Return to slender...

It's the time of year when the air is filled with the tinkling sound of resolutions being broken right left and centre.  I am feeling uber-smug at the moment because my decision to have a 'dry' January has so far held out for 15 days.  Yay me!  The Shah announced that he would join me.  Approximately 10 minutes later I heard the distinctive sound of a can being opened and the Shah wandered into the sitting room clutching a tinnie of Fosters.  Yes - he had already "forgotten" about it.  Hmm.

I am going to be well tested at the weekend though, because we will be celebrating a significant birthday for the Shah.

Unfortunately, he is the world's most difficult person to buy for so he has a motley assortment of gifts awaiting him including (drum roll please) a MANKINI!  Yes - a lime green one just like Borat wore in the eponymous film. And this - for the uninitiated or just plain unaware is what a mankini looks like:-

He'll love it.  Honest.

Son has written the label on this lovingly chosen gift which reads "Better get down the gym if you're going to carry this off, Dad."  Which brings me on to my next New Year's resolution - lose weight.  I don't need to shift much but I'd be happier if I were about half a stone lighter (7lbs or just over 3kg for my foreign friends who don't have any truck with this Imperial measurement nonsense).  Frankly, I'm hoping the lack of alcohol will sort it out.  I mean how crap can life be?  No drink and no food?  You're having a larf.

The Shah agreed that this would be a good idea and, once again, decided to join me (he has since been away on business and phoned every night from a different restaurant, so I'm not holding my breath).

Anyway, very soon we won't be able to afford food as we've realised we have to get the whole roof of Crap Cottage replaced which, knowing our luck, is going to cost zillions.  Just to cheer me up, the Shah produced this recently:-

I don't know if you can see what he inscribed into the top but yes, it's Crap Cottage Pie!!

Scenes from a family...

It’s that time of year when we are like ships in the night as we all head off to our various Christmas parties and office outings and collide only in the rush for the bathroom the following morning, pink eyed and wild haired.

So has it been this week and, now that the son also has a proper grown up job and commutes up to London every day, and daughter is home from Uni and has basically turned feral, it’s even worse.  Like this:-

Scene 1

The kitchen of Crap Cottage.  The Shah and I are battling for access to the milk in the fridge.  The Shah has not got bags under his eyes so much as feckin’ great Louis Vuitton trunks.  He has wisely obeyed the law which states “He who drinks and snores, sleeps in the spare room”.

Moi: So what time did you get home last night?

Shah:  Er, (looks shifty) about 1?  (This is known as ‘testing the water’.  The Shah regards questions like this as tricks designed to catch him out.  Which they often are.)

Moi:  Hmmmm, where did you go?  I’ve forgotten.

Shah: A Lebanese restaurant off Wigmore Street.

Moi:  Did you have a good time?

Shah: (enthusiastically)  Yep, great.  I danced with the belly dancers!

Moi:  Oh my God...

Shah:  And someone grabbed my phone and took pictures!

Moi:  FFS.

And here, chums, is the photographic evidence of which he spoke. Note the wide-ass grin on the mush of the Shah.  Note the woman in the foreground holding her face in horror.  Nuff said.

Scene 2

Our bedroom in Crap Cottage.  It is early one morning.  The Shah has once again been out until all hours the night before and once again obeyed the spare room law.  Marital relations are cordial.

Moi:  Is son up?

Shah:  That b’stard!

Moi:  Whaat?

Shah:  He woke me up last night!  (Heinous crime)

Moi:  How?

Shah:  He texted me at quarter to one in the morning! 

Moi:  (tones of disbelief)   He texted you from his bedroom?

Shah:  (outraged) YES!  And then he rang me!

Moi:  He rang you?!  What for?

Shah:  To find out why I wasn’t answering his text.  Fuckrrrrrrr!

Moi:  LOL!!

Scene 3

It is morning.  Son has been out the night before.  I know he is a big boy now but there still exists the rule that he has to text if he intends to stay out all night, otherwise I fret.  I’m his mother, it’s my job.  Anyway, son’s bedroom is empty at 7am which disturbs me and leads to the following exchange of texts:-

Me:  Please reply when you get this to let me know you are okay.  Very unimpressed....

Son: Sorry. Was on the first train home at 5am but fell asleep.  Just woke up and now I am in Havant*.  I’m having to get the train back.

It took him another two hours and an extra £16 to get home.  Not happy!

Scene 4

My mother’s flat.  I am visiting to take her shopping and out to lunch.  Mother is out to lunch in more ways than one.  I wrote earlier this year about her bad language here and, reader, things have not improved one jot.

I enter the room.  Mama does not see me as she is absorbed in trying to force her purse into her handbag, and struggling.

Mama:  Go in!  (struggles)  Oh go in!  (struggles a bit more) GO.  IN.  (gives one final, fruitless shove).  Oh well, fuck you.

Scene 5

I am at work.  My phone rings and the display shows my mother’s number.  I pick it up with great trepidation just as it goes to voice mail.  I leave it a couple of minutes and call back.

Mama:  Oh it’s you!  I just tried to ring you but I got a girl’s voice saying something.  Couldn’t tell what the hell she was on about, so I hung up on her.  Silly cow.

Moi:  Yes, that was me, mum – it was my answerphone.  It was my voice you heard.

Mama: (shocked)  It didn’t sound a bit like you!

Moi:  Oh well, never mind – what can I do for you?

Mama: (in tones of drama)  I’ve got no electricity!

Moi:  Oh dear – what’s happened?

Mama:  The lamp won’t turn on!

Moi:  Hmmmmm, Try the light switch on the wall.

Mama (sighs dramatically)  Oh okay – wait a minute. 

She drops the phone on a hard surface, practically deafening me and I can hear her shuffling across the room.  A distant, muffled voice shouts “fuck!”  Eventually, she returns.

Mama:  Yes – it’s fine!

Moi:  Well I expect it’s just that the bulb in the lamp has blown.

Mama:  Well it’s chosen a bloody funny time to go – just as I want to use it!

Moi:  Sigh.....

And I expect there is plenty more to come...

Happy Christmas one and all and thank you for reading my blog over the past year!

CQ xx
* Havant, for the benefit of my foreign readers, is on the south coast of Britain and is over 50 miles from where we live.  Haha!

Delhi Belly

Oh dear - it is a long time since I put shellac to keyboard, isn't it? Sorry chums - to those of you who may think I've dropped off the face of the planet and those who really don't give a f.... Apologies too to all those blog owners whose writings I normally read and comment on - something else that has been let slide. It's just that, since we got back from India, life has been like an explosion in a WTF factory (credit here to Aunty Gwen, from whom I have nicked this fine phraseology).
So, although we got home a couple of weeks ago, I have only just found time to bore you with the holiday snaps enlighten you with tales of our fascinating travels.

It has only taken me approximately 20 years of sustained nagging to get the Shah to agree to go to the land of his forebears.  'Why is that, CQ?' I hear you cry. 'Surely the Shah feels right at home on the sub-continent?'  Does he hell as like! (whoops - northern roots showing there).  The Shah is, as I like to tell anyone who will listen, a confirmed coconut.*  In fact he spent the entire holiday referring to his countrymen as "them".  QED.

Anyway, enough of him.  We decided to eschew his home state of Gujarat and instead do the 'Golden Triangle' which takes in the three most famous areas of India - Delhi, Agra and Jaipur and hold onto your hats chumlets, because you are going to hear about them all.  Don't say I didn't warn you!

So - we arrived in Delhi at dead of night.  Luckily we had arranged for a driver to meet us and take us to our hotel.  Unluckily, we couldn't find him and he couldn't find us.  Eventually, a couple of phone calls sorted this out.  The next day we had hired a guide and another driver to show us the sights.  This was probably a bit of a misjudgement because we were absolutely knackered after a 9 hour flight  and only lasted half a day in the heat and humidity before requesting to be taken back to the hotel so we could crash out.  We did manage to see some brilliant sights though:-

The amazing Red Fort 17th C home of Shah Jahan

This where the Shah used to sit to commune with his subjects

The extraordinary Qutub Minar

The names Bhond - Jamez Bhond

I should explain here that the Shah is striking a pose in the manner of a poor man's James Bond as that is what all young Indian men appear to do when having their photo taken.  It was quite bizarre.  We saw a bunch of them outside the Lotus Temple posing in such a manner that the Shah felt compelled to mutter "fack me, it's Charlie's Angels".  Sadly, we weren't quick enough to catch them on camera.

And here is the Lotus Temple. Dedicated to the Baha'i faith.

Lodi Gardens

where even the squirrels are strange...

Plenty of space yet...Notice that only Dad gets to wear a helmet.

Every lorry had 'Horn Please' painted on the back in highly colourful style.  An instruction all other drivers were only too happy to comply with!

The traffic (which I wrote about last time) was the worst we had ever encountered.  Unbelievably noisy and heavy with no regard for road rules but, oddly no road rage either.  Maybe they got it all out of their systems by incessant use of the horn?

I think I found the suspicious person.....

                                                            I suggest the 'Soundhy Harad', Shah

Delhi was great and really interesting but we were keen to move on after three days and head off to see Agra and the Taj Mahal.  Well, it would have been rude not to.

*Coconut - a pejorative term I like to use for the Shah (one of many) indicating that he is brown on the outside and white on the inside.

Driving Delhi-style - everything you need to know

Hello chums and greetings from the Indian sub-continent where the Shah and I are currently on holiday.  Now y'all know how much I like to offer the odd public service announcement and today is no exception.  Just I case any of you are ever, stupid, brave enough to consider driving in Delhi (or in any other city here) what follows will tell you all you need to know:-

Q: I'm a bit worried about finding my way around.  What if I take a wrong turn?

A: No problem at all.  Just do a U turn anywhere you like! Anytime you feel like it. Make sure to sound your horn while you do so.

Q: But what about oncoming traffic?

A: Don't  be a wuss. Just turn straight in front of it and make sure to sound your horn as you do so.

Q: But what if I'm on a dual carriageway? 

A: Then you have 2 options.  Option 1 - drive over the central reservation (NB you may have to make several attempts to get up there, but just keep slamming the car at it - it'll work eventually and constantly sounding your horn will help).  Option 2 - just turn round in the road and drive against the oncoming traffic. Simples! Oh, and make sure to sound your horn.

Q: I have to transport quite a lot of people and I only have a moped.  What to do?

A: I see you're one of those pansies who thinks a moped is a 2-man transporter?  Hahaha! What's your problem? Cram 'em on.  6 is a nice round number but don't forget the fuel tank provides a handy extra seat and 7 is a lucky number, innit?

Q: How many lanes are there on the average Indian road?

A: How many would you like? The concept of "lanes" is deliciously old fashioned and somewhat academic.  We find it helpful to drive astride any white lines that the authorities may have misguidedly painted on the road.  Keeps us going in the right direction after all! Today I counted 9 vehicles abreast at the traffic lights.  I think there were 3 lanes painted on the road but, meh - whatever.

Q: Do traffic lights operate the same way in India as in the UK?

A: I'm not sure how the UK uses traffic lights but here in India, they certainly look pretty and help decorate some of the more squalid areas.  They also add to the Diwali festivities. I can't think of any other reasons why we have them, tbh. 

Q: How heavy is the traffic, on average?

A: That rather depends on how you define 'traffic'.  Do you just mean cars or do you include the following, any of which might be in the middle of a busy motorway at any time? Cows, tractors, carts, donkeys, camels, pigs, dogs (numbers of legs vary, so some move faster than others), people, rickshaws, tuk-tuks, lorries, vans, cranes, oxen, deer, cycles or motorbikes?

Q: OMG! You mean all these things could be moving in the road at the same time?

A: Certainly. The only things that are in the middle of the road and don't move are trees.

Q: What emergency equipment should I carry in my car?

A: Well, a blow torch and welding equipment would come in handy for most cars...

Q: Jeez - all this has got me worried!  Any words of comfort to offer?

A: Yeah - just man up and grow a pair!  If a 12 year old can ride a motorbike, so can you!  They say you only need 3 things to drive in India - good brakes, a good horn and good luck. And they'd be right!

More ways to tell you have been married too long

Recently, I offered you an idiot's guide to assessing your marriage here. Since writing that, I have suffered excessively in the name of marriage research and come up with yet more, incontrovertible proof that I have been married far too long.

Like many people, I am not great in the mornings.  I like to haul myself out of bed and shuffle around doing the shower/hair/tea thing solo and in silence. After a hefty dose of caffeine, I may be able to manage a few words, but not before.

The Shah, by sorry contrast, is irritatingly cheerful at any ungodly hour.  He thinks it's a huge wheeze to stand in front of the mirror, blocking my view whilst I am trying to dry my hair and avoid the Lion King look, pulling faces and leaping about like a loon.  It drives me to the borders of insanity and beyond.

He also talks.  I don't do talking until I get to work, by which time I might have just about woken up and I certainly don't want to discuss the ins and outs of high finance then or ever, to be honest.

Clearly, this perturbs the Shah and, of late, he has gone to ever more extreme lengths to get my attention in the mornings.  This week, he re-enacted something he had found on YouTube.

Chums - imagine the full, pouting horror of having this dancing around your bed at 6.30 in the morning:- 

WARNING - THIS IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART OR THE WEAK OF STOMACH!

Kill me now ....

In which the Shah is confused...

Enuff said....

Jaffa the Hub

In the light of a new study from the Harvard School of Public Health that has found that watching too much TV can reduce fertility in young men, I breezily inform the Shah that I am amazed we ever managed to procreate at all.

"Whaddya mean by that?" he snorts, fumbling for the remote that seems somehow to have got itself stuck down his trousers.

"I mean, it's a wonder you're not a Jaffa* given the amount of time you spend glued to that thing" I reply.  

"Nonsense.  But while we're on the subject of the telly..."

Too late, I realise I have played right into his hands as he uses the opportunity to pitch for a new TV in the family room.  Although I sigh and pull faces, I'm quite pleased because the old one is ginormous and takes up half the room.  Viz:-

It was one of the first ever flat screen TVs but, as you can see, they hadn't quite got the hang of slimline technology all those years ago.  It also weighs 14 stone.  Yes, really.  That's 90kg or 196lbs for my non-British chums.

"Sooo," wheedles the Shah, "you know how we have to go to John Lewis on Saturday to pay for the new carpets?  We could have a look for a new TV at the same time!"  And he flops back onto the sofa, exhilarated by this grand idea but also exhausted by the effort of paying me this much attention.

However, there is (naturally) a fly in the ointment and, by Saturday, I had been struck down by the virus from hell and was feeling really, really awful.  However, carpets have to be paid for because John Lewis won't lay then without payment up front, cos they're funny like that. So I wearily trailed along with his nibs who was uncommonly chipper, considering we were going shopping - an activity that normally brings him out in hives.

Unfortunately, the person who served us in the flooring department was new and felt it safest to check every last full stop on the order before he could consider relieving me of my credit card to pay.  By this stage, I could have cheerfully lain down on a nearby pile of tufted samples and wept but I gritted my teeth and soldiered on, shivering. The Shah sat back happily in one of their thoughtfully-provided armchairs and eyed my flushed cheeks and glazed expression.

"Do you know what?" he asked

"Um, no," I mumbled, thinking "he's going to say 'let's not bother with the tv, you look terrible, I'm going to take you straight home and tuck you up with some Night Nurse and a hot water bottle'..."  He smiled slightly and leaned forward.

"I was thinking about my Pension the other day."

Inwardly, I am now screaming WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? But I have no energy to form the words, so I make some vague noises and try to smile.

The Shah continues unabashed.  "Contributions, blah, Stakeholders, blah, Insurance Premiums, blah, rates of return, blah, ROI, blah blah blah..." he burbles.

Eventually, the transaction is complete and we trail to the Electrical Department.  This is the equivalent of Shah Heaven.   He could (and did) spend hour on fecking hour gazing at all the screens on offer, waxing lyrical about the relative merits of HD over 3D (like I care).  Unfortunately again, the person the Shah chose to serve us this time was about as technologically boring inclined as he, so they went off on a little tangent wittering on to each other about internet connections and wireless keyboards. 

Death would have been sweet release.

E-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y the deed is struck, the Shah has snatched the bargain of the century from under the nose of some other unlucky sod and delivery has been arranged.

We arrive home to find our (17 and 20 year old) children engaged in a game that was a favourite when they were kiddies.  It's called 'Hub bub bub' and involves one person grabbing any excess flesh around the middle of the other and squeezing it to tickle them, all the time shrieking (you'll never guess) "Hub bub bub".  Of course, these days, they are far too big and strong and, sure enough, one was too rough and hurt the other one and the whole thing disintegrated into a cacophony of punching and name-calling.

The Shah eyed the brawl being enacted on the kitchen floor as he stepped over the tangle of arms and legs.

"What was that you were saying about being a Jaffa?" he asked with a certain wistfulness.

*Jaffa - a coarse term to indicate that someone is infertile - i.e. seedless.

Is it next year already?

Christmas at Crap Cottage – a black comedy in 3 Acts

Dramatis Personae:

The Shah – a dribbling goon, well known to all regular readers.

Moi – underpaid, overworked, under-appreciated, overwhelmed.

Daughter – Teenager – nuff said.

Son – slightly older but no more mature version of above.

Granny – think a posher, stone deaf version of Catherine Tate’s sweary Nan.

ACT ONE

It is Christmas Eve.  Granny is in residence. She is not sure why she is here but she thinks she may be visiting for Easter.  The Shah is now on holiday – he invariably (and inexplicably) becomes irritatingly skittish at Christmas.

Me:  Dinner’s ready – come and sit down everyone!

Children (fighting viciously):  Shotgun not sitting next to Granny.

Shah:  Anyone want a drink?

Granny:  DEFINITELY! (Grabs proffered glass of wine, downs it like it’s a shot. Burps loudly).  WHAT’S THIS? (Pokes food on plate)

Me: It’s Lasagne.

Granny:  DON’T WE NORMALLY HAVE LAMB AT EASTER?

All in chorus: IT’S NOT EASTER – IT’S CHRISTMAS.

Granny: NO NEED TO FUCKING SHOUT. 

(She then spies the Shah doing a hideous parody of a Hindi dance in the corner of the kitchen for no apparent reason.)

Granny: WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH HIM? (Refills own glass)

Me: How long have you got?

Children: (snigger wildly) He’s a mad fucker, Granny.

Granny:  I'm not the Pheasant Fucker, I'm the Pheasant Fucker’s son and I'm only fucking Pheasants....ooh, hang on, that’s not quite right, is it?

Children (snorting so hard, Lasagne comes out of their noses). HAHAHAHAHA

Moi: (bangs head hard on wall).  AAAARGH.

Granny:  Refills glass again.  And again.  And again.

ACT TWO

It is Christmas Day.  Hungover teenagers are asleep.  The Shah is once again dancing in the kitchen.  It’s a sort of fish-slapping dance without the fish, he taking the part of Michael Palin.  I ache to play John Cleese.  Like this:-

The rest of the day passes without incident, mainly because I have taken the precaution of sewing a funnel into Granny's mouth which has made everyone a lot happier – especially her.

ACT THREE

It is three days later.  Extra visitors have arrived just in case I haven’t had enough of cooking, clearing up, gritting my teeth and smiling such a rictus grin that there are dried flies on my teeth. 

Granny:  I’m sorry everyone – the hospitality is appalling.  I can’t offer you any-fucking-thing.

Me:  Don’t worry – I’m doing all the cooking.  It’ll be fine.

Granny:  Oh good.  In that case, how do you get a drink round here?

Children:  Snigger

Me: Sigh

Visitors: Would you like to hear our opinion on world politics and medical ethics?

Me and the Shah exchange glances.

Me:  Erm, not really – (scrabbles around hopelessly for a diversion)  Um, where are you going on holiday this year?

Visitors: Blah blah blah blah blah

Shah:  Pulls a face behind their back which makes me and the children snort with laughter. 

Granny (half cut):  WHERE’S MY FUCKING EASTER EGG?

Fades to black.

Happy New Year.  I think.

Something's got to give...

Okay - this is the deal.  If you have no wish to read a litany of self-serving, self-pitying bleating and whining, leave this blog NOW.  Move away from the blog...that's it sir, madam - BACK AWAY FROM THE BLOG...

Half term "holiday" - what type of fucking misnomer-joke is that?  My half term has so far comprised:

• Welcoming the Shah back home for an extended 10-day stay due to a variety of Eid being celebrated in Kuwait.
• Lasting 2 days with the Shah before asking when the fack he was returning to the land of sand because I couldn't stand the untidiness, the loo seats being left up, the snoring, the extra shopping/cooking/cleaning and his cheerful announcement that he has 142 episodes of The Big Bang Theory (my least favourite TV show of all time) taped. YES A HUNDRED AND FORTY TWO.  DEAR GOD HELP ME. (I realise that there must be duplicates but he can't tell which are duplicated so he just watches them all...*weeps with frustration*)
• Attempting to get my A level student daughter to a) return home before 2am on any given day and b) knuckle down and do some facking college work/personal statement/EPQ/article for the college magazine - without success.
• Realise I am doing something very wrong with my life when a bunch of daughter's friends turn up to get ready for a party.  I am like a dwarf as they all loom over me in their six-inch heels. I admire one pair of particularly beautiful gold trotters. "They're my birthday heels!" comes the happy reply.  "They're from Kurt Geiger."  KURT GEIGER?  FFS!! At her age, I was shopping in Stead & Simpson.
• Entertain my mother for three days whilst climbing the walls with frustration, constantly having to repeat myself at shriek level (then get told off for shouting), answer the same questions over and over and facking OVER AGAIN; trail her round our local (huge) supermarket at her insistence until she is at the point of collapse; and the incessant worry that all of the above causes.
• Try to look understanding/sympathetic when the Consultant tells my son that he has just torn the Anterior Cruciate Ligament in the same knee for the third time in a year, when my instinct is to scream HOW COULD YOU BE SO FACKING CARELESS?
• Attempt to sort out the damage that a friend of the above-mentioned son did by crashing into the back of our car. Friend's dad doesn't want to involve Insurance companies which is fine, SO ANSWER MY FACKING EMAILS YOU PILLOCK. WHO IS DOING WHO THE FAVOUR HERE?
• Smile patiently (fail) upon hearing either of these phrases:-
• "Mum, there is like, NO food in the house"  or
• "What's for dinner?  Eurgh - can I have something different?  I fancy xxx (insert name of impossibly complex dish for which I possess zero ingredients).                 

Sorry.  Quite out of breath now.  Need to go and lie down in a darkened room with a quart of Gin.  And the cat.  No, not the cat.  This is what he left me one morning recently right beside the bed...

Yes!  A lovely dead Rat! Crouched beside my skanky Ugg boots and my (ahem) pricey leopard print onesie.  Yay me!

Naturally, this was before the Shah arrived home, so I was forced to deal with it despite it being a blue job par excellence.  Note the lifelike pose of Rattus. This freaked me right out because someone once told me that Rats can freeze and mimic death to put off their attackers.  I was convinced it would spring to life as soon as I went near it.  The daughter crouched on my bed squealing as I grabbed its tail (using some loo roll, natch) and threw it out of the window over the fence.  Or so I thought. Two days later, I noticed it hanging in a bush.  One day after that, It fell out of the bush and lay in its delightful rigor in the front garden.  The Shah was despatched to deal with it pronto.  He had to fend off the ASBO cat who was attempting to snack on the yummy remains. Hmmm...delish!

And on top of all this, I try and fit in a full time job.  

Something's got to give...

In which the Shah becomes the Sheikh...

I wrote recently that the Shah had been packed up in a large crate and sent off to work in Kuwait for a while.  He has now been there for about a month and has settled quite well, although it is fair to say that he is struggling to fill his leisure time (well that's his story).

I, in turn, have been missing him quite badly.  In fact, unexpectedly so.  That's not a poor reflection on him it's just that, in the course of our married life, he's worked away from home quite a lot but (craftily) never long enough to make it feasible to uproot the children and move with him.

Not having the backup was easier in the past because, when the children were young, they broadly did what I wanted them to do when I wanted them to do it and so I always knew where they were and who they were with.  Fast forward a few years and they are both independent, both driving and it's like herding cats.  I never know who is going to be around at mealtimes so I am either wasting sinful amounts of food or they are complaining that the fridge is empty.  Ironically, it is the 20 year old who is really good at letting me know where he is and when/if he will be home.  This is a skill that still requires a little honing by his sister.  Just the other night we had the mother of all arguments (again) because I didn't agree that it was "fine" to go out to see Ellie at 11.30pm simply because Ellie "is like, bored and so am I".

All this is a long-winded way of saying that I was greatly looking forward to the Shah's first visit home last weekend.  He texted once he got to Passport control to confirm that there wasn't a 2 hour queue despite what the media would have us believe and I set off for the airport.  We'd arranged to meet at the Passenger Drop-off point because its easier to park and wait there for a few minutes if necessary.

I arrived and didn't spot him.  So I parked and hopped out of the car to flag him down in case he hadn't seen me.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed what I can only politely describe as a swarthy gentleman approaching.  I imagined he thought I was a taxi driver.  So I ignored him for as long as I could until he got so close that I thought I was going to have to lamp him one.

And then he spoke.

Well can you blame me for not recognising my own husband?  The goon.

Friends have commented that he looks disturbingly like the real thing.  If only he had the oil dollars to go with it...

Homeland

Those of you who have watched the very excellent Homeland starring the eye candy that is Damian Lewis (never thought I would say that a ginger man is attractive, but there is just something about him....) will appreciate that the US is extremely hot on homeland security and rightly so, given their experiences at the hands of Al Qaeda.  However, it's arguable that they might be overdoing it.  Just a teeny tiny bit. Just occasionally.


The Shah has a friend with whom he plays footie every week. (Don't start me on footie - every feckin' night on TV, feckin' Euro feckin' 2012). Let's call this friend Doug.  Because that's his name.  


Now Doug has occasion to travel to Las Vegas every year for a business convention.  This year he travelled with a colleague.  A fair haired, blue-eyed colleague.  (It's relevant, I promise). Let's call him Mike Jones (because I haven't a clue what his name really is).  They board their flight and all is uneventful until they land in Nevada.  Doug sashays through immigration, no problem.  Mike is stopped by an unsmiling official. 


"You Mike Jones?" he is asked
"Yeah, sure" he agrees.
"We've been waiting for you.  Come this way."


Puzzled, he is led off.  Several hours later, he has been divested of his clothes and given a Government-issue boiler suit to wear.  He has had his passport, his luggage and his mobile phone removed.  He has experienced a full body search.  He has been given no information or explanation as to why he has been detained, except that he has been relentlessly questioned about his supposed terrorist activities (none).  He is, to put it mildly, bemused.


After several hours of this shenanigans, one of the officious officials reappears, with Mike's passport in his hand.  He opens it, looks at the photo and looks at Mike for several, long minutes.  Eventually, he comes out with the killer question.


"Hey, you ever been black?"


Oh yes.  The Mike Jones they were after was of African origin but their hair-trigger reaction had led them to detain an Anglo Saxon and not notice.


We're off to the States later this year.  We'll be holding our breath as we go through immigration....

The Motherhood Meme

So here I am, lying on my sickbed, dying of the cold from hell whilst wheezing attractively into one of Kleenex's finest and thinking about my blog with no great love. "Bloody blog. Needs more attention than your average newborn. Got no inspiration. Hack, sniff. Wish I'd never given birth to the sodding thing..." when up pops Sarah Hague with an offer of a meme. 


Now there is the distinct possibility that Sarah has a Machiavelllian streak in her and is playing on my conscience because I realise I still owe her a meme on the theme of 'firsts' (I haven't forgotten - I'm hunting for a particularly apt photo to go with it...) but I feel sufficiently guilty to give this one a go. Buckle your seat belts...


Describe motherhood in three words:- Let's go for joy, expense and exhaustion. 


How does your experience differ from your mother's? In a word, convenience. My mother had no pre-prepared baby food, no freezer, no disposable nappies. When I had my son she asked me if I would be using traditional Terry nappies. I felt forced to inform her that the sight of her scraping the contents of my brother's nappies down the loo had scarred me for life. Why would I want to do that when the God of Pampers had been sent to answer my prayers? 


What is the hardest thing about being a mother? Very easy - the lack of sleep. Having babies has ruined my Circadian rhythms and I never seem to have regained a normal sleep pattern. When they were tiny, I was awake, fretting, with them in my arms. Now they are grown, I'm awake, fretting, with them in the King's Arms and wondering what state they will come home in.


How has motherhood changed you? See above. And below. 

20 years later...

CQ pre-children

Nuff said. 

What do you hope for your children? Health, happiness and that they make a good choice of care home for me. 


What do you fear for your children? That they can't afford to pay my care home fees. I hope you're reading this, kids. I'm packing my suitcase and I'm moving in. Huzzah! 


What makes it all worthwhile? Once all the ranting and the threats are done, e.g. "Just wash the sodding cat bowls, or your allowance stops NOW!" it's the little things that count. On day one of the cold from hell when I was languishing at home, son popped out to get me a paper and daughter came home with this....

(my fave - you can keep your 70% cacao stuff - this is the biz). 


The Shah meanwhile, sent a loving, caring text. It read 


"Home late, team mtg + drinks. wots for dinna?"  


Aah bless - all's right with the world.

Catch up...

So chums, what to tell you?  It has been a busy old time at Crap Cottage so I thought I would offer you a little vignette of the past 10 or so days - the (paltry) highs and the (plentiful) lows.


Let us begin with matters Français.  

Or should that be Française?  Yes, we have had our French Exchange girl to stay for a week.  She was absolutely delightful and very easy to have around but gawd is it hard work having someone else to think about for a whole week?  I mean someone whom you cannot routinely and affectionately hurl abuse at in the way you do with your own husband/kids.  To have to think about providing proper meals at regular heures....meh. the girls were very different.  The visitor was only 16, but had a 20 year old boyfriend which left our daughter agape.  She seemed not to be a party girl but spent hours every evening Skypeing her boyfriend and family.  Happily though, and much like Trish at Mum's Gone To ... when her son entertained "a Frenchie", the entente was pretty cordiale.  One of the other girls on the Exchange who was also 16 apparently had a 25 year old boyfriend which led to me overhearing my daughter saying earnestly, "If I wanted to go out with a 25 year old, my mum would go ballistic!"  How well she knows me.  Maybe this is a cultural thing?  My daughter and her friends viewed it as "practically child abuse" - perhaps my mate Madame Wylye Girl can help explain?


Having one extra was not that hard if I'm to be honest as the house is like a feckin' traveller camp at the best of times with sundry teenagers coming and going at all hours.  When we bought Crap Cottage, one of the overriding factors in choosing it was its central location and proximity to public transport for the kids.  What we didn't factor in was that it is just as central for every other bugger's kids as well.  Nowadays, the Shah and I have just given up and he has learned not to blench as scantily-clad 17 year old girls stroll through the kitchen, casually raiding the fridge as they go, making cups of tea and leaving a trail of tiny scraps of lace underwear, vertiginous heels and makeup wipes all over the house.


In other news, work is reaching the end-of-term crescendo.  You can tell that people are becoming slightly hysterical as we hurtle towards the apocalypse that is the End of Term Assembly.  Here are two examples:  this first one was found pinned to the staff room noticeboard...

For our second example, I offer you the coffee mug I very, very nearly gave to a candidate who had come for interview for a very senior position...

Wouldn't have minded but he looked like the back end of a bus.


Meanwhile in the great outdoors, the Shah has been minded to survey his estate in this good weather and to clear the vegetable patch in the process.  Last Autumn, I planted a whole packet of carrot seeds hoping that they would over-winter nicely and we would have a decent crop come the Spring.  Here is Mother Nature's bounty - photographed with an apple next to them to provide a sense of scale (i.e. paltry)

As the Shah came in, brandishing the fruits of his labours, he met his son who eyed the pathetic, weedy offerings and said "D'you know what Dad?  It's a good job you're not a subsistence farmer in Ethiopia - the whole family would have bloody starved by now."  He may have a point.


Toodle pip!

Arsewipes

It is Sunday evening.  About 9.15.  the Shah’s mobile rings.  It is his friend and collaborator, Mr H.  Mr H has rung to invite the Shah on a BNO (Boys’ Night Out) on Tuesday.

“Tuesday?” says the Shah ruminatively.  “Yeah.  Should be fine.  Don’t think I’ve got anything on...”

At this point, his wife and daughter, who are close by, roar with laughter.  Not just because the Shah is too much of a dolt to realise that Tuesday will be Valentine’s Day but also because Mrs H will be wearing Mr H’s Nadgers for earrings when she finds out.

None of this deters them and they make a date for the usual curry and a film.  The curry choice rarely varies and the film genre doesn’t change much either. It’s usually a Lamb Madras and a side order of “Shaven-headed man sweats heavily and swears a lot as he defeats terrorist/kidnappers/aliens – perm any one from three” in glorious Technicolor.

Not that it really matters.  We don't go overboard for Valentine’s/Mothers Day/Fathers Day etc etc – none of these:-

Or these:-

But we do buy each other cards.  So...as the day dawns, I awake unnecessarily early (it’s half term – I’m on holiday) and sneak downstairs while the Shah is in the shower (alliteratively speaking) to put his card somewhere obvious so that he sees it before leaving for work.  Now the Shah likes to play little tricks on me and hide my card in the hope that I will accuse him of neglect and he can catch me out.  Once he has gone off to work, I glance around, expecting to see a little red envelope peeping out from somewhere.  Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.

So just to recap.

I have none of these 

I have none of these  

I have not got one of these  

Just as I am feeling mega-sorry for myself, the doorbell rings.  It is the nice Sainsbury man with my delivery.  I haul everything into the house and, just as I sign for the stuff, he whips something out from behind his back and holds it out to me with a warm smile.  “Here you are love,” he chirps.  “Have these on us – buckshee!”  Because I am laughing so much as his use of ‘Buckshee’ – a word I haven’t heard for, oh, decades, I don’t look properly at the item in my hand until he has waved me a cheery farewell and started back up the garden path.

Is it roses?  No.

Is it chocolates?  No.

Is it a card?  No.

This is what Sainsbury’s has sent me to mark St Valentine’s Day.

Yes.  Arsewipes. FECKING ANDREX ARSEWIPES.

The Shah arrives home.  I complain bitterly about the lack of a card.  The daughter complains on my behalf.  The Shah is unmoved.  He laughs a happy little laugh and pats me on the hand absent-mindedly.

“Never mind,” he says.  “Valentine’s isn’t really for married people, is it?”

Arsewipe.