The end of summer

Ah yes - another trip to the Midlands to visit the outlaws.  This time it was to say goodbye to the Shah's big sister who has been visiting from the USA.  Her soothing presence in their parents' house meant that at least we did not have to suffer the usual anxiety attacks that habitually mark our journey.  Mind you, there was a bit of a stand-off between Mother in law and Father in law when we arrived - her swooning with relief that we hadn't spontaneously combusted on the M40 and him threatening to do away with the landline and only have a mobile which he would keep on his person and deny her access so she couldn't make panic-stricken phone calls every five minutes.


The Shah and I are very democratic in our driving.  We almost always share journeys and it has become known that, whenever I am at the wheel, we will have the worst possible trip - be it traffic, weather, whatever.  And so it came to pass once again.  Horizontal rain most of the way to Coventry and a bunch of feckwits on the motorway who think driving at 90 mph with no headlights on in zero visibility is the recommended way to travel.  Hey ho.  So, of course,the journey home was altogether less remarkable with Shah in charge - a beautiful evening of scattered clouds and bright sunlight.  Grrrr.


But hang on, can I just rewind a bit?  There had been what I shall euphemistically call a breakdown in communication between the Shah and his son and heir.  Viz - the Shah forgot to mention the trip to s&h who was a) slumped in a drunken coma on a friend's floor somewhere and b) expecting to play cricket yesterday, not endure approximately 2 hours in the car in far too close proximity to his sister and then spend another 6 hours or so being asked all the usual questions that grandparents and aunties like to ask and hearing yet more comments about his height (6 foot dead on, if you care.  No, I didn't think so).  When we eventually tracked him down and explained the cock up change in plan, he threw a tantrum of monumental proportions.  This proved to be as hilarious as it was unexpected.  He reverted straight back to the person he had been at 5 years old and screamed and bawled his frustration very volubly.  Unfortunately, this only had the effect of making the Shah and me laugh.  And when he began kicking the back of my car seat, I became almost hysterical.  Eventually, he cried himself to sleep (sort of) and peace reigned. 


On the way home, I was watching all the other bored-looking kids slumped in the backs of cars southbound on the M40 and it reminded me of journeys with my parents in one of our ancient jalopies.  Holidays tended to be spent in this country not only because we lived up north and the rest of our family lived down south so there was always someone to visit, but also for reasons of cost - this was the era before budget airlines and package holidays.  None of our cars seemed to have inbuilt entertainment - like radios that worked - and even if they did, it would have been tuned to Radio 3 so it wouldn't have entertained us much anyway.  Consequently, my brother and I had to find our own amusement where we could.  This generally involved some or all of the following:-

• Chanting games.  Guaranteed to drive any parent wild and therefore most satisfying.  Chant anything - made up words/phrases that sound vaguely rude were our particular favourites e.g. Big Fat Wanny; Rumbumbum; Dick Van Dyke*
• Toe wrestling.  No seatbelts remember, so all and any wrestling games were great and could involve rolling off the back seat onto the floor and enraging our parents.  I can still see my father's huge hand coming round the back of his seat to whack whoever was closest.
• Kneeling up on the back seat and leering and waving at other drivers.  For some unknown reason, this game was called 'Kings and Paupers'.  If they waved back they were Kings, if not - you get the idea.
• Flicking covert V-signs at other bored children in the backs of cars.  Of course they flicked them straight back.  This caused our parents to embark upon a long homily on the youth of today (plus ca change etc) little realising that their own offspring had been the catalysts all along.

Once, our parents decided to brave the Continent with children in tow.  They were both great lovers of Spain and spoke both French and Spanish quite well so surely it was a no brainer to drive to Spain in an ancient Morris Minor?  As I read that last sentence I truly cannot decide if it was an act of the greatest bravado or the greatest foolishness.  Actually, I think I can decide after all.

There were several er, incidents en route.  First of all the big end went in Carcasonne - a beautiful fortified city which we saw a great deal of whilst waiting for spare parts to be flown out from the UK at vast expense.  Secondly, my brother developed the kind of car sickness that surely inspired The Exorcist film. (This links to a clip which I am not going to imbed as it's too gross but if you really want to see what I mean....)

Setting off once again, unabashed, my Dad decided that we would drive straight to Lloret de Mar 

(at that time a small fishing village which had 3 hotels!)  This plan worked fine until I needed the loo.  We pulled into the side of a country road and I was instructed to hop into the bushes sharpish.  Reluctantly, I did as I was told and jumped back into the car.  That was the point at which we discovered that someone or something had been in the bushes before me and I wiped several pounds of shit off my shoes and down the back of my dad's jacket which was hanging over the seat in front.  The jacket was irretrievable, much like dad's temper.  Once there, my dad fell asleep on the beach and burnt the soles of his feet, causing him to spend the next week walking like John Wayne and entertaining the locals.

Not my dad

For many years afterwards, it was Lytham St Annes for us.

* Dick Van Dyke is not, of course, made up but it is the kind of phrase that just keeps on giving if you are a bored child on a long car journey.

Home again

There is no better description of the family holiday than that given by David Nicholls in his wonderful book ‘One Day’ ...”a sort of harsh experiment in the limits of human proximity.”

As far as holidaying with teenagers goes, never a truer word was spoken or written.  It is for this reason that I only booked the holiday for one week this year.  I knew full well that, by the end of 7 days, we would all be heartily sick of one another.  The trouble starts when someone – well let’s not lie – it’s me - tries to book a holiday.  I go around the family and ask them to tell me where they would like to go and what sort of place they would like to stay in.  The reply is big fat silence.  After several weeks of this, I get bored and book the kind of holiday I like – ie one that is basically pretty antisocial – a villa with a pool.  This year’s offering was on the Algarve – close to various lovely beaches (I believe – we are not keen beach people and didn’t visit one of them).  I chose it on the basis that a) it had the biggest pool of any of the ones that were available in our price bracket and b) it was suitably remote from any vestiges of night life (ha ha!) as I don’t need to spend my holiday worrying about the whereabouts and safety of drunken teenagers.  I can do that at home, thanks very much.  Consequently, the teens spent a little time whingeing bitterly about the lack of wi-fi and then actually settled down to playing with the resident cat population and (whisper it) reading books in between mucking about in the pool, playing cricket and generally trying to drown or otherwise kill each other in poolside games.

The Shah and the boy played golf, TD and I spent hours just lazing around and I read four and a half books in the space of that one week.  In other words, it was great and I feel recharged and ready to go back to work sometime in the next couple of weeks (I'm not thinking about it just yet.)  The beauty of working in a school is that I managed to negotiate a contract that gave me about 9 weeks holiday a year.  It’s a beaut.  I have to be there during term time but I do get large chunks (not all) of the holidays off.  The payoff, of course, is that we can only ever take holidays at the most expensive time of year.

The cats have returned home with colds and are sneezing continually in a highly disgusting manner.  I’m intending to tough it out, well  they’re going to tough it out because we’re getting to the point where I may as well just have my salary paid directly into the bulging coffers of the sodding Vet.

However, the bin men managed to take away the maggotfest I referred to last time.  Life is good!

Radio silence

Pretty much this time last year, I wrote about 9 things not to do before you go on holiday.  I could make this the shortest post in the history of blogging by just referring you back to it now.  Why don't I learn from my mistakes?  Why do I consistently go on holiday with the Shah and our children, each year believing we are off to enjoy some bucolic, Cath Kidston-decorated idyll and everyone will skip through meadows with wild flowers adorning their hair when the reality is so bitterly different?


So....here we are again.  It is the eve of our hols and here is this year's list of things not to do once more.

1. Do not make the same mistake twice.  If you can be arsed to click on the above link and read last year's list, I refer you to no.3 which involves cats, vets and emergency appointments.  Yup - exactly the same thing happened this year.  Fab. Oh and it cost the thick end of £100.
2. Do not go on holiday on same day that your bins are collected.  This means that you cannot leave your food recycling bin out front because, if it is left out for more than one nano-second after the bin men have been, the local oiks will purloin it and chuck it into neighbours' gardens/the woods/wherever causing huge irritation to moi.
3. Do not, therefore, put all your food waste into your landfill dustbin.  In a heatwave.  If you do this, you will open your bin to put the final bag in and find it crawling with maggots.  This will mean that you have to cause your husband huge irritation by insisting that he helps you clean out said bin, re-bag everything and hope the dustmen don't notice because you will be several thousand feet above France when they come.
4. When your family show themselves to be utterly indecisive and come to you with ridiculous questions such as "shall I take some trousers?" (guess who) smile calmly and say something kind and loving, not "What a stupid feckin' question!  You can go around with your knackers hanging out for all I care."
5. Get out beach towels well before you actually have to pack them.  That way you will discover that half of them have mysteriously gone walkabout more than 2 hours before you have to leave the house and, more importantly, while the shops are still open.
6. Finally, don't book a flight which leaves at 6am, necessitating you leaving home at 3am and arriving in Portugal at 9am when the poxy villa won't be available until 4pm.  I. Just. Never. Learn.

Toodle pip!

9 things not to do before you go on holiday

1. Do not book a transatlantic flight for your family a mere 24 hours after your teenage son returns from a lads' holiday in Ayia Napa.  This is a bad idea on many levels:-
1. He will be in a state that necessitates carrying his liver on as hand luggage
2. It will be impossible to wash and dry all his kit before holiday number 2, due to the vagaries of the British weather
3. He will whine unbearably and blame all ills on you on the basis that a mother's place is in the wrong.
2. Do not question your son on the finer details of his holiday.  You don't want to know.
3.  Do not ignore your pets before going away, thus only noticing a large sore on your cat's back one day before you fly.  Sod's law dictates that:-
1. There will be no emergency appointments available at the Vet
2. When you eventually procure an appointment by grovelling, pleading and whining, the cat in question (Jim, if you're interested.  No, I didn't think so) takes one look at the cat carrier and legs it over a six foot fence sharpish, not reappearing for a good 10 hours.
3. When you eventually get said cat to said Vet, it shows its gratitude by trying to attack the Vet, howling and hissing and, eventually, biting you twice.  Hard.
4. Do not read scaremongering newpaper articles immediately after your cat bites you.  The one I chanced upon (naturally) involved a man whose cat bite caused septicaemia and almost killed him.
5. Do not buy an insurance policy that specifically excludes cover for cat bites.
6. Do not book a decorator to come in while you are away.  This will cause you to be up until 2am the night before you travel, trying to move furniture quietly out of respect for the neighbours and their baby, while you and your husband hiss at each other in a foul temper.
7. Do not allow your husband to insist that you all get up at 5.30am to "beat the rush hour" and arrive at the airport at 7am for a midday flight.  This will cause the wrath of your children to land upon your head - see previous remarks about a mother's place.
8. If you see your husband packing up last night's left over pizza, do not assume he is consigning it to the bin.  When he produces it "for a snack" shortly after take off, do not admit that you are in any way connected to him.
9. Do not read the final chapters of Jojo  Moyes' The Last Letter from Your Lover on the flight or in any public place.  The ensuing uncontrollable blubbing will mark you out as a "spaz" (children) "weirdo" (husband) or just a liability and possibly a vague threat (airline staff).

And the Oscar for Best Excuse goes to....

This particular Oscar has to be awarded to the Teenage Daughter. It's been a grind trying to separate the children from their electronic life support systems over Christmas and all suggestions of lovely, family-based activities have been met with a pout or a snarl or worse.

However, on remonstrating with the TD when her phone emitted yet another bleep, signalling the arrival of yet another message, her response was "but Mum - it's an improving text!"

Can't argue with that one really!

Stuff the turkey!

At last Christmas is almost here! Huzzah! You can tell I don't mean it, can't you? Actually, I loathe Christmas. For so many years I approached it light of heart and eager to make it memorable for all....then what happened? Well, when the children were small, one or both would inevitably get a cold/bronchitis/a tummy bug and would be up sneezing/hacking/puking all night long. As they got older and, eventually, discovered the lie that was Father Christmas, so their enthusiasm waned to the point that it is now a herculean task to prise them out of bed on Christmas morning. After a few years of this malarkey, you can see why I wonder why I bother!


Today, I read a hysterically funny (albeit unintentionally so) article in the Daily Mail. It recommended a wonderful new way to cook your turkey. Apparently, we should all cut the legs off it, then bone them and chop the bones into bits which we then make into a bed for Mr Turkey to sit on while he is roasting. Having done that, we should then take the flappy bits that once held the leg bones and stuff them. Yes, you read that correctly.


Now I'm sorry, but WTF? Here is the CurryQueen recipe for the perfect Christmas lunch and one which the Shah and I and our delightful progeny will be following. Christmas Eve: Make a feckin' great vat of your favourite curry (in our case, Lamb).
Christmas Day: Get up at a leisurely pace. Have a light breakfast. Break open the booze and open a few presents. Sit down to pre-prepared curry (which always tastes better on Day 2 anyway). After lunch, open rest of presents. The End. Peace to all mankind.


I publish below a recipe for Christmas cake, recently sent to me. It comes highly recommended - Happy Christmas!!


Ingredients :


* 2 cups flour
* 1 stick butter
* 1 cup of water
* 1 tsp baking soda
* 1 cup of sugar
* 1 tsp salt
* 1 cup of brown sugar
* Lemon juice
* 4 large eggs
* Nuts
* 2 bottles wine
* 2 cups of dried fruit




Sample the wine to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the wine again. To be sure it is of the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink. Repeat. Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point it's best to make sure the wine is still OK. Try another cup... Just in case. Turn off the mixerer thingy. Break 2 eggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.


Pick the frigging fruit up off floor. Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers just pry it loose with a drewscriver. Sample the wine to check for tonsisticity. Next, sift two cups of salt. Or something. Check the wine. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one table. Add a spoon of sugar, or some fink. Whatever you can find. Greash the oven. Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over. Don't forget to beat off the turner. Finally, throw the bowl through the window. Finish the wine and wipe counter with the cat.
Go to Tesco and buy cake.


Bingle Jells!

Holidays are coming....!

Do you remember that phrase, chanted breathily (and not a little annoyingly) in an old Coca Cola ad? I have to admit (bah humbug) that the thought of an extended period in the heaving bosom of various members of my beloved family tends to fill me with trepidation rather than festive joy. It's not that I don't love them all to bits, you understand, it's just that, probably because I work full time, I tend to view holidays as a means of getting all that stuff done around the house that otherwise never gets touched.


Unfortunately, few people seem to share my sparkling work ethic and the Shah's idea of a few days off is to partake of what the children like to refer to as "Arse resting" and play mindless computer games. Poker is a particular fave, but sadly he refuses to play for money, so rendering this activity worse than useless in my eyes. As our kids are still school age, our holidays have to fit in around term dates and, during a recent half term, this is a snapshot of the activity chez nous:-


Day 1
ME: Decorate bathroom
SHAH: Does “work” (= plays Tetris on pc)
Day 2
ME: Still decorating bathroom, + fit in proof-reading of Shah’s research paper which is mainly gibberish
SHAH: Plays on Wii. Swanks to colleague on phone re excellence of research paper
Day 3
ME: Clearing up from decorating, do gardening, cooking etc, log on to work email & sort out crap.
SHAH: Plays on Wii
Day 4
ME: Attempt to clear out garage & shed, go to dump. p.m. take kids (inc Shah) to see special holiday showing of Indiana Jones & The Ludicrous Plot. Eat too many Revels out of sheer bad temper. Back home, log onto work again, sort out more crap.
SHAH: Clears out garage, whines endlessly about trips to dump, tells me everything that is wrong with my driving. Plays on Wii. Willingly accompanies family to flicks. Scoffs mega bucket of popcorn, swills 2 gallons of coke.
Day 5
ME: Take TD to visit Jack Wills outlet store. Arrange to have all salary paid directly to J Wills Esq from now on. Queue for TWO HOURS to get out of car park. Will to live long gone. Stagger home after 3.5 hour journey. Want to die.
SHAH: Plays golf all day with son. Arrives home and asks what is for dinner. Looks perplexed at reaction from spouse.


I could go on, but you get the general idea. The other thing that winds me up (Lord, there are so many I could write a book) about spending time at home is the amount of general detritus that the children seem to be able to strew about the house which then, of course, becomes completely invisible to them. A few years ago (in a fit of rage - or should that be another fit of rage) I wrote to The Times to share with their cerebral readers that I had found a novel place to hide my family's Christmas gifts - I was planning to simply stack them on the stairs where they would remain, unnoticed, along with all the other junk that lurks there, waiting to be restored to its rightful place by its rightful owner.


Amazingly, they published it and it sparked quite a response, I had letters and emails from as far away as Florida and Sydney. It's nice to know you're not alone!