It's Cosmic, Man

I am being driven to the end of my extremely short tether by the amount of school paraphernalia my kids have lost recently. They now have a record of ‘disappearances’ that would put a military dictatorship to shame. The list includes a pair of trainers, two cardigans, two pairs of football socks, a waterproof jacket, P.E. shorts and vest, 3 pairs of swimming goggles, and two pencil cases.

When I was young, my school uniform was treated with the sort of reverence that is given to a priest’s ceremonial robes. Each item was supposed to last for about three years, regardless of how quickly I was growing. As a result, in some school photos, my uniform is so short and tight that I look like I am dressed for one of those adult ‘School Disco’ nights.

Losing an item of uniform not only incurred the considerable wrath of my mother, but it also meant that I had to wait for the next three year buying period before it was replaced. Some children love to flout the restrictions of school uniform, but as a card-carrying conformist, such unintentional rebellion caused me endless anxiety. I vowed, therefore, that if I ever had children, I would calmly accept that sometimes they just lose things, and then quietly get a replacement.

So where did it all go wrong?

This morning, my daughter was as unconcerned as ever about the mysterious and repeated disappearance of her school cardigan. I tried to explain why it was important to find it, but there wasn’t even a flicker of acceptance of any personal responsibility. I started on the gentle interrogation, but this appeared to have no effect either. By the time we were at the school gates, I had gone completely over the top, and was dispensing acrimonious threats. Her bright optimism about the cardigan’s prodigal return had now evaporated completely, and as she turned to go into school, her little face was pale with misery. Walking away, I tried to justify to myself that she needed to learn some accountability, but needless to say, I felt like a complete sadist for the rest of the day.

This afternoon, when I picked her up from school, the detox period away from her mother’s verbal venom had worked a treat, and she was her usual ebullient self – and still without her cardigan. With uncharacteristic restraint, I pretended not to notice, choosing to seethe inwardly instead.

Now that they are all in bed, the chance to wash away the lingering taste of vitriol comes in the form of an Ackerman Laurence Sparking Saumur (£5.99 Ocado).

Friday night is always Cheap Fizz night chez Drunk Mummy, and I really wanted to like this, as an alternative to my beloved prosecco. But although it is light and yeasty, it doesn’t have a great finish – a bit like that sensation when you have just missed out on a sneeze, or an orgasm (delete as appropriate, depending on your sex life, or your hayfever symptoms).

It seems that I will either have to believe in the existence of a ‘school uniform black hole’ somewhere in the cosmos that is sucking these items in, with apparently no hope of their return, or resign myself to another ten years of shrewish scolding.

Strangely enough, the more I have of this Saumur, the more I am starting to feel an affinity with the theories of Professor Stephen Hawking. If I finish the bottle, I may need to borrow the great man's wheelchair.

All Present and Correct

I went out today to buy some presents for yet another round of birthday parties that the kids will be attending in the next few weeks. I once added up how much I spent in a year on birthday presents for other people’s children. It is not an exercise I would recommend. I couldn’t stop myself from equating the cost with the number of cases of champagne that I could have bought instead – I was miserable for days.

Thankfully, my kids have now got to an age where birthdays no longer involve a party for the whole class. This means we now have the occasional weekend where H and I are not on permanent chauffeur duty, and our annual birthday present expenditure has dropped from ‘obscene’ to merely ‘uncomfortable.’

Unfortunately though, the birthday children are no longer at an age where they all want a day-glo pony with a tangled nylon tail, or a double-jointed superhero - regardless of how many they already own.

Despite the obvious practicality, giving money to the 7-10 age group seems to be frowned upon. Maybe there is a suspicion that feckless parents will fritter it all away on booze rather than invest in something ‘educational’ for their little darling – which is not a bad idea when you think about it. The only solution I can think of, that allows the children to choose something they actually want, is vouchers.

Now, I know my sons and their friends would prefer a voucher for the local video game shop, so they can continue to fry their brains with high definition graphics. My daughter and her friends would rather have a voucher for ‘Claire’s Accessories’ so they can deck themselves out with fluffy headbands, bracelets and body glitter. I would rather have Majestic Wine vouchers, for obvious reasons, or failing that, book tokens, but that’s because I am a forty-something mother of three (and I already have enough body glitter).

In the end, I was so fed up trying to decide, that I got several book tokens, and several vouchers from the other shops as well.

I’ve now got my feet up, enjoying the spicy cherry flavour of a glass of Tesco Finest Corbières Reserve (£4.99) and trying to match up each voucher with the appropriate child. It’s a bit like a card game, but with the added complication of having to consider which parents consider video games to be the work of Satan, and which would have their feminist principles offended if their daughter bought some sparkly hairslides.

Thankfully, there are always the book tokens, but I can’t help wondering if the recipients of these will just end up wanting to swap them for cash from their parents, and then blowing the lot on the Pic ‘n’ Mix sweetie section of Woolworth’s.

On that basis, I should have just bought Majestic Wine vouchers all round.

If Music Be the Food of Love, I’m On a Diet

I went to my son’s school Music Evening tonight. It was scheduled early enough in the evening to be a logistical nightmare for anyone with younger children, but not late enough to make it easy for working parents to get to.

The result was that all the front rows of seats in the hall were taken up by a coterie of glossy, fragrant mums, freshly dressed in cool white linen separates, relaxing their perfect posture only sporadically in order to share a few conspiratorial laughs at other people’s expense. Shoe-horned in at the back with laptop bags the size of rucksacks, were the creased sweaty suits and creased sweaty brows of the working parents. As several of them tiptoed in during the head teacher’s opening address, the area at the back of the hall began to resemble a refugee camp. When the loud electronic beeping of a mobile started to emanate from the jacket of one poor sod, there was a collective swishing noise from the front rows, as manes of salon-straightened hair revolved in unison to register the owners’ tight-faced disapproval.

After the jolly music teacher had arranged the choir on stage, and persuaded all the small boys to remove their hands from their crotches, the music evening began.

There is something really lovely about hearing children sing together. Any little mistakes make the performance even better, somehow. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of children playing musical instruments. As one nervous child after another made his way up to the stage, the assembled parents were treated to a form of aural torture that ensured nobody would nod off.

After about half an hour I started wondering why music teachers always insist on putting a few popular tunes in the repertoire. I can guarantee that if any child played whole sections of Bach or Beethoven incorrectly, the majority of the audience (myself included) would remain blissfully unaware of his mistakes. Pity then, the little boy who had to play ‘Itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini’ on the violin. Perhaps it’s my fault, for just wanting to sit and tap my feet like a pensioner at a day centre, but as he valiantly see-sawed through the piece, each member of the audience started leaning slightly forward, willing the next screechy note to emerge on time, and not flat.

Back in the relative peace and quiet of my kitchen, I am relishing a cold glass of flinty, lemony Les Ruettes Sancerre (M&S about £9 a bottle, I think).

Thinking about tonight’s performance, I am wondering whether it was actually the audience that might have put the children off. Not only did the poor kids have to contend with the glare of laser-whitened teeth from the front row’s rictus grins, but they also had to block out the antics of the camcorder-wielding dads, who were busy reversing centuries of male competition by trying to see who had the smallest.

Guten Tag

I have only just realised that Nunhead Mum Of One tagged me while I was away camping. I was doing some catching-up on all the blog news last night, so I’m a bit late. I don’t know if there’s supposed to be a ‘blog by: date’ on these tags, but here we go:

1. I once ate 36 oysters in one sitting at an ‘oyster appreciation’ event. I don’t think the organisers realised quite how much I appreciate these little bivalves. I washed them down with copious quantities of Chablis (goes really well), champagne (goes less well, but what’s not to like about champagne?) and Black Velvet (Guinness and champagne, which doesn’t go very well at all, but by then I was just showing off).
2. My name is not really Rusty Burke, despite the article 'Ten Reasons Why I Could Never Be an Eco-Mother' which I wrote for the Bad Mothers Club website. (Nothing like a bit of self-publicity, eh?)
3. I was once sunbathing topless with a friend on the beach at the Cannes Film Festival (she yawned) when we were surrounded by about 200 men with cameras, all clicking away furiously (some of them even had film in them). My friend grabbed her bikini top to protect her modesty, but I just grabbed my sunglasses to protect my anonymity. Needless to say, this was all in the pre-children years. It still remains my one and only paparazzi moment.
4. My favourite book is a collection of short stories by Helen Simpson called ‘Hey, yeah right, get a life.’ I think it should be handed out to all new mothers, instead of the usual tracts of finger-wagging ‘information.’
5. I used to row for Great Britain Under 23s. That’s ‘row’ as in boats – not ‘row’ as in argue, although I daresay H might suggest I was equally well qualified for the latter. Obviously, it’s a long time since I was ‘Under 23.’
6. When I was in labour with my son, I was on all fours when his head emerged out of my nether regions. He stayed like this for about 30 seconds, and even opened his eyes and started to cry, before the rest of his body was born. H admitted that it was one of the more bizarre sights he had seen in his life. I imagine it must have looked like Dr Doolittle’s Push-me-pull-you.
7. I was Head Girl of my Catholic convent school – and yes, they are always the worst. The experience left me with a strong commitment to atheism and a bizarrely feminist love of wine (from enviously watching the priest guzzle all the communion vino, while we girls had to make do with a 'host' wafer which had the consistency of school toilet paper).
8. I used to be the Women’s Sport editor on a student newspaper, which had Jeremy Vine as its editor. I sometimes think I should call one of his phone-ins and say ‘Hi Jeremy, remember me-eee?’ but I doubt I could take the public humiliation of his reply.

It seems that lots of my blog buddies have already been tagged, so I’m going to nominate a few bloggers whom I have met only recently. Apologies for this if you have already been tagged before, and if you don’t want to join in then, speaking as a lifelong breaker of chain letters, that’s fine by me.

So, over to you:

Vanessar- The Fidra Blog

Akelamalu

Elsie Button

Cybil, aka Wife, Mom, Drunk

Natural Blonde

I have been sipping a few glasses of Ernest and Julio Gallo White Zinfandel (Ocado £4.99) this evening whilst drawing up my list. Despite the name, it is a rosé, or ‘blush’ as it is known in the States. It is fruity and extremely sweet – probably too sweet for me if it wasn’t really chilled (that doesn’t mean I won’t drink it). I notice that it’s only 9.5% which would make it a good wine for a picnic, or for when you don’t want to fall asleep and start snoring after a couple of glasses (at breakfast, maybe?).

Going Wild In the Country

We are back from camping in the rugged terrain of the Lake District, and I have finally released my matted hair from the Croydon facelift I have been sporting all week. Oh, the joy of soaking in a fragrant, hot bath! The delight of sleeping in a comfortable insect-free bed! The relief at the absence of ripe Camembert smell when I wave to someone!

I suppose the trip was a big success in that the children avoided contracting e coli, and I have only a mild case of trench foot. In fact, the weather wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be, but that could just have been the combined effects of copious wine consumption and lack of sleep. I also know that if you go on holiday in this country, then there is really no point in complaining about the weather. If the Home Office is short of questions for its ‘Britishness Test’ for citizenship, then they could do a lot worse than include the following:

Where is the best place for a picnic?

a) a shady and sheltered spot to avoid the harmful rays of the sun

b) an area where no wild animal habitats will be disturbed, or fragile eco-systems damaged

c) the car

If you answer c) then you will have captured the very essence of what it means to be British, and should instantly be issued with a passport (which means you can also go on holiday to a country with better weather).

The old-fashioned trailer tent proved to be excellent, and cut our usual tent-pitching time from over two hours to less than one, which matters a lot in the UK monsoon season. It did attract lots of interest from fellow campers, several of whom wandered over to tell H that they had ‘never seen one like that before.’ It’s a long time since anyone said that to him, and being a very friendly sort of chap, he was happy to discuss its various merits. Meanwhile I skulked around in the background, wondering when the other campers were likely to start throwing buns at us.

I had forgotten what sheer hard work camping is. People talk about the ‘slower pace of life’ that camping encourages, but I’m convinced that this is a rather skewed perception. It takes longer to do everything, so you are actually much busier. When we first took the kids camping a couple of years ago, I was surprised to see so many people on camp sites just sitting in foldaway chairs outside their tents, doing nothing. It wasn’t long before I realised that they were relishing a few precious moments of inactivity before yet another round of meal preparation or tidying up the limited floor space.

Of course, the kids loved every minute, because for them it was one long session of playing with mud and sticks, frightening the wildlife, or damaging their retinas by shining a torch directly at each other’s eyeballs.

We did do a lot of cycling, which was great fun, apart from the discovery that my waterproofs aren’t as waterproof as I thought. As with all this outdoor kit, we seem to have spent a fortune on good quality items for the kids, while H and I make do with ancient gear from the days when nylon was considered a high performance material. Being a bit of a softie, the one thing I have invested in is a gel-filled saddle cover for my bike, despite the obvious invitation for ribald commentary that my seat is already more than adequately upholstered. Frankly, neither my under-carriage nor the saddle cover proved to be well-cushioned enough, and I am still walking like a cowboy. I’m not sure how you are supposed to prevent this – it’s not as if you can apply surgical spirit to the area to toughen it up in advance.

Despite the Spartan conditions, H and I did have some quiet, relaxing evenings huddled under the awning, in the romantic glow of the citronella insect-repellant candle. As five sets of waterproofs dripped onto our heads, he would sit cradling his warming glass of Irish whisky, while I would sit cradling my warming 3 litre box of Hardy’s Stamp Shiraz-Cabernet (Sainsbury’s £14.99 down from £19.99, and definitely one of the better wine box reds).

Preparations for bed would start with me slipping (rather hurriedly) into my thermal underwear, laughably called a Superwoman set (I don’t recall Lynda Carter ever looking like this, unless she moonlighted as a mime artist on her days off from saving the world). With just the three additional layers of socks, track suit and fleece, I would be all ready for a snuggle in the double sleeping bag. However, since H was similarly dressed, the only crackle of passion we managed was the static from the bobbly brushed nylon sleeping bag. Any romantic inclinations had to be weighed up against the combustion hazard of electricity and the large quantities of methane gas issuing from the boys.

Back in the cosy confines of the kitchen, I am knocking back a couple of glasses of spicy Lindeman’s Cawarra Shiraz Cabernet (Sainsburys £4.99) in memory of our camping trip. The only problem is that a mere 750 ml wine bottle looks rather tame in comparison with a mighty 3 litre wine box. Maybe there are some benefits to camping after all.

Trailer Tent Trash

I can’t believe I have been so completely suckered by the elements. The recent hot weather lured us into booking a camping holiday for half term next week. I should have realised that, as Monday is also a Bank Holiday, there wasn’t ever going to be the slightest chance that the weather would be good. That now looks like being a complete understatement. I believe the forecast is for torrential rain, gale force winds and temperatures of around 11 degrees – all very character building.

I need to state upfront that camping is not really my idea of fun. In my family though, that opinion puts me in a minority of one. H, the eternal Boy Scout, loves setting up rusty gas stoves and mouldy sleeping bags, whilst whistling ‘Ging gang goolie.’ The kids love running around non-stop for days, unwashed and slightly feral. There is some consolation in that I usually take a wine box (or two) but this is for medicinal and anaesthetic purposes, of course.

We are travelling up to the Lake District, which is one of my favourite places in the country, but the vegetation there is green and lush for a very good reason.

This time, we are taking a trailer tent that we acquired from my brother. This clever contraption folds out to a full, if rather basic, tent in minutes. Unfortunately, in the apartheid world of camping, a trailer tent places you firmly in ‘no-campers’ land. You are shunned by the owners of cosy camper vans and glossy motorhomes, because of your humble ‘trailer trash’ status, and you are scorned by the hardened canvas addicts because you clearly aren’t suffering enough to be camping properly.

Camping is not the most romantic of getaways, either. Despite the fact that H and I have a cosy double sleeping bag, the lack of basic personal hygiene becomes an increasing barrier to intimacy as the week wears on. If smelling like a Greek wrestler’s jock strap isn’t enough to dampen one’s ardour, then the seductive night time survival kit of thermal underwear, track suit, thick socks and a woolly hat is sure to do it. I don’t think I need to elaborate on the additional passion-annihilating effects of having your children sleep near you in an enclosed space.

As a last ditch attempt at some luxury before the austerity, I am opening a bottle of the Drunk Mummy Favourite Fizz – La Marca Prosecco (£5.99 Ocado). I’m wondering whether I should take some of this with me next week - I could always chill it inside the sleeping bag.

Sadly, I will not be taking my laptop with me (it’s not waterproof), so I can’t blog for a week.

Have a great Bank Holiday everyone, and for those blessed with children, have a stress-free half term (ha!).

The Bore and The Trout

A friend was telling me today how she was going to meet her husband for lunch at a very nice restaurant. Apparently they do this every couple of months - which I think is rather romantic. I would imagine that it feels like a secret tryst, or having an affair. I suppose the drawback is that you can’t have much to drink at lunchtime, so there wouldn’t be much point in eating either.

I can just about remember the last time H and I met up for lunch. It was definitely in the years BC (before children) and I think it may have been when we had just got married. We were at this wonderful foodie pub, where children are either not allowed, or are sensibly chained to the car park railings. The sophisticated menu was chalked up on blackboards, rather than printed on wipe-clean laminated cards, and there wasn’t a nugget in sight. At least ten wines were offered ‘by the glass’ so it seemed churlish not to sample them all. We ordered our food, then gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes and talked about films, music and books. These were the sort of topics that filled our lives in those days. The conversation flowed effortlessly, due to the total lack of mid-sentence interruptions, assisted visits to the loo, or the need to apologise every five minutes to nearby diners. I didn’t bang my head on the table once, as there were no crayons to retrieve from under it. (I did bang my forehead on the mirror in the Ladies, though – trying to apply lipstick with one eye shut to help me focus).

After half an hour, the rather stressed waiter/manager came up to H and delivered the immortal line:

‘Are you the bore and the trout?’

We weren’t quite sure how to respond to this, until we realised that he was talking about the wild boar and fish that we had ordered. Apparently there was a problem in the kitchen, and the food was going to take a bit longer to prepare. This actually wasn’t a problem as far as we were concerned. It was just an opportunity to continue the world tour we were taking across the wine list.

I didn’t even have to confiscate all the knives from the table while we were waiting.

I have retrieved a bottle of Villa Maria Private Bin Gewürztraminer (£8.49 Ocado, Sainsbury) from my fridge. It has been driving me mad, because I can’t for the life of me remember which blogger recommended it, and I do like to link the blog to the post. Not only does this omission indicate how rude I am (I didn’t make a note of the name, only the wine), but it also shows up rather glaringly where my priorities lie. I have sifted through all my post comments, but it’s not there. If you recognise that you recommended this wine, please let me know, so I can thank you. It is very exotic, and tastes of lychees and, strangely enough, ginger. My knife is poised to perforate the plastic on the Thai curry, and I think this wine will go with it perfectly.

I have been thinking that maybe H and I should try and give this lunch time dining without kids another go. I long for those lazy, languid lunches of old, but I don’t suppose it will ever be the same again. Would the conversation be about cutting edge recreational events, or exotic travel? Or would we just sit there and talk about the next visit to the grandparents, whether its my turn for a lie-in at the weekend, or some nasty rash that has appeared on one of the kids?