Feeding Time at the Zoo

This afternoon, I managed a nagfest of epic proportions. Starting with the school pick-up, I nagged my kids at considerable length about such diverse topics as lost items of school uniform, wrestling on the kitchen floor (them, not me), lolling on the sofa instead of doing homework, and the inappropriate use of the word ‘gay.’

By the time it came to putting their meal on the table, I was all nagged out.

As they moaned about the food, then picked bits up with their fingers, slurped, belched and generally mucked about, I wondered whether or not I could summon up the inclination to tackle the exhaustive topic of ‘table manners.’ Maybe just getting them to use cutlery properly would be a start, and to stop slurping their drink, which in turn might prevent the gaseous emissions.

In the end, I settled on merely trying to get them to eat with their mouths closed, so we wouldn’t all have to watch that washing machine effect of food swirling around in their jaws. Even this proved difficult, as they are all at the stage where their mouths can barely contain their emergent second teeth.

After about forty minutes of meal time, I didn’t really care how bad their table manners were, just as long as they ate the damn food, and then I could clear up the mess and get on with doing the bath and putting them to bed.

I do think that good manners which are based on kindness and consideration for others are important, and I think that is a battle worth fighting with my kids. Table manners though, are very close to the domain of etiquette, and that is something for which I have very little patience. It appears to me that etiquette exists in order to provide snobbish divisions between people, on the basis of whether or not they know some small piece of irrelevant information.

I really don’t care whether people eat asparagus with their fingers or their fork – I am more interested in whether they would like sauvignon blanc or pinot grigio with it.

So much that falls within the realm of table manners seems trivial or misguided. Reading at the table is bad form, but boring people senseless with conversations about property prices or good schools is considered acceptable.

Why is placing your elbows on the table so impolite? I have been to dinner parties where I would gladly have placed my forehead on the table to alleviate the utter tedium, but I could appreciate how bad-mannered that would have appeared. But elbows on the table? Sometimes my elbows have been the only thing stopping me from sliding gently under the tablecloth.

Having barked at the kids through bath time and bed time, I am now sitting here with something to revive my jaded spirits. It’s a glass of Saint-Véran Blason de Bourgogne Chardonnay (£8.99 Ocado). It has a fresh melon taste, and it's hitting the spot perfectly.

I know that I’ve got to put some effort into improving the kids’ table manners, otherwise they will continue to eat like cavemen. This point was rammed home a few weeks ago, when my daughter had a friend over for tea. This very polite, civilised little girl asked if she could have a fork to eat her piece of cake. As I handed it over, and she delicately manoeuvred a bite-sized piece into her mouth, I looked across at my three. They looked like pigs hunting for truffles.

Another glass of this chardonnay, I think.

Acts Of Civil Disobedience

Right, they’ve finally all gone to bed, and I’m sitting here with a glass of Tesco’s Finest Chablis. I bought an embarrassing amount when it was on offer at a fiver a bottle before Christmas. The only other items I had in my trolley were a low calorie sandwich and a clutch of children’s birthday cards. I must have looked like the dipsomaniac version of the mad old woman with a trolley full of tins of cat food. I’ll be cutting my own hair next.
Anyway, this wine is crisp, green, and not too oaky, and the condensation is forming nicely on the outside of the glass. I should have time for at least one fortifying glass before my lovely husband returns from the coal face, and I have to cook the dinner. Actually ‘cook’ is too elaborate a word for what I usually do. ‘Assemble ingredients on a plate’ would be a more honest description. I suppose serving up a bit of microwaved fish and a bag of lettuce keeps me off the radar of the healthy food police, but only just.
I’m not really hungry, since I have already wolfed the equivalent of a three course meal in instalments, while preparing the children’s dinner, coercing them into eating it, and clearing away the resultant mess. I’ve also done the packed lunches (when did I start nibbling crusts for fun?) so the prospect of a third round of food preparation doesn’t exactly fill me with joy.
I think a second glass of this Chablis will go down rather well. It will make me feel subversive enough to slip a couple of Jammie Dodgers into the lunchboxes. I know that some parents view them as polonium-210 for kids, but its convenient sometimes to be able to blame a child’s obnoxious behaviour on sugar or food colourings. At least it gets you off the hook as a parent.