Behind the Scenes at the Museum

Well Half-Term has been pretty ropey to say the least.

The veritable pinnacle was getting my toilet fixed.

The rest was, erm, crap.

All the stress about the house move, various other stuff that's occurred, living out of boxes with no proper food, not having any plans or places to go as we thought we'd be gone by now - and THEN on Thursday I woke with the most splitting headache imaginable and spent the day under a duvet being sick.

I think it was actually my body/mind saying 'this is it - enough - I'm SO over this'.

Anyway I decided enough was enough and my kids needed ONE happy memory of the holiday (I don't think watching mummy vomit and listening to her shout at estate agents is really stuff for the scrapbook?) so I asked the eldest what he really really wanted to do on Friday and he said 'go into London on the train'.

Cool.

So I decided to go to the Museum of Childhood in Bethnal Green (I couldn't quite face the tourist spots of Central London alone with both of them - taking the toddler out is a bit like being accompanied by slightly wild unbroken colt. That can cry).

Anyway as I look back on the day I wonder what my children will make of their childhood and growing up with me as a mother.

Will they just accept the, erm, 'strangeness' of some days as the norm or will they think 'mother? What a case she was.......'.

The day went something like this:

Negotiating rail system into East End with 2 kids and buggy - no problem.

Negotiating roads/streets to find museum - no problem.

Day in very crowded museum - no problem (Ok I won't tell you how many times I lostthe toddler but he's still here so, as I said, no problem!).

Number of times I had to drag the toddler away from the glass display cases containing toys he couldn't play with, which he was trying to bust open by means of giving them a good kicking - too many to count but again, no problem!

Lunch in crowded cafe with 2 kids, no help, hot drinks a go go - no problem.

And then we (tried) to leave.

Before leaving we took a toilet trip. The toilets are in the basement area and they were RAMMED. I haven't seen that many people in a toilet since I was skirting puddles of vomit in the Leeds branch of Ritzy's Nightclub.

I managed to squeeze us all into one cubical and just as I was standing up from the toilet to pull my pants up (waaaaaaayyyy too much information there but you are probably used to it by now) the toddler decided to ram the bolt back across the door and throw it wide wide open.......

And opposite the toilets are a room long length of sink to ceiling mirrors........

There was me and my foof - reflected and refracted around the room in all our glory, several dozen times over......

We left.

Promptly.

On leaving I couldn't be doing with tackling the stairs (again - and this time with people who had just seen my pubic hair watching......) and there was a huge queue for the lift so, seeing a small door to my right with daylight on the otherside, I hurriedly opened it and we left.

Or we tried to leave.

To cut a long story short we ended up, quite literally, behind the scenes in the museum.

We had entered an outdoor area around the side of the museum only meant for staff and there was NO WAY OUT. Up and down we went, weaving along the sides of the building, inspecting the staff car park, looking at the cargo lift, skirting over grating, pushing through bushes........ and as my eldest stated 'mummy - you have got this ALL wrong'.

Sometime later I began to fear we'd be there all night so I had no choice but to go and knock on one of the building windows, behind which sat the slightly bemused back office staff.

'Help!' I mouthed.

'How did you get out here?' the lady asked.

'Erm, I opened a door' I replied.

'The WRONG door' added my son.

The wrong door indeed.

Oh well - if you're going to have a day out, you may as well make an adventure of it......

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RIP Earl

Ho hum.

Well first of all - no we haven't totally sorted the house move yet. I hope it is inching closer though.

Secondly, I swear someone is sticking vodoo pins in my life or I've offended a gypsy or something because I went out to feed my rabbit yesterday (the same rabbit that wrote about here: the annoying rabbit I really loved ) and, erm, he's dropped dead.

Personally I blame the fireworks.

Either that or it is a conspiracy/my life is doomed.

Either way we will miss him greatly. He's been part of our life for years - he was sat in a flowerpot giving me the evil eye when I was in labour with my second son and god knows what we are going to do with the spare time in the evenings when we used to be chasing him round the lawn.

Don't ask what we're going to do with his body - we haven't worked it out yet.

R.I.P Earl - you rocked.



Edited to add: Just in case anyone is concerned, in the photo above he is alive, just sleeping. I might be slightly eccentric but I draw the line at going round photographing corpses of dead pets posing in flower pots.

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On the postive side....

....amongst all the doom and gloom and chaos something wonderful happened today.

I went to the toilet and (wait for it).......




WAS ABLE TO FLUSH IT AFTERWARDS BY SIMPLY PUSHING DOWN A LEVER!

A small thing to most people but please bear in mind that it's been something like 7 weeks since I haven't had to fill the toilet cistern using a small jug and then put my hand to the bottom of it to pump a rod up and down (now now, no rude thoughts) and form a vacuum to make it flush. It get kind of tiresome after the 99th time.

This morning (unsurprisingly) I finally lost the plot and called a plumber. In fact by 9.30am I had called a plumber, the solicitor (twice), an estate agent, the removal company, my mother, a friend, another plumber, my mother (again) and my husband (just for good measure).

I didn't mange to get the house move off the ground (and breathe) but I did mange to get the toilet fixed.

Now I don't have a good track record with tradesmen and small children (anyone remember the poo on the carpet in front of the Virgin Engineer?) but I was hoping my luck had turned.

It hadn't.

The plumber arrived. He was about 22 and 'trendy'. I felt about 109 and decidedly un-trendy as I helped him wend his way through the Lego and discarded socks up to the filthy bathroom, littered with bath toys and constipation medication (not mine I hasten to add).

No sooner had I started giving him the Brief History of the Toilet in My House (a somewhat troubled history) then my eldest appeared and declared.........



'MUMMY! I NEED A POO! AND IT'S URGENT! IT'S HANGING OUT MY BOTTOM!'.

Where is that constipation when you need it?


The toddler is standing next to him. Crying.

The plumber is standing next to the toddler and looking, erm 'awkward'.

I didn't quite know what to do so I panicked and bellowed 'WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR PIG SEAT?' (if you haven't got small kids then a 'pig seat' is a sort of little padded seat that goes on the big toilet and stops small children falling down the big hole and drowning. The cheap one from Tescos is decorated with pigs - god knows why - thus 'the pig seat').

Pig seat was found (in the bath) and placed on the toilet. Pants were pulled down. Poos were dealt with. The toddler howled. The eldest described how the poo consisted of '3 nuggets' and therefore wasn't a 'big clearout'. The plumber stood in the doorway, facing outwards and trying to pretend he wasn't there. I faced the wall and closed my eyes and tried to pretend I wasn't there And then? Well then (for some god only knows reason) I turned to the plumber and said 'could I get you a cup of tea?'.

Funnily enough, he declined.

Sometime later when he came downstairs and asked to be paid the toddler hit him in the eye with the horsewhip (the horsewhip is now their second favourite toy, after the placenta). I blushed and said 'I don't know WHERE they got that from!'. Oh well - maybe he won't think it's all boring in suburbia.........

Anyway - another day done - another day with no good news on the house. Another day of excruciating embarrassment.

And my abiding thought?

NOBODY PAYS YOU FOR THIS.

Nobody.

I'm off to flush the toilet. Small things keep you happy.

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Pass the Placenta

Ok so here we are - Half Term. Half of my nails have fallen off so at least I can blog again without too much problem (I'm not sure where the nails have gone, I'm not sure whether I want to know. I live in fear that someone will bite into a sandwich and scream).

Slight problem - we were pretty much 100% certain we would have moved house by now so I have nothing planned, nowhere to go and my house resembles the insides of Pickford's warehouse. Only with less floor space. A LOT less floor space.

So I wasn't in the best of moods.

And then I got up.

Obviously what with the clocks changing I got up at something ridiculous like 5am.

Mood lowered.

Then I found out the tele wasn't working - all I had was a sign saying 'Pace' and no picture. Pace? PACE!?! What as in 'start pacing the living room floor and praying?').

Mood lowered significantly further.

Finally (after what seems like an entire day) the clock hits 9am and I can phone the solicitors about the house move (or lack of).

The solicitors' phone lines aren't working - an automated announcement informs me there is a fault they are trying to repair (I have since found out that someone had dug through them - by this stage the word 'conspiracy' is coming to mind, coupled with 'against me').

Mood hits rock bottom - breakdown imminent.

The children however are doing a good job amusing themselves. I can hear them playing happily n the hallway. They are squealing 'argh argh the blood is spilling out! Quick run away from the blood!'. As they are both laughing I presume it's not their blood but (eventually) have to poke my head round the corner to find out just how vivid their imaginations are.

What do I find?

Well I find that they have liberated the model placenta and umbilical cord from my teaching set (god knows where the poor baby is) and the eldest one is swinging the placenta round by its cord (rather like a Hammer thrower at a Track and Field event - only I've haven't seen placentas as an Olympic sport - yet) and his toddler brother is squealing in horror as the 'blood' brushes against him.



My first thought is 'oh well, at least I can blog about this'.

The game soon takes on a further dimension with the placenta being dangled between the struts of the banisters and swung back and forth as the toddler runs to and fro trying to avoid it. If the placenta hits him his brother squeals 'the bloods got you!' and they both collapse in hysterical laughter.

Hmmmm.

I note that the eldest one's half-term homework is 'draw something you did this holiday'.

Could be interesting. Hopefully we will move before he has to go back..

Eventually the joy of 'placenta bashing' wears thin and they move on to the next game which, rather enchantingly, is their own version of 'Come Dine with Me' (for those that don't know it's a cult TV show where slightly delusional and eccentric strangers hold dinner parties for eachother in the form of a contest - I advise you to take a look).

Anyway they've clearly taken quite a lot of Come Dine with Me in over the last few years as they had it down to a tee. There was bickering, things being (pretend) burnt, snide comments, meals served late and a row over 'seasoning'. There was also a lot of dry pasta eating by the toddler and a scene involving a bottle of ketchup but we won't dwell on that. I am presuming raw pasta isn't actually toxic? Just, erm, 'hard to pass'?

At 2.30pm the solicitor's phone lines were re-connected and have we exchanged?

No.

We haven't.

Don't even ask. It's ridiculous. BEYOND ridiculous. But here I am - still in limbo - sitting amongst my boxes whilst people throw (pretend) placentas at me and children struggle to digest raw pasta.

Ce la vie.

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Nailed

You will be relieved to here that (as of now) I am still here and the prophecy of my imminent demise is yet to be realised.

Phew.

There was a small panic circa 7 am this morning when I noticed an alarming bright brown/orange mark on the white underside of my left arm. Having rapidly flicked through a mental list of possible (and, of course fatal) causes (e.g. rare and untreatable skin cancer, internal bleeding, disintegration of my epidermal layer - you get the idea), I came upon the realisation that I'd fallen asleep on a blob of fake tan.

So, thank heavens for that.

Now my greatest worry is that I can barely type because I've managed handicap myself with a set of talon like nail.

You see the stress of the move has taken it's toll in several ways, one of which is that I've chewed my nails away to nothing and left a right sorry mess behind. I was having my photograph taken today so in an effort to cover up the disaster zone I went to Boots and invested in a set of plastic glue-on falsies. I've never done this before so was something of a novice in this field. And judging by the fake tan acccident I should have known better.....

I deliberately chose the ones entitled NATURAL LOOK quickly followed by the word SHORT.

Well let me tell you now - they is nothing natural or short about them - they are proper Footballers Wives jobbies. Huge great clacking claws with big white square ends. I could do a lot of damage in a fight I tell thee.

Oh and don't even ask me about the application process.......

Simple? Simple my arse.

I ended up with several of my right hand fingers glued to the tops of my left hand nails and the glue itself is clearly from the same chemical-stable as super glue.

It looked like I was going to spend the next 7 days in a state of involuntary prayer but after a lot of tugging (and swearing) I manged to yank the right hand free.

I have left a layer of skin behind on top of the lefthand nails but if you don't look to closely it's not too noticeable. I can live with the pain and loss of my fingerprints.....

Anyway now they are on and they are a nightmare but I can't get them off because you need to soak them in acetone nail varnish remover and I've just discovered mine's in one of the 70 packing boxes filling my house......

Oh.

So I'm stuck with them (literally) and I'm scrabbling around like a demented kitten. I kept waking in the night with bits of them digging into bits of me and my typing speed has dropped from 70 wpm to somewhere around 7....... Opening a can of Coke takes several minutes and they scare small children (although I will confess to using this to my advantage).

You're going to have to excuse any typos and until they drop off I'm going to have to find something else to chew.......

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Please don't let this be a prophecy....

My OH came home from work the other day and told me that one of his colleagues, a young good hearted woman, had taken him aside and said some very kind things about how the company was there to support him and really understood his needs blah blah blah.

Wow.

I was really truly touched.

It's not often people in the corporate world take time to say things like that and seem to really mean it. It gave me a warm happy glow and re-newed my hope in the world.

And then?

Erm, well today his boss took him aside and informed him that there appeared to be some kind of strange, rather mis-informed rumour going round the company and certain people were under the belief that......



(brace yourself)





I was about to die.


Gulp.


Excuse my language but WHAT. THE. F'CK.



So the woman that beckoned him into the office and said the nice things was actually talking about my imminent demise.

There now (apparently) needs to be some 'very delicate handling' of the situation the rumour is unpicked and people are gently corrected.

My life often takes a rather surreal turn (as you may well have noticed) but NEVER before has anything this, erm, 'odd' occured.

I'm not quite sure what to make of this but one thing is for certain, I won't be popping into the office for lunch next week.....

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Overdue

The whole debacle over selling my house/moving/buying another one rumbles on.

You don't want to know the details but I've come to the conclusion that the world and his wife are waiting for 'the news' and it's rather like going overdue when you are pregnant - i.e driving me mad.

Both my babies have been 'late' (although that definition is open to much debate), the first one by 2 weeks and this was after a midwife told me I'd go early.....

You can imagine the tension.

You can imagine the stress....

No, not my tension or stress. I was quite happy lying around on the sofa watching the Olympics whilst eating Arctic Roll and flicking through Take a Break (I must have had some kind of foresight as to what was to come). No I'm talking about the tension and stress of everyone else who is waiting for THE news.

The worst example was (surprise surprise) my father.

He got to the point of informing me (when the baby was circa 10 days late) that 'everything was ruined now as it had just gone too far'.

Erm, right.

Apparently I (I?!? I!!!! As if I was deliberately keeping my cervix clamped closed just so I could sleep for a few more nights..... actually don't answer that.....) had 'gone on too long' and 'the excitement was over now'.

If anyone out there is reading this and in close proximity to an overly pregnant woman can I just give you a teeny-tiny bit of advice?

Don't say it.

Really. DON'T.

Anyway the baby came out (eventually) and the rest, as they say, is history.

But here we are again - only this time with a house. I'm guessing houses aren't quite as unpredictable - for example you don't tend to 'exchange' at 2am and it doesn't often involve 8 pints of blood and the paramedic flying squad but at this rate, I wouldn't start laying bets on it not.

People keep phoning me pretending that they want to talk about the weather or the state of the nation but, a few moments in, they can't but resist to utter 'so then? ANY NEWS!?' - as if I would have somehow omitted from telling anyone.

Believe me all - as SOON as I know I will simultaneously phone my parents, send 100 texts, update my blog and post about it on Facebook.

OK ;).

In the meantime the chaos continues and the children still eat off the living room carpet.

Tensions over food theft and minor scuffles arising from such incidents have reached such a head that, yesterday, I found my eldest fishing his sausage roll and bagel (yet another wonderfully balanced 'moving house meal') out from beneath a complex contraption involving an upturned freezer basket, several feet of Lego and a riding whip (yeah gods - where did that surface from!?).

When I asked him what on earth he was doing he sobbed that he'd had to build it to keep the toddler off his food. Indeed, it was vaguely reminiscent of those 'anti-squirrel' bird feeders you can buy and to be fair - it worked. Particularly if you deployed the whip.......

Anyway - upwards and out of here (I hope) and can you all cross everything and hope that we have some better news tomorrow!?

Thank you!

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