Toilet Troubles

2 small boys.

1 toilet.

2 minutes.

How much carnage can they cause?

Answer: too much.

The eldest was sat on the loo.

The youngest sat by him.

I went downstairs to get something.

I heard laughter.

I ran back upstairs.

1 entire loo roll unfurled and filling most of the bathroom (it is a very small bathroom).

'I. AM. NOT. HAPPY'.

'I didn't do it!'.

'NO BUT YOU WATCHED AND YOU LAUGHED AND THAT MAKES YOU PARTY TO THE CRIME'.

'But mummy, there wasn't a party! Just a loo roll going crazy'.

Que: the sound of ripping and tearing.

I spin round to see son no. 2 ripping up the bathroom floor tiles.

He is holding one up, like he's just found the Holy Grail, and grinning. A lot.

'Arrrrghhhhh'.

I try to shift him with my foot but he's got stuck to the floor glue (how come he's strong enough to rip a tile off but then glue his own body to the very same surface?).

I use my foot to try and lever him off (my hands are full of loo roll) which leads my eldest son to start wailing 'MUMMEEEE DON'T KICK THE BABY! STOP IT!'.

Great.

He's probably going to go to school and tell the teachers that the baby got glued to the floor and mummy kicked him.

Actually - gluing him to the floor might not be that poor an idea. Once he was freed he made a beeline for the burgular alarm wires and ripped several of them off the wall.

What does he think he is? Some kind of rock star?

If he chucks a TV out the window then that really will be it. I'll be sending him to rehab....

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Who let the dogs out?

Well I am afraid the huge lion dog/Beast of Dave continues to roam the area.

Two weekends ago it mauled another dog and was taken away in a van (I guess this was by some kind of official rather than a random bloke in a van who wanted a dog the size of a small horse?).

Later on the owner went out and came back - with the dog.

It was out again on Sunday and the police attended.

Well I say 'the police' but actually they sent a 'Community Support Officer' who looked about 12 and was, get this, FRIGHTENED OF DOGS. I know that because she told me.

Marvelous.

Every other question I asked her was met by a 'I don't know, I'll have to ask the Sergeant' whilst avoiding eye contact and mumbling. I'd like to see her take on a pack of rowdy yobs....

The Community Support Officer got the owner to catch the dog (this involved a lot of running up and down the road with kids screaming and the blokes from the kebab shop looking like there were going to do something with a very big knife) and gave him the fearsome news that:

'We've been out to this before, okay? You really are going to have to stop it getting out, okay?'.

Strike fear into any hardened criminal that would.

So roll on Tuesday and I get back from my eye-jiggling session (which is going very well, thank you) to be greeted by a neighbour shrieking 'it's out again! The dog! THE DOG!' and sure enough, it's up the road, waiting at the level crossing (perhaps it fancied popping up to Stanstead Airport and catching some winter sun? What with pet passports and all that?).

The level crossing lifted and it went and lay down in the sunshine. Across the railway tracks.

I was envisaging a derailment but just before the barriers went down, it caught site of another dog and it was off - in hot pursuit.

Various scenes ensued - the ones that are fixed in my mind are thinking I was about to see something akin to a lion shredding up an antelope - right outside my window - and a man, not unlike Phil Mitchel, running down the road with a plank of wood and a rolled up newspaper (I would hazard a guess it was the Sun) and joining the melee (of pensioners and small dog and big dog and teeth and spit) and kicking the hell out of the big dog and saving the little one. He looked like he has plenty of experience at kicking the sh1t out of things.

There was a lot of all round fury and a lot of calls to the police.

Who showed up about 3 hours later after everyone had gone, knocked on the owner's door (he was out) and left again.

Where is this going to end??

Word is spreading and people with dogs/small children are already avoiding our street.

For me, that is not an option.

Unfortunately.

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Bodies of Evidence

Reflecting on the demise of poor Satchmo (see previous post 'Dead Pets' Cemetery) has brought to mind the passing of other pets.

There have been a few. Not, I hasten to add, because I'm some irresponsible pet killer - but because, over the years I've had a lot of small mammals and, sooner or later, they go to the great big hutch in the sky.

Of course, when they die it leaves the problem of disposal.

With the guinea pigs we try to bury them in the garden but we (hell, what do I mean 'we' - I claim hysterical grief and refuse to go outside, thus ensuring my OH spend 30 minutes shoveling soil) have to dig a very deep hole or foxes just dig them up again - which is, erm, 'unpleasant'.

However, larger mammals are a problem. Particularly if you have a small garden with very little spare soil that isn't already a grave.

Thus ensued the farce which was 'The Disposal of Dukey'.

Dukey (or 'Marmaduke' to give him his full title) was a largish rabbit.

He wasn't originally my rabbit - he belonged to someones neighbour and she no longer wanted him or his guinea pig pal so they ended up living in my garden.

He also wasn't originally called Marmaduke. He was called Hedges. And his pal was called 'Benson'. Oh dear, oh dear. I had to change their names - I mean where would a theme like that end? Lambert & Butler? Malboro & Embassy? or god forbid, Rothmans & Superking Extra?

Anyway, Dukey got quite old and then one winter he got the 'snuffles'. I kid you not - the 'snuffles' is actually a real rabbit illness. It sounds harmless but it can be pretty damn fatal. Especially in the case of Dukey.

So Dukey passed.

The weather was freezing - everything was frozen solid - so we wrapped him in the old orange bath towel we used to use to bath him and put him on the patio.

And there he stayed, frozen in time, for some time while we tried to work out what to do with him.

There was no way we could dig a whole to bury him - you would need a JCB and that seemed a trifle excessive.

Putting him in the bin or similar just seemed hugely disrespectful and totally wrong.

Taking him to the vets for cremation at the cost of about £90 seemed, to be frank, absolutely cuckoo (plus I used to work in the vets and have to empty the 'dead pets' freezer and deal with the cremation people and I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl - but I won't).

So I decided, in my own unique way, to 'let his soul run free with his wild brothers and return his spirit to nature'.

A.K.A 'take his towel wrapped body over the railway and into the nature reserve and leave it somewhere wild, which actually meant chucking it down a small ravine'.

So one cold and frosty morning I stashed his cold little body underneath the pram (not your typical changing bag contents I will admit) and off we went - for the final goodbye.

I wandered up and down the railway embankment for a while amidst the wild rabbit warrens, trying to find the 'right' place but soon realised I would have to actually chuck my orange parcel quite high in the air to get it down 'where the wild things are' (please note: Dukey and his towel were fully biodegradable so I do not consider what I did as litter dropping - something I utterly hate). Funnily enough this was not something I wanted to be witnessed doing and every time I went to launch him, a dog walker would appear and I'd have to suddenly act all normal and give them a smiley 'morning'.

Anyway, eventually the deed was done, I memorised the spot, wished him well on his journey to the afterlife, and went home and got on with my life.

Until about a week later when I came home to find the police helicopter hovering over the railway embankment, squad cars everywhere and the whole area cordoned off.

The area was a hive of activity with the words on everybody's lips 'what IS going on!?'.

The word was there was a suspicious package and something to do with a body.

OH HOLY SWEET MOTHER OF THE LORD, I thought, someone's dog has clearly 'retrieved' Dukey and a small body wrapped in a towel has sparked the biggest police operation the area has ever seen.

My heart was racing. I mean I've been involved in some farces but this really topped it. Would they be able to trace me? Would my DNA be on the towel? What could I be charged with? Would people misunderstand my story and label me somekind of pet killing psycho? Had their been witnesses? I toyed with going to the police and holding my hands and saying 'Look OK, it was me, it's a rabbit, the towel is his shroud' but I was worried they might section me.

I could seriously barely sleep that night. Every time I heard someone say 'they've found a body!' my heart would lurch.

As it turned out it wasn't Dukey. It was actually some poor other soul but I think it's safe to say that I won't be returning any other dead pets to the wild.

Next time I think I'll go the viking route - you know, blazing longboat down the canal.....

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Disturbing Scenes...

In the hairdressers.

I went to get my hair cut on Saturday - just at the little local salon down the road.

The first thing that made me raise my eyebrows and shudder slightly was the sight of an elderly lady (as in 'little old lady' of about 80) engrossed in the latest copy of 'More!' magazine.

For those of you who have never read 'More!' (or have, and have long since forgotten the content) - it is a women's magazine primarily read by teenage girls. It stands out amongst other similar titles because of the breadth, depth and, erm, explicitness of its content on sex.

It always had the most lewd Problem Page and double page articles with titles like 'Going Down? Getting it Right!' and '100 things you never knew about sex toys'.

It was probably most famous for it's 'Position of the Fortnight' column which gave you a graphic drawing of a couple getting it on in a ludicrously energetic looking fashion. The positions had names like 'The Wheelbarrow' or 'Spinning the Dice'.

The magazine was (at one point) never out of the Daily Mail or off Kilroy style discussion programmes, as it was held aloft and single handedly blamed for everything from teenage pregnancies, to global warming and the breakdown of society.

I used to get my copy in Asda and make sure it was hidden in the bottom of my mum's trolley with the cover facing down. She probably thought it was Horse and Hound.....

Anyway - there was just something wrong-diddly-wrong about seeing an elderly lady engrossed in an article on oral sex. For a start I don't think they cover specific points for denture wearers.

Maybe that shows prejudice in me? I mean apparently Old Folks Homes are dens of sexual deviance these days, due to the 'Curse of Viagra' Ethel and Norman are throwing off their incontinence pants, chucking their walking frames to one side and going at it in the rose bushes like Billyo. Well accordingly to the Daily Mail anyway.....

Anyway - I had just recovered from the mental image of 'Granny Does Dallas' when a little boy came in to get his hair cut. A very well behaved young chap he was too - sat as good as gold as they did his hair (I so hope he couldn't see Position of the Fortnight).

It turned out he was 4 - the same age as my eldest.

'What's your favourite tele programme?' the hairdresser asked him.

'Cookie Street!' he replied!

'Cookie Street? Oh that must be new'.

'Nah he means Only Fools and Horses' piped up his mum.

'Oh you like Only Fools and Horses do ya?'

At this point the mum butts in 'Yeah, go on Dave (not his real name) tell her what your favourite episode is!'.

Dave speaks......




...'The one with the blow up dolls'.

His mother is so proud she's positively beaming.

The hairdresser looks a bit shocked 'the blow up dolls?' (just in case you have escaped Only Fools and Horses and the one with the blow up dolls, it features Del Boy buying loads of cheap dolls for the market, only for them to be blow up dolls for men to pretend to have sex with - much hilarity ensues as they try to get rid of them and they inflate themselves in the back of his van).

'Yeah he LOVES 'em, wanted one for Christmas didn't ya Dave? Didn't get one though. Santa couldn't get his hands on one. HA HA HA HA. Maybe for your birthday mate, maybe for your birthday....'.

Erm, diamond.

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Dead Pets' Cemetery

Well there has been blog-fodder aplenty this weekend, but more of that later this week.

Let's start with this morning (yes it's barely 8am but I've already been exposed to my daily dose of surrealism).

There are several ways which I would chose to spend 5am (the front runner, by a mile, being sleeping) but one way which is not on my 'yes please!' list is sitting cross legged on my eldest son's bedroom carpet having a philosophical discussion about death.

You see yesterday, my son found out that Satchmo had died.

No my son is not particularly upset about the demise of the original Satchmo - the world famous American Jazz Trumpeter who died in 1971. That would be odd.... This Satchmo was a large Silver Agouti Rex Boar (this means he was a big fat male guinea pig to those of you not acquainted with the Cavy Fancy).

Our Satchmo (god rest his soul):



The original Satchmo (also god rest his soul, although he never sat on my lap and certainly isn't buried in my garden):



You would have a job to confuse the two.

Don't ask why he was called Satchmo. It's complicated and you should be aware of my history in naming pets following my post entitled 'Happy Easter' dealing with the curious incident of the cockerel named Jesus and his gay disciples.

Anyway, our Satchmo actually died some time ago but my son hadn't noticed as the guinea pigs are my domain and kept in the back garden. What with all the bad weather he hadn't been out there for any length of time. And then the sun came out....

Whilst examining the hutches he noticed Satch was missing and thus the questions started. He seemed quite happy with my OH's explanation of 'he got very old and died, he's not here anymore' and that was that.

Until 5am this morning.

Son: 'Mummeeee, Mummeeee, Mummeeee'.

Me: 'Quiet! It's not time to get up'.

Son: 'Mummeee PLEASE'.

Me: 'Grrrr' followed by 'WHAT!?'.

Son: 'Mummy, where's Satchmo gone?'.

Me: (to myself: argh feck) 'Well he's died darling!'.

Son: 'But why?'.

Me: 'Well he got very old. He slowed down and got slower and slower and then stopped. That's what happens when things get very old and worn out'.

Son: 'But why did he get old?'

Me: 'Well everything gets old after a lot of time' (argh dangerous ground now... where is this leading? I need to change tack) 'Shall we get a new guinea pig then? One that looks the same? To replace him? (WHAT kind of message is that to give a child? 'It doesn't matter if something dies, you can easily replace it with a new improved younger version?!').

Son: 'But where is he?'.

Me: (OK the right answer here is not: under 2 foot of soil in the back garden being eaten by worms but at the same time I swore I was never going to go down the 'Heaven as a Religious Utopia route') 'Erm, his body is gone but his spirit has gone on to better place' (really really crap answer considering my son has as much idea about the concept of 'spirit' as he does about Calculus).

Son: 'BUT WHERE IS HE?'.

Me: (argh, sod it, it's 5am, here comes the cop out...) 'Heaven'.

Son: 'What IS heaven?'.

Me: 'A special place dead things go to'.

Son: 'But where is it?'.

Me: (argh, 5am and 4 year olds do not combine for an informed debate on metaphysics - here comes cop out two) 'In the stars darling, IN THE STARS!'.

Son: 'IN THE STARS! WHAT!? So can I see him then? In the stars?'.

Me: (my head is now filled with a strangely disturbing image of a serene dead guinea pig orbiting the moon) 'Well no, we can't see him, he's beyond the stars'.

Son: 'But mummy, there is NOTHING after the stars. The stars go on forever!'.

Me: (sigh) 'Well yes space goes on for ever, it's called infinity, but somewhere is a place for dead things' (bloody marvellous explanation there methinks).

Son: 'BUT WHERE!?'.

Me: 'Look he's in the stars. You can't see him because he's very far away and quite small when compared with very big things like the sun. He's with Rhy's cat!'.

Son: 'Are they together?'.

Me: 'Yes, they are never lonely in heaven, they have lots of friends' (good answer, surely I'm only seconds away from my 'Return to Bed'?).

Son: 'But Satchmo didn't like cats. They scared him'.

Me: (Argggh!!!) 'Well yes but it's different in heaven. Everybody is friends, nobody gets scared'

Son: 'But mummy....'.

Me: 'Look just play with your cars for a bit. I have to go back to bed or I might get a bit worn out and fall apart...' (WHY did I say that? Will he put 2 and 2 together and add on 'and die - just like Satchmo' to the end of my statement?).

Anyway I went back to bed and spent the next 40 minutes tossing and turning and mulling over the biggest questions in the Universe. And then I got up and made a cup of tea. With Elton John's Rocket Man going round and round my head - accompanied by the image of a furry rodent in a space suit.

Altogether now: 'Mar's ain't the kind of place to raise the Pigs, in fact it's cold as hell...'.

I have a feeling this week will be interesting.

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Pump, Squat, Pee?

You might thing that an aerobics class is a purely physical workout but I have found that, at times, my mind is more active than my body. 60 minutes of (supposedly) co-ordinated activity in a room full of lycra clad strangers can lead to a lot of questions.

On Wednesday night it went something like this:

1. WHY are there so many mirrors in these goddam studios? Surely I’m not the only one who doesn’t have a deep desire to watch herself jiggling around like psychotic interpretation of Iggle Piggle?


2. Why is everyone going left when I’m going right?


3. Why is everyone right when I’m going left?


4. Are we going left or right? Oh no forwards….


5. Oh, so your forwards is our backwards? Sorry, sorry, sorry… yes I’m sure you foot will be OK. Eventually.


6. Why am I, once again, the tallest person in the room by a whole HEAD? I look like a transvestite lurking at the back of the class.


7. Why oh why did I wear stripes? Everybody else is in black. I’m less Iggle Piggle, more Fimble. There is no avoiding me. I am the stripy transvestite going the wrong way and standing on your foot.


8. What time is it? 5 past? 55 more minutes of this!?


9. What exactly IS a ‘grapevine’? I’ve been doing aerobics on and off for 13 years and I still can’t figure it out. When the teacher shouts 'gravevine!', I just sort of run sideways crossing my legs and pray nobody notices.


10. I’m getting too hot, I need to take my top off. I’ve got a vest on underneath but the important question is: have I shaved my armpits in the last fortnight?


11. Ok, armpit foliage or no armpit foliage, I’m going to have to strip down to my vest….


12. Right, arms in the air like I just don't care…is anybody staring? Or retching? Or pointing and whispering ‘look at that transvestite over there….he’s got more hair than Captain Caveman’.


13. No? Good. Phew. Now what time is it? 15 minutes past? Surely not!


14. Ah the hand weights are coming out. Now which colour is which weight?


15. I’ve got green ones. Green looks ‘mild’. Green, it appears, is NOT mild.


16. Am I the only person trying not snigger when the teacher asks us all to ‘pump it harder?’.


17. What times is it? 20 minutes past…..


18. Are we nearly there yet?


19. Sh1t – I think there’s a hole in my leggings. I can feel a breeze….


20. OK nobody is going to notice. Are they? What colour are my pants? If they are the same colour as my leggings then nobody is going to notice. If they are neon pink – I’m stuffed.


21. Am I actually wearing any pants??? (don't worry, this was just my paranoia playing tricks on me - I don't work out pantless. Ever. Just in case of you were thinking of writing to the Council and complaining).


22. Dare I have a quick feel and see how big the hole is, or am I risking looking like I’m not just a stripy transvestite with co-ordination problems, but also a pervert and/or suffering from a yeast infection?


23. Ok sod the leggings. Nobody is looking at my crotch anyway. Are they?


24. Power squats? Did you say power squats WITH weights? Have you not looked at the demographic you are teaching? Do you want puddles? It's not so much 'pump, squat, push', more 'pump, squat, piss'..... Or maybe you’ve got shares in Tena Lady…..


25. Hmm, if someone really did wee themselves what would happen? Would they bring a bucket of sand in like they used to do at school when someone was sick? I don't want to be the one that finds out though.


26. Argh, I’m not concentrating – why is everyone else facing the back wall?


27. Oh, we’re doing the ‘easy walk’. Why is it called ‘the easy walk’? You do it with your legs spread and a swagger. Is the teacher actually asking her ladies to walk like hookers? Do they know? Dare I ask?


28. Are we nearly there yet?


29. Oh good – we’re getting on the mats to work our abdominals. This means we get to lie down. I mustn't like in any wet patches though. But how are you supposed to mirror what the teacher’s doing when you’re staring at the ceiling tiles? I'll just thrust around a bit and look like I'm toning something...


30. Oh my god. I am never eating lentil curry on a Wednesday night again.…EVER.

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If you think I'm mad, you should see the neighbours...(a.k.a Rose's Revenge)

No not Mr Squirrel, we've already talked about him. The people on the end - now they really do put the odd into oddball.

At the moment they have a large heap of hardback books outside their house (and half way across the pavement) with a sign saying 'Books! Take what you want!'. How very generous - if you are looking for a Haynes Car Manual for an Austin Allegra or want to read about 'Unsolved Crimes of the 70's' with half the pages missing and two weeks worth of rain on it.

Anyway - while trying to push the pram through the book mountain earlier I reflected on a exceedingly strange event that took place at their house last summer - an event which I am still none the wiser as to discovering what happened. I wrote about the incident at the time and here is a copy of what I said:

Ok I am sure that there will be people out there who believe that I am living in a fantasy land or on my way back to the loonybin (or in fact perhaps both) but this really did happen this afternoon - and my husband (and the rest of our street) can vouch for it. Even I am left stunned at what I've just witnessed.

I live in the middle of a row of terraced houses. The house at the end is very rundown and an elderly lady lives there with her adult son. They are lovely people but she's an alcoholic (she has had a tragic life) and her son has learning difficulties. They are both very kind and often bring me sweets and things. As far as we I know (we've lived here 7 years and I chat to them regularly) nobody else lives in the house - although you often hear a very fierce bad dog barking (but never see it) and lots of people come and go.

ANYWAY this afternoon at about 3pm I came back from the shops with my eldest son. I jumped out of the car and wondered why there is a large group of blokes, with pints in hands, standing outside the pub opposite staring across the road.

As I start getting my son out I heard smashing glass and one of the blokes outside the pub shouts 'RUN, get out of here' and I look up to see........

...a man, naked from the waist up (and he was a BIG man) smashing his way out of the living room window of the house at the end. He looks totally wild and is screaming 'GET ME OUT OF THESE F'CKING CHAINS' and is wrapped up in what looks like the chains you use to hang hanging baskets up with.

I seriously thought someone might be toting a gun so I picked up my son and bolted to my front door (I thought 'World's Wildest Police Videos' was taking place outside my house at this point).

There was more smashing glass and a big old rumpus and people shouting 'get out of here, HE'S COMING OUT THE WINDOW' and then this bloke emerged - cut to ribbons and (and this is where it gets REALLY odd) holding a large rose bush/tree still embedded in a very large plastic flower pot.

He collapsed in the road and a (very brave/mad) woman ran to his aid. He shook her off and then bolted (complete with his rose bush) into the pub opposite. Must have been an interesting moment for all the old geezers enjoying a Sunday afternoon pint....

People ran over to the house and were trying to break the front door down but the dog inside was going mad. Someone was shouting there was a little girl in there (there wasn't) and it all got very chaotic.

Shortly afterwards 5 squad cars, a riot van and 2 ambulances showed up. Various things happened and they all slowly left (together with Rose Bush Man) and everyone went back to standing around outside the pub having their pints and saying things like 'bleedin' eck that was diamond!'.

Sorry but WHAT!?!?! I had never seen this guy before and the people who live in the house weren't in.

He was pretty porky so he's obviously not been kept chained up in there for years or anything (unless they fed him well).

Answers on a postcard!?

Ok so that was last year and the developments since are:

1. The dog had died. Well I guess it was the dog? A shallow grave appeared on the front lawn and I've not heard it barking since.

2. NOTHING ELSE! I still have no idea what happened. Just after that we went on holiday and by the time we got back it was too late to start being really nosy and saying 'erm, you know the other week when that man in the chains burst through the window? Yeah, that's right, the one with the rosebush! Well, erm, WHAT was all that about?'.

Everyone else seemed to be so calm, like they were 'in' on the situation.

I have so many questions. Who was the guy? Where is he now? Is he back living in there? Has he been there all along? Why did he come out through the window? Why the rose bush? Why the chains?

Perhaps it was just a case of botanical repotting (whilst having some kind of paranoid delusion...) that went horribly wrong?

I guess we will never know.

But if, by some remote chance, you DO know then please, please, please let me know...

Thank you!

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