Missing You Already

Aphids, art and powder rooms...

2009-06-26T22:30:00.003+02:00

Hello my dears.

I trust I find you well and in good humour. You are generally a cheerful bunch of individuals, generous with your happy vibes and pleasant interjections. I miss you. I should come here more….I am preoccupied with the knotty problem of occupying a six year old bundle of energy for eight weeks.That’s fifty-six days. Two months. A mouth-dryingly, petrifyingly loooooooonnnnggg time.

Yes, it’s that time again. Sprog is about to start his monumental, summer break from school…and so life as I know it (ie.a bit of a doss) is going to change. I shall have to shape up sharpish. Get my ‘100 Superior Mothering Swindles:Amusing your Kids with the Littlest of Effort’ book off the shelf. But can I be arsed? It is a very well-thumbed tome. I think my favourite suggestion it contains is ‘ Set your child up in the garden with some paints and paper, then ask them to paint in the style of the pointillists, everything they can see that is green. In seven different shades of green.’ Pure genius.

I have declared a holy war on aphids. I am tickling them to death with my little tickling stick. At least they die happy, the greedy, bean eating little gits.

Sprog and Spouse are wrestling on the sofa, blowing fake-farts into their inner-elbows, then dissolving into fits of giggles at the ensuing cacophony. Ok, Sprog is. Spouse is just sort of humouring him, whilst keeping an eye on the two young gels hitting a tennis ball backwards and forwards on the TV. Wimbledon fortnight is upon us and I’m afraid we gorge ourselves somewhat, couch athletes that we are. The Belorussian player who is competing as I write, is irritatingly noisy. She whinnies like a distressed foal on every hit. I find it unsettling. Like I should be doing something to ease her anxiety. Like tell her to shut the fuck up.

Other exciting news is that I have started contributing to this new wonderful website. Those more observant among you, may have noticed the rather fetching glossy badge that has appeared on my blog. Isn’t it pretty? It lends a much needed air of glamour to this shit-hole of a blog.

That reminds me. If ever I needed reminding how far I have travelled from the glitz, sophistication and glamour of my previous incarnation in London – a casual remark from Sprog illustrated it perfectly this week. He was excitedly describing to me the costumes the children would be wearing for the Fete de L’ecole at the end of year concert. It all sounded quite normal. Transvestitism seems to be heartily encouraged in French schools – all the older boys dress up as ladies and apply full make-up. Sprog was describing that one of the boys looked hilarious…’Mummy, he was wearing some of those funny shoe things…you know…the ones with pointy things underneath them.’ For a moment a strange mental image of ladyboys in football boots sat in my head. Then, with horror, it dawned on me what he meant. The poor little darling was referring to high heeled shoes. Oh the guilt I felt. At six years old, he should know what a pair of high heeled shoes are.

Please do go and check out Powder Room Graffiti – it’s great fun. There are all sorts of great writers telling it like it is. And there’s me. Doing my usual thing….being a bit silly. But, hey. It’s what I’m good at. Go over and see, you will no doubt recognise some familiar faces and discover some new ones...

I’d better split now. Wimbledon has finished (the grunter won – so unfair!) and Glasto is on. Here’s a quick Mya review:

I have enjoyed the dancing of the vocalist in Friendly Fires – perhaps that’s not the effect he was aiming for, but my old acting teacher always told me that any reaction was a good reaction (supposedly to make me feel better as I recovered from mild concussion following a flying cabbage incident).

Lady Gaga. Fabulous. Move over Madge.Her arse (Lady G's) is like stone - can you get buttock botox?If you can, I want it. Now!

Lily Allen. Just move over.

Regina Spektor –wonderful.

That’s all I’ve seen so far. I must say, their mud is pretty lightweight amateur fare compared to the stuff we get around here.

Really, I’m going now. Mwah!

Mountain morning

2009-06-13T08:01:00.005+02:00

I have just stuck my head out of the door to summon the cat. The perfume of the broome on the hills is incredibly potent at this time of day - it is one of my favourite times of year. The evenings are light and I can stay out in the garden until gone ten O clock. Mornings are the time for rushing around, getting through your tasks, so that you are able to crash in a heap in the afternoons when temperatures become crazy hot.I tried to find a picture of the yellow broome blossom, but I couldn't.You'll have to be satisfied with sheep instead. Wrong time of year, wrong size sheep and no cute little whiny lambs. Our woolly friends surround us at the moment. At night, we are lulled to sleep by the soft tinkle of sheep bells through the open windows. If it's bucolic you want, you've come to the right place.

Three more weeks of the school term left, and then the long vacance. There will be a lot of swimming. Beaches, lakes and ice-creams feature heavily in Sprog's plans. Relatives too, which is always a bonus.We might even manage a trip away, if we are lucky. Swanky (and cheap) destination of choice this year, is the South West coast of England. Quoi neuf? It's my favourite place on the planet, basically, with this place running a close second.

We have builders coming at some point. I can't be any more specific than that. French builders don't really do 'time scales'. Actually, that's unfair. They DO do 'time-scales', they just don't bother sticking to them at all. Which begs the question, 'What's the bloody point?' The building work in question is far from sexy. If it were an elegant new orangery for the east-wing, refurbishment of the infinity pool or a bespoke new kitchen, I might be getting excited. But it's more, yawn yawn structural crap - you know, just stuff to stop the place from crumbling around our ears. Expensive and invisible - totally dull. The only thing that adds a frisson of excitement to the whole sorry state of affairs is 'How the f**k are we going to pay for it?'

I don't often blog at this hour in the morning.It's perhaps a little early,I'm writing like a tit. Maybe I'll come back later this afternoon once my brain has engaged. Have a delicious, fragrant,sensory delight of a weekend.

Slacker returns in shock shoe shambles

2009-05-26T10:26:00.006+02:00

I’m so sorry I’m late….

I was waiting ages for a bus, and then three came all at once (wouldn’t you know it?)…but then there was a stampede and I was trampled underfoot by stiletto shod data in-putters worried about premature curtailment of their temp contracts due to ‘punkchewallity ishoos.’

What a dire morning.

So, I had to return home to apply vinegar and brown paper to my gaping wounds...and then I got sucked into a TV documentary that Spouse was watching about the honey-voiced, Andrew Motion...whom I find rather arresting. So, I sat annoyingly on the edge of the sofa for some time, bleeding and spraying Jaffa cake crumbs all over the place. After about half an hour Spouse started doing his speaking clock thing. I can take a hint - I'm not completely insensitive.

Long sentence coming up, deep breaths everyone - can't be arsed to punctuate.

Unfortunately, that was one of a catalogue of medium-sized disaster/fuck ups that have been torturing the wits out of me and have led to my being separated for a whole month by some miles from any computer with an internet connection inserted into its rear.(No clever-dicks, we don't have wireless - where do you think this is? Basildon?) I was being held hostage – but I haven’t time to elaborate right now….let’s just say, the hospitality whilst hardly impeccable, could teach Travelodge a thing or two.

Yes, I know I've used the hostage excuse before, but on that occasion aliens were my jailers. These guys were different.The level of savagery was beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. They tortured me with Chris de Burgh music and broke wind in my face. The farts were easier to bear. But they told me that in the current economic climate, hostage taking was having to adapt to market forces. I thought I was probably worth more than a satsuma, a dried up Biro and a wheel of ripe Stilton - but I was happy just to be released. Everyone has their price - and it seems I'm quite cheap.

So, here I am now, prostrate before you. Begging forgiveness for my errant, neglectful ways…I am off now to flagellate myself with the whip of penitence…yes …you’ve guessed it….I’m going to watch a school concert. I will arrange upon my features the rictus smile known to all mothers on such occasions. And I will be poised to punch out the first person who says ‘ Who’s the weird kid facing the wrong way?’

Catch you later, my lovelies!

Fill up my comments box (ooer!) with all your news. I’m interested…no really…I am.
I AM. Stop it! I am.

No gifts please

2009-04-26T21:24:00.004+02:00

I came to the blog this evening, contrite, apologetic and guilt-ridden. Being a lousy blog-mutha with an atrocious memory...I had committed the unthinkable crime...I had forgotten that most important of anniversaries...my darling little blog's second birthday.

What a bitch! How could I?

Well....it was quite easy to do, actually. I'm not coming to the blog much at the moment, I have lots going on.But that doesn't mean I don't still love you, blog. I do. I just need some space. That's bollocks actually. I'm just busy. I have a family, a large, shabby, falling-down house, a veg garden that needs digging and sowing, walls that need painting...sleep...I seem to need a lot of sleep at the moment...hope I'm not up the duff...and I'm writing, writing ,writing in between times. So, bloggykins, please forgive me, I'm so sorry I forgot your birthday. I'll make it up to you, I promise. I'll buy a box of chocolates for you - I'll eat them for you, then I'll write a loving description of how delicious they are.

I've just checked. I didn't overlook the birthday. My first post ever was on 28th April 2007. Ha!

Who's sorry now?

Hag or crone?

2009-04-06T22:47:00.005+02:00

Because I am essentially a spineless cowardy-custard, I have, as yet, failed to take action against the fouler or foulers of my doorstep. I admit to having rather wicked fantasies involving apero invitations and filo pastry nibbles, piped with a mystery truffley filling...would anyone like to lend me the use of their oven?

I'm knackered....so I'm just going to ramble. Feel free to bugger off now, if you've got some sardines grilling or some paint drying somewhere..

It's the easter holidays. I'm not religious...I'm ashamed to say, it just spells 'Kinder' to me. Two exhausting weeks of childcare, cut in half by one mad weekend packed with enough chocolate to bring us all out in hives...no money, so no activities...well not of the 'real' kind according to Sprog. A 'real' activity would be something like a couple of days at Playmobil land, or whatever it's called....or a spell at Futuroscopic....or whatever the fuck that's called....you can tell I'm really interested in these places...or paintballing confused old-timers... or a day's Karting...now I wouldn't mind doing that, if we could afford it. But I'm not sure Sprog meets the height requirements anyway...so we have to content ourselves with 'crap'ie. 'free' activities like going on nature walks, bike rides, tree climbing, painting, sheep monitoring, bird song workshops,Dad baiting...oh it's so dull to be a six year old country mouse...if only he had a Nintendo DS, life would be worth living...well it would be for me, at least. I might get something done.

We went visiting pals this afternoon. I was sitting outside in the sun for too long and am now a rather fetching puce colour.I have been trying to find a high protection facial sunblock that doesn't make me look like Marcel Marceau - but I don't know if one exists. Urgent action needs to be taken to arrest the demise of my poor complexion. Any suggestions welcomed.

The brown stuff...and it's not chocolate

2009-03-20T10:01:00.004+01:00

Oh, glorious, glorious printemps! We welcome you open-armed. The trees festooned with blossom, the birds a-singin' and a-shaggin', the irises shooting up like great purple phalli - it's all very fizzy and springy and lovely here. Apart from the large coil of shit on my doorstep. I am not speaking in metaphors. A rather large poo-shaped heap of...well,poo...has appeared outside. It’s not actually, right on the doorstep, although, if I were to stride out of the door I would be ankle deep in a second or two. When I say ‘someone’, obviously, I don’t mean a human. At least I hope I don’t, for their sakes.

So, I have taken to squinting through the keyhole, hoping to catch a glimpse of the turd litterer. Yes, I know. This makes me sound slightly unhinged. I’m comfortable with that.

I should relax about this.I live in rural France. Faecal matter is their daily bread. Now that is a metaphor, perhaps a little clumsy and Nutella-esque – but I think you get my meaning. Even if I set up a webcam for 24 hour doorstep monitoring, if I caught the culprit brown-pawed and confronted their owner with the evidence, I would only get a gallic shrug in response.

‘It’s a dog. It shits. What can I do about it?’

The very mention of picking it up and disposing of it responsibly, is met with eye-rolls and muttering. I know. I’ve tried it before. The woman asked me if she was supposed to put it in her pocket? I told her I’d prefer she did that than my toddler son put it in his mouth. I got the familiar ‘You mad fucking
English weirdo’ look, and she wandered off, with her shitbag of a pooch.

But it's not just outside my door. It's everywhere. How can I marvel at the beautiful blue sky when my eyes are forever glued to the ground on crap-avoidance duty?

I think I might start going around the village, crapping outside people’s doors. You know…make a point…and a mess. Start a debate. What do you think? Is it a plan?

Sunday musings, delusions and dangerous sports

2009-03-08T18:30:00.010+01:00

Today has been nice. I didn't get a lie-in, but Spouse did.Admittedly, not ideal. That said, if I get dragged from my nod-pit first by the Sprogster, I can play the martyr for a few hours. So, when Spouse finally emerges, well-rested, showered shaved and spouting things like, 'the rejuvenative qualities of an extra couple of hours sleep compare favourably with a visit to Champneys,' he is on the back foot right from the get-go. I can request favours. Be a little more demanding than usual...extract a few cakes, promises, kisses,household appliances.

Oh, and he's never been to Champneys. But I didn't want to be all curmudgeonly, so I let it go.

This afternoon we took a long walk. We tramped through moss covered labyrinthine forests, scrambled over rocks and under fallen firs. We startled a deer - but it scared the SHIT out of us first! Spouse and Sprog held their pilgrim's staffs aloft and shouted things like 'Behold warriors, the salver of enlightenment awaits at foot of sacred oak yonder.'....while I satisfied myself with manic gnome impersonations and doing surprise ambushes onto their backs from overhanging branches. And ended up chewing lichen.

Oh what larks!

Flora and fauna interlude - anemones in delicate shades of mauve and pink lined the pathways.Wild hellebores nodded their unwieldy heads, like miniature, lime-green, processional monks.I didn't smoke any plant material today, although I'm aware I may be giving quite a different impression.At the dew-filled pond we had a short chat with a charming unicorn on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. He said he was looking forward to a good match and that he had tickets for the member's enclosure. Howzat?

And when we got home, after we'd traipsed six muddy boots all over the kitchen floor, drank hot tea and ate gooey lemon cake, we were well knackered. So, we lit the fire, turned on the TV and collapsed in a heap.

Athletics from Torino.

Perhaps it was just because we were exhausted from our exertions and resented having our noses rubbed in it by such perfect physical specimens. I am one of the world's greatest optimists, but I don't think I could ever, EVER, understand what motivates any sane person to take up the pole vault. I am quite certain that even in my warped, irresponsible and regularly fucked-up reality,I have never been tempted to take up the pole vault.Have you?

Tyred,emotional,freaked...

2009-02-27T10:28:00.002+01:00

It’s annoying to be back at the tyre-fitters.

Four weeks ago, we had new tyres fitted. I rather pointedly refused the extra insurance on each tyre…reasoning, not unreasonably, that the goods should be sold fit for purpose….and that barring an improbable tyre-slashing outbreak in the village…they should stand up to whatever the French roads throw at them…so I would take my chances…

Now there’s a problem with one of the tyres. There is a slow leak.

The guy is standing there in his breeze-block bureau, wearing a pair of those ubiquitous tight blue overalls favoured by French grease-monkeys.

But I’m lost for words. Stunned into silence. My eyes are glued to the thing that is stuck on his lower lip.

It is a hair. Wiry and grey, and unmistakably of pubic origin.

The hair on his head is chestnut brown. The gunk under his nails is black.

My mind races through possibilities. Sometimes, it is the worse thing in the world to have a vivid imagination.

Has he been pleasuring an octogenarian rubber-freak out the back?

Economising on dental floss?

Performing a tool inventory?

I have to leave. I am repulsed (and it takes a lot to do that, dear readers.)

And there were no dogs. I checked.

On another matter entirely...I would like to congratulate blog-mate and rising star, Jaywalker, over at Belgian Waffle, for making it into the Times Top 100 Blog list. If you haven't already, do drop by Belgian Waffle and stuff your face...you won't regret it. Well done Emma!

Well sprung

2009-02-23T10:50:00.003+01:00

Spring is in the air. Officially, it’s still three weeks away, but try telling that to the daffodils, birds and randy boars. It’s mild. It’s sunny. It’s bloody good news for our scarily depleted woodstore.

The school holidays have been safely negotiated. It was a whirl of sledging, dinosaurs, chocolate and rockets.

My funny bone has fractured. Can’t seem to think of much to write at the moment. Things here are quiet and,frankly, a bit dull. I keep fantasising about really exciting events….like…going to Ikea. Yeah, I know…It’s that dull.

I have pain. Of the physical sort. It is keeping me off the computer, hence the lack of radio contact.

I have a new obsession, too. Sportacus. Anyone else suffer from this one? Or perhaps it’s just me that wonders how tightly he’s strapped beneath that tracksuit?

Wind up

2009-01-31T18:47:00.002+01:00

Windy. Rainy. Cold.

The storms over this part of Europe last weekend have left their mark. Trees and powerlines down, flooded basements, lifted rooves, ruined livelihoods...we sat in mute silence as hurricane force winds whipped around the house, swaying the nearby trees…alarmingly…

We had a telephone call from the mayor.

‘Red alert!Red alert! Stay inside…there’s an enormous tempest coming…’

In all my years as a London drone, I never received a call from the mayor. I doubt Boris offers the same level of customer service now, either.

So we did. Stayed inside, that is. Quaking with fear (yeah, ok…I’m hamming it up a bit…but it was averagely petrifying, I’ll have you know.) Airborne debris flew over the attic window. A lethal sheet of corrugated iron landed in the field nearby where it cartwheeled to a standstill against the enormous Holme Oak.

One particularly ferocious gust had all three of us ducking involuntarily…quite funny really….Sprog is not used to his father showing fear…whereas I am, naturally…

Treewise, the conifers seemed to have really suffered. And the larger, more gangly poplars looked twisted and sad.Now, if you poke your nose out into the chill air the buzz of chainsaw bites. Blue EDF choppers surf the cables, checking pylons for damage…there is activity everywhere…

Apart from chez nous.

On Thursday there was a general strike in France, so not a lot was occuring…except for a lot of moaning, gesticulating and whingeing…no change there, then… Sprog was at home, because the teachers wanted to ~~go ski-ing~~ attend a rally.

And blogging is getting harder. The internet connection coupled with our antiquated technology are conspiring against me. This post was written two days ago, but I’ve only just succeeded in getting it up, Mrs.

But hoorah! My least favourite month is almost over. One day we will spend the whole of January somewhere hot, relaxing and luxurious. Perhaps next year…

I’m going outside now to stockpile some seratonin…I just knew it was going to be a good day this morning…there I was in a dreadful morning fug, scratching my head trying to think what to write in Sprog’s school note. He has a cut on his forehead which is slow to heal and I didn’t want him going to the piscine this morning…so I needed to write a note…I dug out the dictionary to find the word for ‘wound’…and would you believe it, it offered me the whole thing…’he has a cut on his forehead’...in lovely, perky French.

Fantastic!

Thickos of the world, unite!

2009-01-13T16:15:00.002+01:00

I sometimes wonder how on earth I managed to get to the grand old age of …erm…21….without accidently decapitating, electrocuting, marmalising or simply buggering myself to death.

It’s true that sometimes I can be a bit vague. My dear Mum is fond of describing me as ‘a bit scatty.’ My eldest sister prefers the less charitable ‘bloody liability’. My darling husband, not known for extravagant displays of affection, favours the rather more concise ‘fuckwit.’

Yesterday, I proved them all right. I managed to do something so arse-kickingly stupid, even I questioned whether or not it is safe for me to be at large.

There I was, in the kitchen, carrying out my chores in uber-wifely fashion. You know the sort of thing…leaping around with a broom, folding bed linen, polishing wood till it gleamed, scrubbing floor tiles on hands and knees with a toothbrush, picking the dog plop out of the soles of Sprog’s wellies with an old fork, cleaning the ashes out of the fire place... now this is where Captain Calamity comes calling.

I hate cleaning the ashes out of the fireplace. It’s boring. It’s dirty. And bloody pointless, because every day, there I am again, repeating the whole, never-ending process. So, I had an idea. A brilliant idea. One that would shorten the whole miserable exercise, making it much cleaner and more efficient.

Enter Henry the vaccuum cleaner. He’s one of those pull-along metal bucket style vaccuums with a powerful engine like a tractor – he’d suck up Bernard Manning from behind the sofa if asked (which is more than I would do). With the willing Henry, I proceeded to plunge his nozzle into the fireplace...and sucked.

I promise you, the ashes didn't look hot. They didn’t feel hot. But when Spouse (luckily, as it turned out) sauntered through on a coffee-seeking mission, to see me oblivious with my head stuck in the fireplace, whilst behind me, poor old Henry had flames shooting out of his ventilation shaft, threatening to set alight the kitchen table and a pile of delightful raffia tablemats…it wasn’t good.

Spouse swore. A lot. Very loudly. I cracked my head on the mantelpiece, surprised by his uncharacteristic freak-out. Then I started to run around like a headless chicken, bouncing off the walls, in a kind of fear-frenzy. Again, not good. Being a quick- thinking, non-thicko, Spouse switched Henry off, pulled the plug from the socket and ran outside, hurling him across the garden ….where he sizzled grumpily on the hard frosty ground.

What a ninny I felt!

Just to make me feel better…would you kindly tell me of something really stupid that you have done…I need some ammunition…Spouse thinks I’m the only person in the whole universe lentil-brained enough to have done something like this. Please tell me he's wrong.

Doctor What?

2009-01-06T15:02:00.004+01:00

Happy New Year!

Yes, we’ve been stuffing our faces with galette, truffling through the crumbs, hunting for little king-shaped figurines, hoping to avoid fatal obstructions and shattered crowns….as you do.

I am busy. Watching snowflakes falling. Fast little buggers. They’re coating the ground with unnerving speed. I am wondering if I should put the snow chains on (yeah, like I really do that kind of seriously nail-endangering bloke stuff), hurl the shovel in the boot and slide down to the school to collect Sprog…before he has to spend the night in a snow drift.

I am preoccupied. Spouse has divulged something troubling. He has been discussing me behind my back. Now usually, I am happy to be the centre of attention, being firmly of the belief that I am possibly the most fascinating creature that ever stomped moodily twixt chocolate box and boudoir.

‘How is that psychotic wife of yours?’ Spouse was asked the other night, in a pleasant, banter-ish sort of way.

The man posing the question is someone I hardly know at all. In fact, the only tantalisingly vague detail I know about him is that he is a Dr. By that, I mean he goes by the title of Dr. And he has lots of wild, silver hair and a pointless goatee (in all senses of the word.)

So, now I’m fretting. If he’s a doctor of Aztec Pottery Symbolism, I’m cool with that. If he wants to call me psychotic…I’m sure he has his reasons. I would even allow him to be a doctor of law, astro-physics, economics or even sociology, fer chrissakes.

But…what if he is a psychiatric doctor?

And why won’t Spouse tell me how he replied to this impertinent chap’s enquiry?

Hurrumph….I am going to stuff a handful of the cold white stuff down his trousers…snowballs might jog his memory.

I've just remembered something...

I once forbade (is that a word?) the Dr access through our village. I stood in front of his car and told him to turn around. A ewe had been caught short and was giving birth in the lane further up...and she wasn't to be disturbed. I wasn't rude. I don't even recall waving my arms about, much. Anyway, I was only following instructions from the shepherd. And there was an alternative route he could have taken. And the sheep poo would have shampooed off. And all the afterbirth stains needed were a good soak.

Dreaming of a shite Christmas...

2008-12-21T18:57:00.003+01:00

Do you hear that sound? A wet,sucking noise…followed by an explosive POP!

That’s me, that is. No, I'm not firing champagne corks from my love- thoroughfares in a display worthy of Bangkok's finest...No...The sound you hear, is of me…pulling my finger out. I have spent far too much time away from the blog recently…allowing the hum drum catastrophe of everyday life to torture the wits out of me.

It’s safer in the blogosphere. In the blogosphere you don’t run in from outside wearing your wet, muddy boots, only to slip and somersault down the stairs onto the stone kitchen floor…dashing your head against the unforgiving edge of the final step…knocking yourself out. Spouse was touchingly concerned. Sprog was fascinated.Once I had come round, he couldn’t understand why I was crying…and why I couldn’t breathe properly. He started to give me instructions, bless his heart. I’m fine now, thanks for asking, but I’m nursing some rather impressive bruises…which I am so milking. It’s too painful to put my elbows on the table. So, my manners are uncharacteristically impeccable.

We have also had guests. Nice guests. Wonderful guests. The type you don’t want to leave. Rare creatures.

And of course, there’s bloody Christmas just around the corner. I’m not sure I can be arsed with it this year. I know I can’t cancel it…I have a five year old child. I’m not that wicked. But it seems to me, the less money there is to go around, the more guilt lies deep and crisp and even . But little Sprog is a sweet and relatively undemanding child…when asked what he would like Father Christmas to bring, he merely shrugs his shoulders, smiles and replies…’Well…whatever he feels like bringing.’ Which is an excruciating answer. It fills me with tremendous guilt, and gives me absolutely NO help whatsoever with ideas for a present. If he were a horrible little shit, screaming ‘I want a Playstation 3 and if that wanker Santa doesn’t deliver, Rudolf’s glue’ at least I would be able to say ‘No, that’s too expensive and you haven’t behaved nicely enough, you’re getting a whip and top.’

It’s so complicated.

Gift giving between myself and Spouse is far simpler. Minimalist, if you will. Yeah….that’s right….fuck all.

I’m going visiting over Christmas. I’m looking forward to some light relief from life here at Skint and Desperate Central. I’m looking forward to seeing my lovely family. Eating something else other than pasta. Drinking a decent gin and tonic.Some cracking British wit. We are going to see a panto. I think I’m more excited than Sprog about this. He is a little hesitant. He doesn’t like the idea of shouting at people. Whereas of course, I am going to use it as cheap therapy. I’ll just have to make sure I remember there are little ears around and try and keep the swearing to a minimum.

'He’s behind you, you blind twat!'

I can imagine myself getting in to a lot of trouble. Perhaps I should schedule a migraine and save Sprog the embarrassment and Spouse the bail money.

My sister telephoned to advise against buying presents in France, because all the shops in Blighty were discounting like crazy. Apparently, you can buy anything ranging from a Land Rover Defender to a rather nasty leather-look three piece suite...all for £2.50. She then went on to contradict herself and tell me about the £165 ‘bargain’ umbrella she had bought for her husband. Personally, I’d have opted to get wet and fill the kitchen cupboards with pasta. Perhaps that’s just me. I’m afraid the concept of spending money on anything other than essentials is one I find hard to completely jettison. And I don’t understand why he needs an umbrella. He’s the most sedentary slug of a man, he’s only ever outside between the car and the front door. How wet can you get in three paces?

Anyway, dear blogchums. I hope that you enjoy a peaceful and happy Christmas full of love, joy and chocolate. I have written to Lapland and asked Mr Claus to fill up his sack with used readies. If he comes up trumps, I’ll be ushering in 2009 with lobster. If he ignores my request, it’ll be fecking fusilli again. Whatever, I’m thanking my lucky stars. It’s important to remind yourself at this time of year that things could be a fuck of a lot worse.

Merry Christmas!

Pissed at the harpsichord,again...

2008-11-24T22:06:00.008+01:00

Recent activities chez nous have reminded me of an old routine by the comic Jack Dee. He believed that the merest whiff of interest in central heating systems condemned you to old-fartdom. I remember laughing along with him, nodding my head in agreement, howling at the whole loser-ness of anyone over the age of forty. Central heating? All these people needed was a good shag and a bifta…that’d warm them up a bit.

So anyway….as snow is forecast in these parts, heating and insulation have risen to the top of our agenda. Draughts are being excluded like never before. Shutters pulled tight as soon as the light fails. Leave a door open at your peril.

God, I feel old.

So, it is cheering news I bring you of The Best of British Mummy Bloggers carnival being hosted by the completely Potty Mummy. She rather ill advisedly invited me to take part, which I am more than happy to do – I’m so used to being the wheezy fat blogger at the back who never gets picked for anything…so it makes a change. Please go and take a look...I guarantee you'll find something that'll take your fancy!And if you vote for me, I’ll let you send me a fiver. Yes...surprising and frankly, worrying as it may seem...I AM a mummy. How did that happen?

There you see? I’m feeling happier already. Now I’m going to seek someone over the age of eighty with whom to discuss my chillblains. The benefits will be twofold. I will feel younger. Moaning is always a good tonic. I can sit in someone else’s warm house. And drink their wine. And eat their delicious, hearty fare, instead of my boring peanut butter sandwiches. Erm…that’s fivefold, I reckon.

In the background as I write this, my darling Spouse is watching Donald Sutherland on Arté, enthusiastically art-humping his way through Fellini’s Casanova. It’s quite disconcerting to keep looking up only to see old Don’s rather hangdog expression contorted in an approximation of sexual ecstasy. Ooh my word. Now he's wearing a lit candelabra on his head. Do be careful of singeing, mate. Spouse keeps mumbling about Sutherland’s improbable, hirsute lightbulb hairstyle. And the fact that all the actresses squeak at the point of orgasm.And there's a drunken harpsichordist...

Hanging up my suspenders...

2008-11-13T09:26:00.005+01:00

Well…all in all, I think the hooking can be judged a success. A mild case of Bovine TB and the odd wellie scuff seem small price to pay for a bulging sac a mains and majestic pile of dry oak. The clientelle were interesting….not all scrofulous, knuckle-draggers. Now we are bathed in the warm glow of a roaring fire, and I’m feeling rightly proud of my contribution to the family coffers. I don’t earn my own money much these days…it’s a nice feeling. If anyone wants to pay me for anything…let me know…I think I could get to like this ‘being paid for stuff’ business. But not hooking, OK? I promised Spouse, no more.

I swooped down upon Blighty the other week. It was icy cold. Dark…no change there. The media was eating itself…being weirdly obsessed with messrs Ross and Brand.

Snore.

I could have done with a bit more US election coverage….the twin obsessions of the UK seemed to be the fucked-economy and the puerile spoutings of a couple of overpaid, under-funny wankers. I think I must be getting old. I don't think I have ever agreed with the Daily Mail on a subject before...it's deeply worrying.What next? A cruise to Madeira? A sherry down the Conservative club?

However, I loved the specially designed graphic the BBC news had come up with for the…der da der….’Downturn…’

Oh please. It just made me think erectile dysfunction. Something I’ve seen a fair bit of recently…being an amateur harlot. And if I hear one more reference to the ‘credit crunch’ I’ll scream. Cheapo cereals…bargain muesli…cardboard cornflakes…I know what I mean, anyway… Why can’t they just call it ‘the shit we’re in’? Or something similarly accurate. They could have a nice neat brown graphic of a steaming turd shaped like a pound sign about to be trodden in by an expensively,over-extended Jimmy Choo’d foot.

We felt compelled to attend a Guy Fawkes celebration, as this is a bit of British culture Sprog doesn’t often get the chance to witness. The bitter-sweet memories he took away of choking smoke, scorched lung and tinnitus, should ensure he won’t nag for a re-run next November. I have never been to a firework display on a beach before. The sound of rockets ricocheting off the cliffs was awesome. Man. Like cannon-fire. Bit unnerving, truth be told.

I drank a pint. And fell over. It was a pint of Tribune. I don’t know enough about beer to know if that explains or not. I queued in a very patient, British fashion for over twenty minutes for a steaming cup of pumpkin soup, only to abandon ship at the last second when the sickly-looking teen with the ladle sneezed a grey slick into the tureen. I prefer a sour cream or parsley garnish myself.

Oo! I just heard the pitter-patter of tiny rodent feet above my head. The cold weather is bringing them in. I need to sharpen up Edwina. She’s comatose by the fire, lying upside down on a stool, head lolling over one side, hind legs dangling over the other. She’s warm. Her belly is full of complimentary tucker provided by Muggins here. I suspect her vermine-exterminating instincts are buried deep right now. Her constant purr tips them off, anyway. Rations will have to be cut.

And us? Mya, Spouse and Sprog? All fine and dandy, thank you for asking. We are eating lots of clementines. This is their sweetest time. No scurvy in this house. No siree.

Desperate measures

2008-10-16T17:40:00.002+02:00

Sorry, I can't come to the blog right now...busy hooking. If you leave a comment I promise to get back to you soon. There's a queue snaking down the lane, gotta go! Oh, it's great to feel in demand. Now, where did I put my antiseptic wipes?

Begging for it

2008-10-06T22:39:00.003+02:00

News that the wonderful JK Rowling earns £5 per second, (yes, you read that correctly, FIVE BIG ONES EACH AND EVERY SECOND), brings pathetic and frankly, desperate thoughts to the fore here on the Dunghill of Destitution.

I'm thinking about putting together a begging letter for Ms Rowling. I know that she is not averse to making donations to the less fortunate (The Labour Party, for example.) By my reckoning, if she can spare me ten minutes of her time, our current fiscal perturbations could be alleviated. If her schedule is too tight, a couple of minutes would remedy our winter firewood problem and prevent family-wide digital frostbite.

So, Joanne, hon, if you happen to be having a guilty google of yourself, and you alight on my humble blog...would you mind considering helping out a fellow author? (Yeah, I'm a writer, of sorts. I don't do wizards, so there's no need to worry about a conflict of interests).

Dear Blogchums...do you have any tips for the skint? Have you ever written a corking begging letter? Missives to Father Christmas don't count. Do you have any tips for success? Rules? Definite no-nos?
Come on...don't make me beg. I still have my pride you know...well...actually...no I don't. Ha ha!!

Easy pickings

2008-09-25T21:20:00.003+02:00

Blackberry picking has to be one of the most enjoyable September past-times. No, I have not suddenly become a thieving pykey, rifling the heavy pockets of city folk for e-gadgetry. (Ooh…bit political, so bludgeon me with a sprig of heather.)

Au contraire.

I have been trawling the bounteous Gallic hedgerows for plump, bluey blackberries of the sweetest, juiciest persuasion. Our bulging butts (of rainwater) signal that this year a bumper crop of Rubus fruticosus awaits, lurking with dark promise. Stained of finger and lip, Sprog and I tramp happily for hours, collecting enough berries for pies, crumbles and triple star Michelin belly rolls.

I think I might try jam. Although, I have to agree with Mrs Beeton, I find jam a bit of a head-fuck. It’s a bit too scientific. Too precise. I want to wear my mauled, chocolate-stained Asterix pinnie, not a white lab coat. All those boiling temperatures. Thermometres. Sterilising jars. Labels, ferchrissakes.I can’t be arsed with that.

For me, cooking is all about instinct. It’s a creative thing. You do what feels right. Sometimes, you have spectacular disasters, admittedly. And sometimes, most of the time actually… I don’t.…I drive Spouse insane because I can never replicate a culinary masterpiece. But this sharpens him up, makes him appreciate my efforts all the more. He knows he has to enjoy it….he’ll never get it again.

So, in my usual altruistic fashion, I have collected a few blackberry-hunting tips to help fellow pickers in their endeavours:

Don’t wear slingbacks

Do use tough containers to gather berries. Plastic bags rip on brambles, spreading your precious booty all over the place and shattering the rural silence with vulgar effing and jeffing.

Don’t pick low growing berries – Cocking. Canines. Legs. Comprends?

Don’t let a squirrel know you’re scared or it will really take the piss. At this time of the year they are obviously very territorial and protective of their scavenging rights, rabid little tree-rats.

Do wear purple.

When in France, dive into the hedge and hide if you see anyone else blackberry picking – they will only scold you and tell you that only they have picking rights to this particular line of hedge, and have done for the last three centuries. They’ll be talking complete bollocks, but who needs the aggravation? Pas moi.

Wear an orange helmet

If you see an enraged wild boar, throw your helmet at it.

If you see a drunken hunter pointing his rifle at you, do your best not to look like an enraged wild boar. Blow him a kiss and ask him politely if he can point you in the direction of the bibliotheque.

Just because they’re called blackberries doesn’t mean you pick any old berry that is black – unless you fancy a cut-price colonic at the polyclinique. Pick with discernment, my dears, as my darling Grandmother used to say to my sisters and I. Fell on deaf ears,unfortunately.

Tread quietly. Blackberries are known to be timid.

You will find a pair of secateurs and a long stick useful. Elastic bands would also be useful, but not on this occasion.

To avoid limb-loss, wait until heavy farm machinery has cleared sunflowers and evacuated immediate area, before attacking interior of hedgerow.

When the going underfoot is slippery, resist the temptation to grasp electric fences for support.

If you see a bear, don't panic. He'll probably just be on his way to the bibliotheque to change his books.

Don’t sing folk songs – this will annoy everyone within earshot, from the woodlice at your feet to the buzzards in the sky, who will probably shit on you.

Don’t smear yourself liberally with blackberry juice and knock on your front door, hoping for your husband’s touching display of horror/despair and sobbing call to the SAMU. If he notices at all, he’ll just ask that you clean yourself up before using the car.

One final tip. Don’t be afraid to experiment with new culinary combinations. Blackberry and apple is delicious, but perhaps you could be a little more daring? Why not try juxtaposing blackberry sweetness and apple tartness against the herbal tang of sheep poo? Surprisingly good. Yes…you’ve guessed it…another one of my happy accidents in the kitchen. Note to self – wash all fruit thoroughly next time.

You just wait…next year ‘Tarte aux pommes, avec les mures et les crottes de mouton’ will be on all the cutting-edge, forward-looking Parisian menus.

Happy picking.

Over my dead body

2008-09-12T14:58:00.004+02:00

Sprog wants a motorbike.

In France, you can legally ride one on the road at fourteen years of age.

He tells me when nine years have past, he will be riding a motorbike. He will be on the lookout for fun and frolics on his own – Maman will not have to drive him anywhere.

No.

Maman will be sitting at home, chewing her nails to the quick, tearing her hair out and suffering wave after wave of panic attack.

No.

This is how events will actually unfold.

Sprog will be taught to drive a car at seventeen. Once he has passed his test, I will purchase for him an armoured Volvo. Whilst he is still my responsibility he will never have a motorbike.

Now I have to convince him that this option is equally exciting. Go-faster stripes seem a bit...hypocritical of me. Mixed messages and all that. I suppose he is only five years old...perhaps I'm worrying too much.

Leave cancelled

2008-09-07T12:26:00.008+02:00

If the greasy film of crud coating my keyboard is any indication….I have been away some time. My mind is a complete blank. I have no memory of the past few weeks. Is it possible the aliens stole my brain? Perhaps they needed somewhere to store their socks. Those guys sure had a lot of feet. Here’s my hot tip – forget Armenia as an emerging market. If Manolo, Jimmy and Mr Clark opened outlets on Jupiter, they’d clean up.

I am actually back on planet earth, flip-flops/wellies (open shutter and delete accordingly) planted firmly on the ground. It’s my favourite time of year. La rentrée. Everyone, kids and drones alike, have returned to their desks – leaving all the more of la belle France profonde free and empty for me to enjoy. All the grockles have returned to the cities and the village is breathing slow and easy once more.

The weather is beautiful. Still and warm. The only sounds are sheep bells and the thin cry of a buzzard up high. I spent last week in Blighty – it rained constantly and I saw the sun once, but that was on TV so it didn’t count. When did British newsreaders become so irritating, patronising, whiney, plasticky, fatuous, and frankly, dim?

We didn’t pack coats. Sometimes I worry for us (evidently not enough on this occasion.) We got soaked walking from car to supermarket. So wet. Someone was standing, just off-screen, hurling buckets of water at us. Sideways. Dripping.

What else?

Err. We did a big rellie-meet. Extended family. Being friendly to strangers. Doesn’t come naturally. I have to admit, a little social lubricant was required. Then, soon enough…I was everyone’s bezzie mate. It wasn’t appreciated when I dripped my glass of red over the parchment of the family tree. Fancy leaving it rolled out over the dining table. Der. I found out I’m distantly related to King Kong. Honestly. His great grandmother’s cousin’s brother, was a circus ringmaster and apparently used to take liberties with the lady-chimps. Et voila! I always thought there was something disconcertingly simian about Aunt Esther.

Hey guess what? We’re skint again! Yay! But when you live in such a beautiful, fab place, surrounded by those you love, it’s not so bad. We are stinking rich in ways that matter so much more. I sound drunk. I’m not. Except, perhaps on life.

So, a cheerful Mya signs off. My fecund jardin calls, I’m off to pluck, pick and plunder the fruits of the cinnabar soil.I promise to come back soon. Have a great day now! Mwah xxx

Alienated

2008-08-23T21:33:00.004+02:00

I’ve been abducted by aliens. Just in case you were wondering where I was.

Am.

Yoo-hoo!

I’m here. Looking down on earthykins from the spacepod I’m sharing with my rather leathery complexioned companions – they’re dark grey, bucktoothed quadrupeds. It’s a bit like travelling on a brake-fucked mini bus with a load of dermatologically troubled rabbits. It smells stuffy. Like the inside of a packet of Monstermunch.

Hurtling through space with a bunch of aliens has its drawbacks. For a start, internet cafes are like rocking horse shit.

Incoming!

Hence the lack of radio contact. Don’t worry about me. I am being fed well on …erm…stuff. I suspect they are conducting experiments on me, or they might just be tickling me. Not sure. I have been informed they will release me soon, before the next series of Star Academy begins (phew!) Their leader, a rather camp Hell’s Angel /Bugs Bunny hybrid tells me the planet-like dimensions of my buttocks are being assessed for asteroid deflection suitability. Apophis is creeping ever closer and a solution has to be found. If I have to sacrifice a piece of my arse to save the universe, I will. What’s another crater?

Will you please stop doing that?..It's disgusting...Vile creature...

Leaving on a jet plane

2008-07-25T21:42:00.003+02:00

Well, I'm off on my hollies. Finally, I managed to get hold of a bikini. It's purple, grape, or hyacinth in hue, depending on how much of a pretentious twot you are. To give you a measure of my husband's abilities in this area, he refers to it as 'crushed parma violet'. Perhaps he means crushed by my gargantuan physique. I dunno. I've given up trying to understand him...it's better that way.

I looked at a Trikini, which are all the rage in St Trop, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out where the third bit was supposed to go. Short of growing an extra limb, tit or head, there seemed too much to go around. I tied a piece of it around my head in a She-Rambo stylie, but the vigorous head shaking of the sales assistant convinced me it was a look that wasn't working. For me, at least.

I have been checking out the weather in Portugal. It's shite. So the bikini might languish in the suitcase. I am now wondering if I should ditch all the sheer chiffony numbers and just take jumpers. Spouse and I were hoping for a bit of Margot and Gerrying around the pool, him in his golfing gear and myself in a flowing, gossamer kaftan.

Sprog is off the clock with excitement. He is running around telling anyone who will listen that we are going to Porkugal. And after a fortnight of Portugese pastries, sumptuous seafood and barrels of port, I think he'll probably be right. I have been told that the local delicacy is tripe. Perhaps that's one area of consumption where I might be persuaded to exercise a little restraint...I have never eaten tripe. Have you? What's it like? Worth a punt?

Mental cycle

2008-07-19T22:29:00.003+02:00

Countdown to the summer trip is underway. Operation buttock bronze is in full swing and reports of the attendant earth tremors are coming in thick and fast. The French secret service, who already have a file on me as thick as a king Camembert, have been asking questions. My ample twin globes have been showing up on their satellite images. They had to come around and check I wasn’t harbouring any stolen Semtex H in my secret buttock chambers. I told them straight, ‘listen guys, unfortunately, these babies aren’t hollow.’ They disappeared in search of lenticular clouds shrouding UFOs.

The millet twins have cycled off into the distance, yodelling probably. We chomped through a goat cheese and olive pizza and quaffed rosé while watching them chew less than joyously on their spartan grains. They were on honeymoon. Surely, it’s got to get better for them from here on in? I really hope so, for their sake. She told me she got married in Goretex. They treated the whole wedding day as a triathlon. They ran to the church, swam to the reception and cycled to the honeymoon suite on top of an iceberg. I’m relieved I didn’t get an invite. I've only got one decent hat, and it's not rubber. And how did their Grannies cope? We also established that we don’t really know each other. That also came as a relief. Spouse used to know one of their training mates. He actually thought he was dead. Apparently, not. That’s if we take their word for it.

After they’d gone, Spouse rather charmingly told me he would leave me if I ever got that hard and gnarled. He likes me soft and yielding. Or flabby and wobbly, he added…rather less charmingly.

Talking of sporting types, Mark Cavendish is doing well, isn’t he? What is he on? Oh yes of course…a bike. Silly me. The French are smelling a Rosbif rat.

Panic over

2008-07-13T21:40:00.000+02:00

They brought their own millet with them...

French flashers

2008-07-09T21:24:00.003+02:00

Now, there is one thing I absolutely love about the French. Without reservation. It is something that sets them apart from the rest of the world.

Can you guess what it is? Yes, I know...where to start? The French are over-burdened with top traits...I'd be the first to admit this.

Well...I just LOVE the way they religiously flash their headlights at oncoming drivers to warn of Gendarmes up ahead with speed guns. Twice in the past few days I have been saved from getting a ticket by benevolent drivers coming in the opposite direction, flashing their lights at me with great enthusiasm. It seems to be a matter of honour.

Before you all get on my case, I pretty much always stick to the speed limit, but the boys in tight-blue have recently taken to secreting themselves behind the plane trees on a stretch of road that is just within the confines of the town signpost...but really it is so remote and quiet, everyone has their foot down a little heavier. I suppose I should thank my lucky stars the Flics have time to dedicate to slightly speeding drivers. We don't get a lot of murders around here. The only stuff that gets nicked are tools. The crime of last year in our commune was Thierry's chainsaw getting half-inched. Oh, and the mysterious disappearance of Dolores the donkey. But, she turned up again, looking a lot fitter and happier two months later. Wherever she went, she was obviously getting her oats.

Summer hols mean summer guests mean cleaning frenzies mean migraines mean collapsing in an alocholic haze/heap.

To my mind there are three types of guest. There are good mates, where all the preparation involved is the chilling of the wine and the location of the corkscrew.

There are those guests you have to clean for (mother in law, various maiden aunts, some of Spouse's glamorous acquaintances, anyone who works in environmental health) and there are guests you don't really know, who are sort of ligging their way into your house via some dubious link with someone you once met somewhere, but can't actually remember their name now...but don't want to let on, for fear of offending anyone.

Tomorrow we are expecting just such a visit. I'm not sure who they are. They only eat macro-biotic...so I'm really praying they don't want to stay for any longer than an hour or so, as I might have to offer them food. And I don't think I have anything macro-biotic in the house. What is macro-biotic? Is it food that is rotting already? It sounds highly inedible to me. I have plenty of micro-bionic in the fridge, but people are so fussy about what they shovel down these days.

Do you know who my favourite guests are? The ones who turn up and yell 'Get in the car! We're taking you out for dinner!'