritional value also drops through the floor. It must be like one of those amazing water filters you can use to drink the contents of the septic tank or a river that has been poisoned by toxic waste. The outcome is basically the same.
I admit that, as a slow cooker novice, I may not be approaching it in the right way. I did, for example, try putting pasta in one day on my way out in the morning. When I came home that evening and opened it up to inspect the delights it contained, it seemed that someone had removed the pasta and replaced it with some old, semen-soaked flannels.
As an aside, 12 years later, upon our arrival in Australia to visit our practically-family-friends who had decided for some strange reason to emigrate there 8 months earlier, they met us at the airport and whisked us home to a wonderful slap-up meal (after the obligatory bubbles and nibbles) of Leg of Lamb Casserole à la Slow Cooker. Needless to say , the lamb was tender, juicy, delicious, flavoursome and the wonderful aroma emanating from the plug-in porcelain cooking pot pervaded the entire house and had us salivating the minute we were through the front door.
Either the technology had improved tremendously over that 12 year period or, well, maybe it’s just a me thing.
Parenting Skills – or Unskills?
Ten: ‘Dad, what’s a parent’s job?’
Husband: ‘Erm, well, do you mean in relation to children?’
Ten: ‘Yes. ‘
Husband: ‘Well, …’ mention made of raising them in what parents consider to be the best way they can with love, example, education etc etc…
Ten: ‘But how?’
At which point all of the wind was blown out of Husband’s sails. How on earth was he supposed to answer this awkward question, especially when it sounded suspiciously as though it was all leading down one particular pathway; that of Mean Mummy banning Ten from using the computer and all related games on schooldays.
Perhaps Ten was going to try and forge a Secret Squirrel male-bonding pact, whereby all Spoilsports (Mum) would be excluded for ever and ever. Husband successfully managed to steer the conversation in a different direction.
We were reminded yet again what a funny little character Ten is and it brought to mind some of his previous obscure observations to which there is no answer (unless you happen to be a bit of a boffin or taking hallucinogenic drugs) like:
‘Why is the sky so big?’ and ‘Would you rather live on the point of a sword or hanging on a hook?’
Ten and I spent Monday and Tuesday of this week at home, with him vomiting violently from both ends. By Tuesday evening, when he was over his symptoms but still sitting on the sofa wearing only shorts, he said:
‘My nipples are nothing. Sometimes you can’t even feel them. When I poke them in they don’t always pop back out again.’
One day, some time during his first year at school, he confided in me:
‘Mummy, I know the ‘F’ word.’
‘Do you?’ I asked, reeling. ‘ What is it?’
‘Vagina.’
Francophonics
Many moons back, when I was a young undergraduate, I spent a year working as the English assistant in a French school in the suburbs of Paris. Each day, I would take one half of the class scheduled for English and the teacher would keep the other half. The following week we would swap.
I took a fairly informal approach with the pupils, trying to motivate them by injecting some fun into learning to speak English. The teacher had a syllabus to which he or she was obliged to adhere but I did not. All I had to to do was to try to get them speaking English. It was a challenge but I wanted them to want to come with my half of the group and at least to want to try. I told them that they could ask me anything they wanted to know in English and, within reason, I would tell them.
One day, in the middle of class, a pupil (aged about 14 or 15) put his hand up:
‘Excuse me, Mees, what ees bollocks?’
The shocking ‘bollocks’ word bursting forth so unexpectedly from such a politely phrased and timidly posed question tickled me.
‘Where did you hear that?’ I asked him.
‘Ze Sex Peestols. Never Mind Ze Bollocks,’ was his response.
Fortunately I had learnt that very word the evening before when, out with some friends who were not so polite or timid around me, one of them had told a joke that contained the same word.
‘Les couilles,’ I told him.
My poor pupil blushed a deep shade of red while the whole class collapsed into guffaws of laughter.
This led to another question, from a girl this time, an avid Blondie fan, who wanted to know what the French kissing from their hit ‘French Kissing in the USA’ meant. I explained that it meant kissing with tongues and the pupils, astounded, responded that in French they called it ‘baiser à l’anglaise.’ Well, as you can imagine, that initiated a very interesting discussion to find other idioms where we blame it on each other, so to speak. We came up with ‘ to take French leave’ (filer à l’anglaise); ‘French seam’ (couture anglaise) and that old chestnut the ‘French letter’ (capote anglaise).
Who would have thought?
4 February 1997
About twelve years ago I would have been writing a blog if they had existed. Instead, as I had never heard of them but nonetheless felt the urge to record certain observations during everyday life, I filled a few pages with my scrawl. Gosh, fountain pen and paper – how eccentric!
I found some of those ragged old sheets recently and thought they would do here. One of them has appeared already as The Writing is on the Wall. Did you guess, or did you think I had the most amazing memory? Perhaps you just assume everything I write is fictitious.
Anyway, here’s a short one featuring Thirteen who, at the time, was aged 14 months:
Sleep Delaying Tactics Commonly Employed by One.
One is supposed to be asleep at this very moment, thus allowing me to write. Judging by the sporadic thumping emanating through the ceiling however, she is currently emptying her cot of anything that is not nailed down, to wit soft toys, blankets and dummies (otherwise known as pacifiers, of which, I am ashamed to say, she has five.)
She has a whole repertoire of sleep-delaying tactics when she’s in the mood to prevaricate and the latest is a blinder. She takes time to go through all of her other tricks (aforementioned toy-hurling, sad puppy whimpering, jumping up and down to make the cot bounce across the room, manic laughter etc) before she realises that nothing seems to be eliciting any response from bad parents. So she switches to Plan B and does a mega poo. Then she sits back (yuck!), makes the occasional noise to let us know she’s still awake and waits.
Eventually one of us will venture ‘Do you think she’s done one?’ and go up to investigate.
The lucky parent whose turn it is to check is usually met with a violently meaty smell upon entering the chaotic toy frenzy that the bedroom has become and a giggling, curly-haired dwarf in cute pyjamas.
It’s impossible to be angry and I can’t help laughing through the gagging.
We’ll be coming round the mountain…..
As you may be aware, we returned from our summer holidays in rural Italy yesterday where we had the most wonderful time. The fact that it went so swimmingly was down to several reasons, which include the wonderful location, the apartment at L’Oliveto, the olive trees outside our front door, the pool, our wonderful hosts and all of the lovely people they introduced us to, the weather, the food and last but not least, the animals. By animals, I mean the four-footed furry ones, of which there were five, and not the smaller, multi-legged variety, of which there were many, this being the countryside.
The variety of wildlife, rather than the domestic pets, was huge. It included a chubby scorpion found in the pool…
…as well as the skinnier one found loitering in our bedroom, lizards, beetles, giant millipedes, enormous crickets, monster spiders (don’t like those) and voracious mosquitos that left me with two burning bands of bites, one around each ankle, that constantly seemed to be crackling and fizzing, calling out to my twitching fingers to be scratched raw. One night I slept with wet tea towels tied around each ankle with shoe laces. Husband told me I looked like something out of Fame. (I hope he meant the one in the video with that amazing body and the ability to fly!!)
Here’s a post I started, most unsociably, at lunch in a restaurant in Sanano:
Just finished a plate of local rabbit with sage. Oh my – culinary heaven! Strangely enough Ten had a pizza one night that actually had chips as a topping. I’m no local historian but I’m sure that’s not traditional. In this restaurant there is a table by the door piled high with small photo albums. We had a look at a couple of them. They depict the far-flung travels of an anonymous photographer . The books I looked at took me round Chile, Argentina and Cambodia. Armadillos, whales, glaciers, icebergs, people wrapped in colourful blankets and women with stacks of rings around their extended necks float past my face. A thimble of espresso is placed in front of me on the table. Turn the page. Photo’s of the genocide museum in Phnom Penh suddenly bring me thudding out of my reverie and back to the real world.
There’s a giant professional fridge from the 70’s in this restaurant. It has yellow Formica facings and the glass fronts display the mouthwatering cuts of red meat available on the menu. We are the only people to eat in the trattoria this lunch time. I hope more come tonight and tomorrow so that lovely food does not go to waste.
Now it’s off to the gelateria with its dazzling display of ice cream in every hue and flavour imaginable. Coni picoli all round with fragola, limone and stratiacella before heading onwards and upwards through the mountains towards the Sibillini National Park. As we climb ever higher the temperature drops. We pass through Stinco, the name of which causes a momentary lapse into infantile hilarity and on through another less memorably named village until we reach an altitude of 1600m . The views are breathtaking but due to wiggly road sickness I am driving, so daren’t look for too long in case we plop off the edge. From 32° C in Sanano, we are now at the relatively cool temperature of 24°. Very comfortable, thank you.
As we cross the flat plain of Acquacanina, we pass a clanking herd of goats, their bells announcing them from afar, and their concomitant goat herd asleep in the grass wearing a day-glo orange waistcoat of the sort usually seen on men at work on the roads. We are overtaken on an uphill blind hairpin bend by an octogenarian in a bright red Alfa Romeo Spider, roof down, and similarly aged female companion, her hair blowing about her face, both laughing and chatting as they pass. I’m struck by the irony of the situation as they must be approaching twice my age and yet I’m the one creeping cautiously around the corners, feeling sick and needing a a pee, whilst they whistle past, carefree and seeming to love being thrown around the bends.
After half a day of sweltering heat, spent in the car and in the lunchtime restaurant before another drive up the mountain, we arrive at our final destination, the beautiful and glittering Lago di Fiastra. We park and tumble out of the car, towels at the ready , with half a wary eye on the biggest, blackest approaching cloud you ever saw. We manage to dip our toes in the lake before the wind suddenly whips up and the lightening starts. Back to the car we trot to sit out the storm.
‘It’ll be over in 10 minutes,’ I predict.
Suddenly there was a loud crack on the windscreen.
‘What was that?’ I asked Husband.
‘Umm.. I think it was a lump of ice,’ he replied without moving his lips.
‘No!’ I responded in disbelief. ‘Surely it was a stone thrown up by the car in front pulling away. Idiot.
Crack. Another one. And then another and another. Rocks the size of gobstoppers were being hurled out of the sky onto our little rental car.
Scream of terror from the back seat.
‘It’s going to break the windscreen and dent the car all over.’ Thirteen voiced my precise thoughts.
‘We’re all going to die,’ shrieked Ten.
Needless to say, we survived unscathed to tell the tale, as did the car and we drove off once the lightening bolts had stopped to shelter under a tree. That’s where I wrote the second part of this post whilst we waited for the VERY LOUD storm to subside. (Have you seen the kids’ film ‘Bedtime Stories‘ with Adam Sandler, Russell Brand & Courtney Cox? It rains rainbow bubble gum balls at one point but somehow, although reminiscent of our experience, they’re not as scary as solid chunks of ice with jagged edges….)
Later, when the rain that followed the ice had subsided to a mild spit, we parents decided that seeing as we had driven all this way to swim in the lake then swim in it we jolly well would, regardless of the conditions. Once in our togs, Ten asked:
‘Are you really going in?’ When we answered in the affirmative, they both said:
‘Well if you are, then so are we.’
Thus, to the wide-eyed amazement of the locals, we jumped into the lake, which was gloriously warm and beautifully clear. Italians who had parked up to shelter from the rain actually got out of their cars to come and have a look at the crazy foreigners. We swam, we saw jumping fish and we played ducks and drakes before we clambered back into the car and headed home.
Just 1 of 14 fabulous days!
Is there anybody out there?
Phew! We’ve just got back from 2 weeks in Italy so I apologize for the ‘long weekend’ comment from about a month ago. I hope that all three of you have not given up on me and my blog and emigrated to more creative spaces. Actually, I can’t really post anything substantial as Ten wants the laptop and the other computers are also in use at the moment, so I shall have to stop just about as I am getting started and go to Albert Heinous for some essential shopping instead.
If you are curious about our holiday, you could follow the link to ‘A Mass of Odds and Ends‘ on my blogroll and see exactly which part of Paradise we stayed in. You can also see a partial Husband pictured on the latest post and even my arm makes an appearance along with my stripey green T Shirt behind some flowers. That was Ferragosto, a huge national holiday in Italy celebrating, umm, not sure what, where we sat down to eat under the olive trees at 1:00 in the afternoon and rolled away from the table at midnight, sated and gorged.
As a late addition, here’s a photo of the beautiful olive tree that stood right outside our door and was the first thing I saw each morning on my way to the pool for my early-ish morning dip.
Oh, how I wish I were back there… but I’m not and I must relinquish the laptop now, so we will chat again at a later date.
Meme 4 Youyou
Are MEMEs so called because they are all about me?
Apart from the fact that writing a blog is the most self-indulgent, self-obsessed activity I can think of apart from self-pleasuring, I am stumped as to why on earth would anyone be interested in my answers to these questions. I feel lucky enough that you’re already reading my blog… But never mind and I don’t have to feel guilty because Mothership tagged me and it would be churlish not to respond, or tag back or onwards or whatever it is one is supposed to do.
If I’m honest, I suppose I did find it interesting to read Mothership’s answers (can I copy hers?) so maybe all 3 of you who read my blog might be interested to read my answers.
Do I have to tell the truth or can I embellish reality?
Well, anyway, here goes:
1. Who is the hottest movie star?
Ewan Macgregor.
2. Apart from your house and your car what is the most expensive thing you’ve ever bought?
This would have to be a round trip to Australia via Singapore for the four of us last summer. Although I booked it, I can’t say I exclusively bought this as I paid for it out of the joint account and Husband’s contributions thereto are far greater than my own….
3. What’s your most treasured memory?
Ummm…. don’t know… need more time to think. Can’t pick one out of the many…
4.What was the best gift you ever received as a child?
Probably my peddle go-kart bought on Green-Shield stamps or my Chopper bike or Polly the hamster or my disguise kit (made by my mum).
5. What is the biggest mistake you’ve made?
Not telling!
6. 4 10 words to describe myself
Female, English, ready for an adventure and love to laugh.
7. what was my highlight or lowlight of 2008?
Highlight was the holiday mentioned under number 2.
Lowlight was starting my new job and finding it was no better than the one I had just left.
8. Favourite film?
Little Voice? Pulp Fiction? Betty Blue? Lost in Translation? Diva? Rocky Horror? Toy Story? Can’t choose – depends on my mood and the time of day…
9. Tell me one thing I don’t know about you
I want to be a helicopter pilot.
10. If you were a comic book/strip or cartoon character, who would you be?
Bugs Bunny, or Dougal from the original Magic Roundabout.
Well, that’s all folks! Time to tag some other victims but I don’t know whom. I think I’ll just do Katie at Home of the Manx and see how she reacts!
Hope I didn’t bore anyone too muchxx
Off to Blighty…
Thirteen, Ten and I are flying off to England later today, along with Friend from Belgian Waffling. Husband is staying home for a peaceful long weekend of lie-ins and beer.
When I told him he’ll miss us he said he’s looking forward to playing his music as loud as he likes.
Hmmm…
Anyway, I won’t be back until mid next week so these pages may be a little quiet for a while. If you’ve got nothing better to do, think up a caption for my Doggersbank photo and then vote for your favourite in the best name poll….. Poor old Mr Knickerbocker is languishing ignored and unloved
Pooch Patrol
When I first arrived here, I had no concept of the elevated position our canine friends occupy in the grand scheme of all things Dutch. It seems that most dog-lovers love their dogs more than anything else in the world including children and it seems that the majority of Dutch households seem to possess at least one of the furry poop machines. The trouble with dog owners is that, like most parents, they think everyone else must find their pooches as loveable and attractive as they do and are actually insulted if you don’t want to kiss their drooling, farty bulldog on the lips like they do.
I have seen people in restaurants over here who must, I’m convinced, make a reservation for two but actually go out to eat alone, or en couple, taking Pooch with them. Said dog gets to sit on the other chair at the table thus facilitating the sharing of titbits from the table with salivating hound. This is the point at which my mother usually announces in her Extremely Loud Voice Intended For All To Hear that it’s disgusting and dogs should not be allowed in restaurants. I wholeheartedly agree with her but you can’t argue with an entire nation, can you?
The large doggie population and their owners are also resp0onsible for the sizeable problem we have with heaps of stinking waste on the streets here – owners not wishing to scoop do not seem to have thought of kneeing their pets gently over to the gutter whilst they perform so that the end product is left out of the way of unsuspecting pedestrians. You should see the pavements here. When I go running it’s like a veritable turd obstacle course with all manner of shapes, sizes and even colours. The variety is truly amazing – just like dogs themselves, I suppose. The stench, however, is always the same – I won’t start on about the guffs of stinky air I run through on sunny days. It’s hard enough trying to hold your breath when you’re out of it and inhaling is enough to make one gag.
As I said before, when I first arrived here I didn’t realise that dogs were held in such high regard. People go on marches here for dogs’ rights, claiming it to be unfair that they are not allowed on the beach between May and September.
One day, when driving down a narrow one way street, a woman with hound walked out to cross over just ahead of me, so I instinctively slowed to give her time. As she reached the middle of the lane however, her dog adopted the familiar hunched pose necessary to make a deposit. As I approached at a crawl, she made no effort to drag said creature to the edge of the road but merely stood waiting as he huffed and puffed and stained and squeezed. This was going to be along job in all senses and I was expected to wait. I am a fairly patient person as a rule but I object to being made to stand in line for the doggie toilet, so I hooted. The woman looked at me startled, as though I had taken a pot shot at her or something, and in her turn fired daggers at me. She heaved pooch 2 centimeters over as a gesture of defiance and stayed put, daring me with her daggers to try anything else.
Well that was it. The gloves were off. I edged forwards and managed I don’t know how to squeeze past the hound taking great care not to run over the tip of his tail. As I passed, the old haddock spat an insult in unintelligible grunts through the open window at me, so I retaliated by flicking her the birdie. I carried on t the end of the road, parked my car around the corner and went into the house of the friend I was visiting.
When I reappeared a couple of hours later, there was a note in what looked like semi-literate child’s scrawl on my windscreen, the gist of which was:
‘If you ever insult my wife again I will take your up-stuck finger off and shove it up your arse (actually the C-word was used but I can’t bring myself to type it here), you dirty, cancerous whore.’ This latter is, so I’m informed, the worst possible insult you can pay a person in Dutch.
The author’s name was clearly printed at the bottom, just above his address, which was around the corner.
Isn’t that thought-provoking? In England, there would be no sitting down to write notes which are then placed carefully under the windscreen wipers of your car. No, there would be knives taken to tyres, keys taken to bodywork and maybe even a pee or worse taken on the bonnet. But that is one of the differences between the Brits and the Dutch and I cannot decide what the motive was in leaving a note containing all of his particulars. Did he want me to send my husband round to his house for a duel?
Once out for a walk on the beach during off-season with Husband, Seven and Four, we were having a game of sea chicken where Four ran screaming up to the edge of the retreating water, only to perform a smart about turn and run screaming back towards us, hotly pursued by centimeter-deep jetsam, his arms and legs akimbo. Thus he was happy to chase and be chased by the ebb and flow of the sea and its tiny waves for hours on end, with his funny snowman arms on – you know, the ones that are held out at right angles to their sides with fingers widely splayed.
Later, as we were walking along the beach, Four suddenly stopped in his tracks, pointed ahead and said in a voice that carried as far as New Zealand:
‘Look, piggy!’
Bearing down on us from a distance of about 3 meters was a white squat grunting little bulldog, as wide as he was tall who did, in fact, bear a striking resemblance to a pig, both in his build and his grunting sounds. On the end of his leash was his equally white, squat and tattooed owner, who bore an uncanny resemblance to said porker The look we received from the one with tattoos as we passed each other was not a comforting one. That said, we did get a remarkably similar look from the piggy.
They do say that owners grow to resemble their dogs. Or is it the other way around?
Nice Place for a Rest…
Spotted on the way home from Husband’s birthday meal at the harbour yesterday was the photo opportunity below:
I told you the Dutch were laid back!
Please note that I did explain the meaning to the two cyclists in the photo and gave them the opportunity of staying in or exiting the shoot. They found the whole ‘dogging’ idea greatly amusing (especially the one on the left) and were quite enthusiastic about staying, even holding arms to make the end result more, erm… atmospheric…
Please share any funny captions!
And finally, on a more sober note, in case you’re interested, I think ‘dogger’ in Dutch means a cod-fisher and a ‘bank’ is a bench…
14th of July
Hmm… today is a very important date for many people.
In France, it’s Bastille Day, Le Quatorze Juillet, f ête nationale. It’s all about the storming of the Bastille, with the uprising of the populace against the monarchy, if I’m not mistaken. I expect a few people lost their heads to Madame La Guillotine and now it’s the biggest event of the year with lots of fireworks and a good knees-up. If you happen to be a heterosexual female in Paris on the eve of 14 July, a good tip is to get yourself invited to the Firemen’s Ball in Le Marais. Nuff said.
In our household, it’s Husband’s birthday…. so also a pretty big event with a few little pétards and a knees-up.
Husband has finally retreated to the Land of Nod, which means I can sneak around the house finding his presents that have been secreted in various places and arrange them on the table, ready for when he makes his appearance in the morning. Sadly, the only person likely to be up when he rises is the hungry StellaCat who will be padding down the stairs after him in anticipation of her breakfast. She will have no concept of what an important day it is and will not be treating him like royalty. He has decided to go off to work early so that he can, in turn, come home early for family celebrations. He is my most faithful reader, so if you are reading this at work today, then:
Happy Birthday, Lovely Husband of mine!
Over the Shoulder
One day in May I was travelling to Venice to meet up with my mother for a Very Important Birthday. She had arranged for my sister to travel over from Paris, as well as for her own sister, my Auntie Didge, and her husband, Uncle Dodge to meet us there. It was going to be a big jolly.
To get to Venice, I had planned on taking a bus to the station and then the train to the airport. It started badly however, as on the bus I bumped into Mrs Blabalot, who, along with her awe-inspiring 15 year old daughter who cracks walnuts between her bare palms, plonked herself down next to me and started to rattle on. She’s a very friendly soul and, as long as you smile and occasionally nod in agreement through the glazed expression that inevitably descends over anyone’s countenance if exposed to her for long enough, she seems quite happy to witter on in her own little world, oblivious to whether anyone is listening or not. You just have to take care to dodge the little spit balls that come winging towards you from time to time.
Once at the station, I found my train and settled into a forward-facing window seat, i-podded myself up (volume not too high – must be considerate to those around us!) and was ready for the 30 minute ride to Schiphol airport. The Dutch trains are a paragon of efficiency and comfort in comparison to UK trains -8 out of 10 of them arriving, in my experience, on time. It is true to say, though, that I don’t take them terribly often. Ask a Dutch person about their trains however, and they will lament the awful delays and constant disruptions, comparing them unfavourably to their German counterparts.
Five minutes later, an announcement informed us that the train was going to be late and then, two minutes later another one told us that it was actually not going to be running at all and that we should all get off and pile onto the old chug-a-lug on the next platform, which was grubby and smelt of burgers and would be stopping at every station on the way. Those of us going to Schiphol would have to change at Leiden, which I did, only to find that the sleek train I got onto for the second leg of my journey was the same one I had clambered out of back at the original point of departure! Ho hum. Never mind, I went into the somewhat crowded carriage and saw that there was a nook with a double seat not far from the glass wall near the entrance to the carriage. One overweight businessman with his buttons popping was installed in the window seat, his equally overstuffed briefcase was in residence next to him on the vacant one. He, of course, in the manner of all annoying business men on trains, was shouting into his mobile phone, all sarf Lundun with his chubby fingers and sweaty top lip.
Red rag to bull moment – I can’t stand it when other passengers use up perfectly good seats for their bags instead of people. After quickly scouting to check that there was no-one in more obvious need than me, I walked past all the people huddled around the door and the glass partition and stood in front of the man, patiently waiting for him to notice that the seat had a taker. He caught my eye and I indicated that I wanted to sit down. He briefly acknowledged me and I understood his nod to imply that he would move the bag just as soon as he was off the phone. I wondered where he would put it as there was not much leg room and as I have already pointed out, he was no lightweight. Perhaps I’d have to hold it on my lap for him while he did Important Schtuff. Five minutes later and he was still bellowing into the phone and making no effort whatsoever to budge anything, so I leant over and interrupted him:
‘Excuse me, could you please move your bag, I’m waiting to sit down.’
I hoped his customer down the other end of the phone heard me and realised what an oaf he was. Anyway, he huffed and tutted, put his call on hold, reached over to pick up the bag, popping a few more buttons as he did so and, rather surprisingly, stood up and shuffled out of the tight space with one of those funny bent knee walks you have to do on trains and coaches to avoid bumping into the wall that they have deliberately placed too close to the seats.
I must say I thought he adopted a rather ungracious attitude towards me, almost knocking me over as he squeezed past. Never mind though, I had my seat! I took out my mobile phone after a minute or two of boredom and started texting Husband. It went something along the lines of:
“Fat English git got very arsey when I wanted to sit down where he’d parked his briefcase. Tosser. Should have offered him a doughnut, that’d have got him moving faster.”
Some time later, the train started to slow as it was approaching the airport. As it drew into the station, I was suddenly aware of a presence very close behind me. Before I had a chance to look round, an angry voice hissed in my ear:
“Nice message, by the way.”
Aarghh – from where he’d been standing he’d had a perfect view over my shoulder! I felt my stomach flip.
Cool as a cucumber, however, without looking round, I started to type a new one:
“So what have you learnt from reading private messages not intended for you, donut-chaser?”
Then, and don’t ask me why, in my slightly shaken state, I sent the message to Husband.
I must admit I was a bit nervous standing amongst the cluster around the doors waiting to get off. The train seemed to take forever to come to a standstill but he didn’t hover near me or look me in the eye. Nor did he follow me menacingly up the platform.
I know because I checked.
The Doctor will see you now…
StellaCat is such a tart. She just luuurves to be scratched on the top side of her back, just in front of her tail, and will stick her bum up high in the air to ensure that her skin & fur are stretched as wide as possible. These days she also loves to be brushed – something she would not tolerate for even a moment not so long ago…. Now, however, you must not stop once you have started; her ultimate indulgence is to be groomed with her wirey implement of torture whilst eating her dinner. The way she offers up various parts of her anatomy for brushing, rubbing or scratching is brazen. I think she’s half canine, half feline.
Today I had the unusual experience of going to the doctor to discuss my toenail clipping with him. Pause. Digest how strange that last sentence is. So bizarre – who would want to do that? I was already confused because I had previously been to a fully qualified podiatrist to get a mere pedicure. Admittedly there was no polish included here, it felt more medical than aesthetic in nature – like a good sanding down with a tool that made a noise not unlike a dentist’s drill but this is someone who measures the length of bones and judges spines for symmetry and makes highly specialised insoles for a living. Thus my confusion. Without wanting to make you yawn lumps, it should suffice when I tell you that the podiatrist decided to keep one of my clippings to send off to the lab. Yeucchhhh! (It actually made a ‘chink’ sound when she dropped it into the vial. Just remembering that makes me heave.) I assume that’s what she did with it anyway, rather than chewing on it or adding it to her private collection of clients’ clippings. Barf. I wish I hadn’t typed that.
The outcome of all of this drama was that I received a call telling me to go to the doctor as I needed a prescription to erm… clear up the little problem that had caused my toe to go a funny shape. Enough detail, I think, for those of you with delicate stomachs.
Two weeks after the shearing incident, which was today, I found myself sitting in the waiting room, playing host to flippant thoughts along the lines of:
‘Oh crap, what am I here for again? Oh yes, toe. Gosh, what a waste of this poor doctor’s time. Quick, think up something else to make the visit worthwhile…’
Which meant that by the time I made it into his consulting room, and had asked for and received my prescription, all of which took 30 seconds, I had a trump card up my sleeve which, when I spoke it out loud sounded ridiculously foolish and trivial. Dear Reader, can you believe I asked him if he could slice a few of my moles off while I was there. Not the larger, slightly dangerous-looking ones that I make every effort to keep out of the sun but the small wibbly ones that have a habit of catching on my bra strap, knicker elastic or necklace. I half expected him to send me back to the podiatrist, who was, after all, so adept at removing small, superfluous parts of me but then the phone rang and he sat for five minutes -no exaggeration, I swear – going:
‘Ja….Nee…..Nee….Nee…Ja….Ja …Ja…. Ja… NEE!’ etcetera. You get the picture. I wondered whether the phone call was a plant, put through as a result of a signal from him to the receptionist (his wife) just for a laugh:
‘Oh god, it’s Mrs Miggins with her non-existent problems. Her complaints are so DULL. Give me 30 seconds then ring through and tell me what you’d like me to do to you in bed tonight….‘
Immediately after hanging up, he told me that he’d had a good think about my moles and thought I should go to the dermatologist to have them excised. Said Dermo would be able to check the dodgy ones at the same time. Now, of course, I’m fully expecting the waggly nevi to drop off before I can get an appointment and the funny-looking ones to revert to being smooth, even-edged and monochrome.
Last time I went to see the good doctor I thought I had an infected tongue. It was sore, felt dry and didn’t seem to fit properly in my mouth. He took a good look (I didn’t feel at all comfortable sitting in his office sticking my tongue out at him) and then got his torch out and shone it down my throat. His conclusion was simple:
‘It’s nothing. Perhaps you had a minor irritation but it’s gone now.’
Irritation? IRRITATION???? Too bloody right I’m irritated. Why do I always have silly non-existent complaints such as an infected toenail clipping and an irritable tongue?? I’ve never even heard of that.
Gimme a common old common cold, an itchy rash and a dose of back ache. Harrumph.
P.S. It’s no good, I cannot leave it like that. I have to add this disclaimer:
I am aware we are extremely fortunate in that we have been given good health. That is worth more to me than all the riches in the world. As you may have surmised from this post, I am a moley person. I realise, after discovering the existence of a condition called Giant Congenital Nevi, that a few moles more than the average person is definitely not something to complain about.
Are You Receiving Me? 