Easter (the continutation )

As you may recall, I was giving you some suggestions as to what to do with small children should you find yourself responsible for them at any point of the Easter Celebrations (or in fact during the Royal Wedding - these ideas are for life, not just for Easter).

The first 5 are in my previous post (just in case you wonder why I start with a 6).

6.GOING TO THE SUPERMARKET

Well you've got to do it anyway so you may as well turn into the 'Trip of the Day' and upsell it. If your children are as erm 'uncontainable' as mine you may need to cage them within a trolley (or take leads) but this can prove a veritable adventure, especially if you arm them with a baguette each.

I would however warn against trying this in Sainsburys which it appears is where 'people go to lose their sense of humour' (or practice the dark art of 'the look'). When approached by a high speed trolley with two small boys wielding seeded batons and shrieking 'MACARONI MACARONI CHEESE PLEASE' (I have no idea why) they tend to wither and tutt.

For variation you can let the children hang off the sides of the trolley and pretend they are on the footplate commanding a steam train. However this will mean making regular stops for 'stations', refuelling and, inevitably, some kind of crash. It also means you can't get down aisles featuring cages, mobility buggies or more than small slim person with a basket but there's a price to pay for everything.

After all this (plus trying to get their small digits removed from the checkout conveyor belt) don't forget the fun of the car park! Hidden in all those there low shrubby bushes are boxes marked 'POISON!' together with a skull (or similar fearful image). Much time can be spent spotting poison boxes and, if you're really lucky, rats (dead or alive). I like to combine this activity with me sitting in the car, eating some sort of satisfying snack and reading Take a Break. But it's up to you.

7. PLAYING WITH A HOSEPIPE

Make the most of it while we haven't got a hosepipe ban (and I say this as somebody with an environmental/ecology type background who shudders at the waste of water - however this is yet another reminder of how far I've fallen since the days I became a mother....).

Just be careful of open windows, small caged pets and your neighbour's washing.

Actually that reminds me of something my brother and I did as small children, involving our hated neighbours and their upstairs bedroom window but I'd better stop there, what with my brother now being a man of senior responsibility in charge of the minds of a generation and all that....

8. FARMING DANDELIONS

My kids got this idea from a book about a guinea pig who saves the fate of dandelions by nurturing the last ever one and blowing it's 'clock' (that's clock) across the land.....

In reality dandelions do not appear to be in rapid decline. Especially in my garden. And the children are making sure they stay that way by devoting hours to picking them and blowing their seeds EVERYWHERE.

This idea has a clear and obvious downside but we'll worry about that another time.... Alternatively you get them to blow them elsewhere - like the sacred turf of somebody you don't really like that much.

9. LEAVE THEM WITH A KINDLY YET SLIGHTLY MAD RELATIVE/NEIGHBOUR/FRIEND

For years I never had this opportunity and it was just me doing the holiday entertaining but if you have the chance to use others, particularly rather eccentric ones, DO. They let the children do things you'd never dream of and unless the kids dob them in you'll never know so hey, everyone's a winner!

However, mum, if you're reading this, the kids have told me everything so could you kind of lay off letting them eat raw cubes of jelly for their mid-morning snack, 'pretending' to drive the Land Rover (with keys in the ignition) and it's only one chocolate flake in a 99. Got it?

10. THROWING TOYS DOWN THE STAIRS

Nah not really. This is utterly banned in my house but as it's been banned since children began and I STILL seem to find myself with a sore throat from screeching 'NO NO NO NO NO, THAT'S IT, I'M GETTING MY BIN BAG....' maybe I should just give up, let them do it for hours on end and watch day time tele instead? After all, it's free....


So there we are. Don't say your stuck for ideas.

As for me. Well I'm off out with Badger Girl tonight to see a band... Not any old band. Not even a women with an accordian and a lament about dog piss. No - The Wurzels.

She's got us on the guest list courtesy of something to do with set related supply of straw.

Words already fail me and to add to the issues surrounding this event I tried to spray tan myself last night (because you know, it pays to be extra orange when going to see several pensionable men sing about their combine harvesters) and missed huge patches of my body. I look like a skewbald pony. I've tried to spray the white bits this morning but I have a feeling this is only going to add to my problems.....

I'll come back and let you know ALL about it.

Tweet

Top 10 Things to do with your Kids this Easter!

Well we are in the midst of the Easter Holidays.

Which if you have small children probably means you have heard the words 'I'm bored' or 'where are we going?' more than once. Or twice. And it probably also means you are desperate to find things to do that don't cost the earth. Physically or emotionally.

You see you will find 'lifestyle magazines' and 'supplements' full of ideas about what to do with children this Easter (other than stick them in front of Scooby Doo with their own body weight of egg shaped chocolate) but many of these ideas involve rather too much emotional investment - i.e. they sound amazing, the stuff of fairytale childhoods and sepia tinged photo albums... You get all 'this is going to be amazing!' emotion and then get there to find 400 other people in the car park, spend 2 hours trying to interest them in lambs/wooden eggs/the story of how the donkey got his cross/tulips (whereas they're more interested in running round in circles very fast whilst asking questions about dog poo) and, finally, leave to the sound of a 10 minute tantrum because their Mr Whippy's only got one flake in it and they've seen one on the poster with two...

The bigger the sense of the anticipation, the harder the 'forward sell', the bigger the fall....

Well don't worry!

I am here to help.

Here are my top 10 Easter Activities to keep small children entertained (or at least relatively quiet) with minimal risk of you feeling emotionally disappointed. You might not be savoring the idea of any of these but that's the point - if you end up finding them even a tiny bit fun (or least 'restful') then you've only gained. It's a win win situation all round...

1. SPEED BUMPS

Find your local estate full of speed bumps, tell the kids your going to pretend the police our chasing you/pretend your chasing baddies (which ever side of the law they find most thrilling) and then see how quickly you can take the bumps (at an angle tends to work best). Obviously stay within the law. Those speed bumps were put there for a reason and you don't actually need to go very fast at all.

The obvious downsides to this are that it will knacker your suspension, tracking and bits might fall off the car but it's still cheaper than a day out at the local 'fun park' and there's no chance of being dragged through a Gift Shop. Also driving round certain estates again and again might get you noticed in all the wrong ways and your fantasy could very well turn into reality.... That and the price of petrol means this idea is not without it's downsides.

I should add to this that those of you with more dubious pelvic floors may need to take the necessary precautions.

2. TAKE THE KIDS TO THE NEAREST ELECTRICIY SUB-STATION

Small boys in particular are fascinated by electricity, danger and barbed wire. This is your chance to give voice to all those Childhood Safety films you sat through at school (you know, like the one where the boy climbs up a pylon to get his frisby back and KAPOW.... nothing but smoke....or the one where grandad goes fishing and doesn't watch where the end of his rod is heading....), not to mention the warning posters that littered our youth.

Stand the children near the wire and terrify them with tales of an explosive nature. This will also stand them in good educational stead.

However if your kids, like mine, are very curious you might need to take a book out from the library about how the National Grid works as there are going to be a lot of questions you probably can't answer quite yet....

If you haven't got a sub-station to hand, you could opt for a Weir, level crossing or introduce them to the terrifying concept of rabies and spend the rest of the holidays trying to spot dogs that excessively drool (it's either that, nuclear war or the Colorado Beetle and I don't think todays kids are ready for THAT kind of terror).

3. B&Q (or other similar stores)

Small children are obsessed by toilets. Where could you possibly find more? And unused! Hours of fun pretending to do things.. (just make sure it IS only pretend). Plus wide aisles, power tools and those flat bed trolley things they can lie on while the other one crashes them into piles of compost. You can even pick up some bedding plants on the way out. Why pay more for Alton Towers?

4. LOOKING FOR THINGS THAT DON'T EXIST

Send them to search for something you know no longer exists with a prize for whoever finds it first....When, an hour of blessed peace later, they still haven't found it, console them and give them both a packet of crisps/small chocolate bar/whatever. I did this the other day with the pump we need for the paddling pool - even though I know it's a hundred miles away.

They need to learn at some point that you don't always find what you're looking for but hey, it's not the end of the world....

5. GARDEN CENTRES

Many of these have outdoor play areas which you can indulge in freely as long as you stay away from the 'gift' area inside filled with Swarkovski Hedgehogs and porcelain puppies and the Cafe which will no doubt feature £7 jacket potatoes and a certain type of older person who can kill small children with a certain type of stare before writing to the Daily Express about the state of today's families and how it's all gone down hill since they had to start putting their rubbish in different coloured bins....

Well there's your first 5.

The rest comes tomorrow.....brace yourselves.....

Tweet

Fun at the, erm, Beach....

Ahh here we are again - the new dawn of Easter. A very fine time of year indeed.

Sorry for my rather scatty blogging of late - I have started yet another part-time job and have found myself so utterly exhausted by the end of the day that the thought of even plugging in the laptop (because of course it doesn't have a functioning battery...) is beyond me. So my life, workwise now looks something like this:

1. Main job - trying to stay sane whilst raising 2 boys (currently aged 3 and 6) and dealing with the daily insanity around me (and that's before we start on my mother and various others within my daily orbit).

2. Job that is actually a career and I love but doesn't pay me enough - Antenatal Teaching (basically trying to prepare people for the unpreparable without scaring them sh1tless....) Maybe I should just spend several hours drinking tea with them before directing them to this blog with the moto 'you are going to need to keep your sense of humour, or you will go mad'? Having said that I went mad twice despite keeping my sense of humour, so what do I know?

3. Part-time job - in the hospital doing admin stuff.

4. Other part-time job - for a charity doing, errr, admin stuff! If you need postcodes inputting - I'm your woman.....

Anyway this: a) doesn't leave much time for blogging let alone writing that damn book (or infact script for a sit-com which I'd secretly like to do...). b) confuses the Inland Revenue.

Greatly.

I have spent approximately an hour on the phone to them this morning, trying to stop them from taxing me like I'm an Investment Banker when I earn about the same amount of money per week as you'd pay for a round of drinks in Soho. It was a long and painful process and, as I have this old fashioned phone that's tied to a wall and doesn't let me move round the house, I firstly found this very hard on the bladder and secondly the kids had a field day....

The younger one covered his ENTIRE body (and I do mean entire, as in every single part of him...) in large green spots with a flipchart marker pen. He's still sporting them but they are at least fading. I am beyond being concerned by such minor matters these days. I just hope they fade by the time her returns to pre-school. Or starts big school for that matter.

He then covered the cat in Sudocream. You know that thick white paste intended for babies bums? The one that what with it being a barrier cream is waterproof..... Sigh.

What is more, knowing I was tied to a wall and really stressed, him and his brother kept coming in and whining and making unreasonable requests.

Man in tax office: Could you confirm your National Insurance Number?

Son 1: MUMMEEEEE, I'M HUNGRY, WAAAAA

Me: Just take some Hula Hoops out the cupboard

Man in tax office: Pardon?

Son 1: WHAT?

Me: Sorry, it.....

Son 1: MUMMMEEEEEEEEEEEE

Me: I said just EAT SOME HULA HOOPS, JUST TAKE THEM!

Man: Erm....

Me: It's JP....

Son 1: Where are they? WHERE ARE THEY!?

Me: IN THE TOILET (we have a large downstairs sort of ' utility room' and in there is a big storage cupboard where I keep the crisps - I don't actually feed my kids from the toilet bowl).

Man: Pardon?

Son 1: BUT I WANT AN EASTER NEST! I WANT AN EASTER NEST! I HAVEN'T HAD ONE ALL DAY (said in a way which indicates going 12 hours without an Easter Nest is somehow life threatening. Which I very much doubt it is).

Me: Sorry it's.....

Son 1: CAN I HAVE AN EASTER NEST INSTEAD!

Me: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. What have I said about Easter Nests? NO NO NO NO NO.

And so on.

I finally finished this farce and decided to put the kids in the car and go to my mums. Basically so I could leave them in her loving care for 30 minutes and go for a run before I punched something.

Get to my mums.

'Darling'.

'Yes?' (slightly concerned already).

'I think I'm going to have to impose a rule' (wowzers - my mum doesn't do rules. When my dad died she should have gone to live in a Peace Camp somewhere on Greenham Common instead of becoming lost in the world of SuDuko and trying to knit a jumper for my nephew - who, by the time it's finished, will have Graduated).

'Errr yes'.

'When the children take all the packets and jars out the cupboard to make freight trains, they can only take the sealed ones'.

'OK fine. Dare I ask why?'.

So she leads me through to the living room. And then asks me to look behind the television.

Ah.

It appears the children have taken several dozen sachets of my dead father's Fybogel (if you don't know what Fybogel is you are lucky - it's a this weird gritty powder made from 'husks' - allegedly of old plant bits but probably from old people, and you put it in a drink so it makes this sort of 'gloop' and then you drink it. Its texture reminds me of something but I dare not say what. Anyway, it helps you go for a poo more easily. If you haven't tried it yet a) you're not missing much b) you're lucky c) I don't think it will ever catch on as part of a cocktail and d) if you get old it WILL come your way).

Anyway they'd raided deceased Grandad's Fybogel, opened the lot and used it to make a 'beach' behind the tele..... The 'beach' was littered with cod liver oil tablets ('golden eggs' apparently) and several thousand Hundreds and Thousands. There was also some white powder which I'm going to have to presume was Bicarbonate of Soda.

For once word's failed me. And they still do. But hey, at least they are forcing my mum to clean out the cupboards... Which as we all know is a very rare thing indeed.

Tweet

Laugh and the World Laughs with You - but not if they're listening to songs about Asda

So Badger Girl (my friend...the one who gets me to remove dead badgers from her buildings, test her on the anatomy of stallions and runs a 'ladieswear shop' full of clothes that leave your bits highly vulnerable to changes in the weather) took me on a night out.

The conversation went something like this:

'There's a band playing in town and so many people have come in the shop and said they are great to jump around to so I reckon we should go!'.

'Err no offence but most of the people in your shop are either on drugs, have taken so many drugs they may as well still be on them or need to be on drugs'.

'Yeah but it'll be a laugh'.

'Oh go on then.....'

I should have known then and there things would not quite go as we both imagined.

I mean last time Badger Girl took me 'out for the night' we drove to some obscure seaside town to attend this 'amazing' clubnight she'd found out about.......Pulling up on a deserted strip of dimly lit scruffy seaside buildings amidst barren sand dunes, things didn't look all that much 'banging' or 'happening'. Pulling down my gladrags we made something of entrance into the 'multipurpose recreational use' building' where this supposed 'clubnight' was occurring.....

70 rheumy eyed pensioners raised their heads from their Bingo games and generous portions of 'chicken in a basket'. Confusion was rife.

Wrong night, wrong venue, probably the wrong town - we never did quite get to the bottom of that one.

Anyhow - I should have been wary.

So on Friday night I got dressed up and picked up my friend - who was kitted out in 3 foot long hair extensions, cherry red patent stack heeled boots and a white top slashed to the waist. She looked 'noticeable'.

We arrived at the 'venue' (you know what's coming here don't you? You know its not going to be good.......).

We stumbled up the stairs.

Past the stair-lift.

Seriously.

The stair-lift.

Past the table with an old man in a hat who was either meditating, taking a nap or had gone to meet The Reaper. Either way - he wasn't having a whole lot of fun.

We entered the room.

We were greeted by flashing strobe lights, pounding music and a throng of sweating pulsing humanity united in the rapturous appreciation of what music can do to your soul.

No. Not really.

We were greeted by a lot of people that's for sure but nobody was in any kind of rapturous state. Or in fact even moving much.

Some were sat on plastic garden chairs looking very serious. Some were sat on the floor, perhaps fondling someone else, perhaps swaying slightly but all the same looking very serious. Some were standing up BUT also looking very very serious.

People were wearing fleeces. Or political t-shirts. One lady had even kept her anorak on.

Badger Girl pushed past what appeared to a Geography Field Trip heading for Snowdonia, stumbled to the bar and ordered 2 bottles of WKD Blue.

People were staring. And I don't just mean giving us puzzled looks. I mean giving us looks that could easily turn lesser mortals to stone. I began to fear the door would be locked behind us and we'd be offered up to the Gods of Life is a Very Serious Business for typifying all that is wrong with today's world (i.e people are still having fun when there's so much wrong with it).

Nobody was moving very much so we tried to stand still and look serious and listen to the 'music'.

There was a lady on the stage in a leather corset and tights with hearts on (not to mention a tail) playing an accordion in the style of 'Theme Tune from 'Allo 'Allo' and 'singing' (but actually it was more like talking) over the top of the music.

She broke into her next number with the line:

'A munter fell in through the flaps'....

Badger Girl and I exchanged a shocked glance. Quickly followed by a screech of laughter.

'Did she just say 'munter'?'.

I nodded.

'A dog cocked it's leg and pissed on mine.....'.

'And the government is sh1t and we can't get out of it.....'.

By this point we had started to laugh deep and hard.

I mean that was the point surely? You can't start a song with the words 'munter' and 'flaps' and expect people NOT to laugh? Surely?

But nobody else was laughing.

Far from it.

Several pale reedy looking young men were looking SO serious that their eyes were almost shut, in a kind of devote meditation. It must be a terribly soulful and draining experience thinking very very hard about a dog pissing on your leg.

The more we tried to conceal our mirth the more it came shuddering out. Tears rolled down our cheeks. Hopefully others thought we were crying about the state of the government. But I doubt it.

It appears you can't act even a tiny bit happy during protest songs. Even ones about dog piss and munters.

The next song was something about politicians and bankers having too much money and deriding the fact that they never went to Primark or Poundland. There was then a repetitive line about Asda Smart Price Pasties.

And nobody was laughing.

Except us.

For the next number she announced it was one where 'we might want to get down on the floor'.

'Yay!' I shouted 'it's Oops Up Side Your Head!'

But it wasn't.

It was (and I wish in a way I was making this up but actually you couldn't) a song about the merits of growing vegetables which contained the line:

'And maybe if Hitler had spent more time manuring his leeks he wouldn't have killed 6 million Jews'.

Well there's something for the University Debating Society.

We got up again for the next song, which I'm glad about as it was about a man killing his wife and burying her under the patio and nobody realising because they were all too busy washing their net curtains and thinking he was a decent guy because he kept his car clean. This sounded more like a plot from Brookside eons ago than a radical new idea for a song but hey ho - by this time Badger Girl and I were daring eachother to shout 'Vote Tory!' just to get the rest of the crowd moving (even if it was towards us...... with bottles).

The show climaxed with a song which sounded exactly the same as all the others and (just for a change) centered around themes about how terrible the government is, how Bankers must die, how being poor isn't fun (really? Wow! I never figured that one out) and means you have to do things like catch the bus but at least it means you're not working for 'The Man' and something to do with being obese and documentary making (or maybe that was me just wishing I had a camera crew with me).

Never have I been so tempted to shout the words 'Blow your Whistles - we're going HARDCORE!'. Just to, you know, see what they did.....

At this point someone came up to me and told me they liked my handbag. So perhaps Capitalism isn't totally dead? Or perhaps they were being ironic.

The music then stopped and we were told CDs were available to purchase at the back of the room.

Nobody moved.

By this point I'd laughed so hard in a sort of 'internal trying to hold it in fashion' my hernia had popped out.

Yup that's right folks - like an old teddy bear that's been through the wash just too many times it appears my stuffing is starting to pop out through my seams.

Well I'm guessing it's a hernia, I haven't actually been to the doctors yet. Either that or it's the Alien getting ready for a sharp exit. Which would probably delight both my sons and provide a suitable playmate for the younger one but I've had my fill of sleepless nights so I'm hoping it's the first option and just a hernia.

The next band then came on and they were far far better (in a jump up and down and throw your arms around like a loon fashion) but my jumping was curtailed by a fear my guts would fall out.

'Urgh, I need a truss, and a sports bra' I moaned to Badger Girl (whilst musing that I clearly wasn't in the first flush of youth anymore - I can never remember wishing for supportive undergarments on a night out before. Another bridge crossed and all that.....).

'I've got a truss you can borrow!' she grinned.

'REALLY?'.

'Yeah - I've got loads in the shop - lets go back and get you in one'.

'Err there not medical trusses are they? More like PVC fetishwear or kinky fancy dress outfits'.

'It'll do the same job! Hold your bits in! Come on....'.

'Thanks but I think I'll just dance slower'.

I really DON'T think the rest of the audience were ready for me to reappear dressed as a PVC ladybird.

And on that note, later in the year Badger Girl and I are off in her camper van to a 3 day festival.

She's already booked her hair extensions and spray tan.

I don't think this is going to be your typical festival experiences but I'm sure it'll be highly entertaining...... I might need that truss after all.

Tweet

Half a Boiled Potato Will Not Save Us

Dear Mother,

I know I've raised this issue before, but keeping that 'half a boiled potato' on the wire shelf of your fridge will not save us in the event of global lockdown, outbreak of war or famine.

Every week, after the Sunday roast, it appears.

And there is stays.

For a week.

I don't know where it goes in the end but I'm guessing it isn't anywhere exciting?

No sooner than it's gone - it's back! Our little friend.... going slightly dry and grey and beginning to crumble..... Not once have I ever been tempted to do anything with it which it involve digesting it afterwards. And neither has anyone else.

That and a mysterious tea cup with something that looks like toxic sludge in it. I think it's 'dripping' but nobody is about to start spreading it on Yorkshire Puddings and dipping them in sugar so just give up, yeah? Unless you have a plan for this dripping then I'd suggest you accept it's no longer 1952 in Chesterfield and if we want a 'sweet snack' we'll opt for a chocolate finger.

We'll leave aside the homemade coleslaw which was last seen fizzing wildly and presumably turning itself into some kind of 'cabbage wine with a mayo finish' as I don't want to embarass you too much....but..

....whilst we're on the fridge, lets be bold and move to the freezer.

Ahhhh the freezer.

In that freezer there are many many 'freezer bags' containing odd items.

These freezer bags have special label bits you can write on. The idea is that you write on what is in the bag and when it was put in there. You seem to have missed this point?

Week after week after month goes by and nobody EVER defrosts ANY of them. It's a lucky dip too far.

Do you think it's not now time to bite the bullet and accept that it's highly unlikely we are ever going to ask for any of the following for tea:

- the cockerel (who may or may not have been gay) who was like a pet but you got killed due to 'over population of cocks' and then nobody could bear to eat (or it appears throw away) so lives his life in some kind of cryogenic suspension, year after year, in the freezer. I think he's been in there a decade now. Look, even if there are big jumps forward in science and technology it's highly unlikely they will be able to ressurect him and undo your guilt. For a start he's missing his entire head. And legs. And I should imagine his innards. Let him go.... just let him go.... and NOT into a Coq au Vin.

- the 'trout' which your friend Colin caught and kindly gave to you, but with a warning that it came from a 'pond' and would therefore be 'very muddy' and possibly 'highly unpleasant'. I would hazard a guess here that you are NEVER going to be hungry enough to eat a 'muddy and highly unpleasant' ancient old frozen trout? And frankly, neither am I. Once again, let it go....

- the pheasant (which may actually be another cockerel or possibly a duck) that has been in there SO long that it probably needs carbon dating in order to work out just when it should have been thrown away..... Apparently you didn't eat it because you were worried it would be dry and a bit tough. Well I should think that's no longer a worry, more of a dead cert.

- the potted shrimps. Potted sometime shortly after the 2nd World War I think....

- the alcoholic homemade icecream that I have now eaten twice and been violently sick afterwards, errr, twice. How many more times are you going to poison house guests? You claim throwing it away will be messy. Here's an idea! Let it melt and then pour it into the hedge or something. I've cleaned up worse.


I mean I'm all for 'thrift' and 'waste not want not' but it's time to now accept I'm never going to sit down to a meal of fizzing coleslaw, dripping, muddy trout and 20 year old frozen cock with toxic ice cream.

OK?

Yours, not hungry for once,

Your Daughter

Tweet

The Wrath of the Ancients

I have previously spoken via this blog about the 'very old line dancers' who rule, sorry 'rent', the village hall where I also happen to 'hire' (or should that be 'am begrudgingly allowed into') a room to do my stuff.

Well I have been back at that hall recently and boy oh boy are the line dancers not happy about my 'invasion'.

The class started well. Namely as there was no sign of them.

Then, at around 7.30pm, the fire exit flew open (how DID she open the fire exit from the outside?) and a very elderly lady dragging a suitcase on wheels (dare we ask what was in this suitcase? Her stetson, a pair of diamante studded chaps and not a lot else?) began to plod back and forth through the center of my class.

We all looked on somewhat aghast.

The hall has several other doors yet she had opted to use the only one that would mean she got to stomp stomp stomp all over my diagrams of fetal rotation

'Don't mind me - I've got to bring my stuff' in she grunted a manner I could only describe as a 'warning shot'.


And then there were two.

An elderly gentleman joined her. This wasn't the same elderly gent who previously threatened one of my clients (for making a joke about dolphins of all things) with the line 'you might want to think about it very carefully before you make any more smart remarks sonny' (gulp - he was clearly missing his 'fighting days' but really - picking on bemused expectant fathers? Wrong - just wrong!), but he did look rather sinister. In a sort of 'be he alive or be he dead?' kind of way.

Up and down they went.

A while later the music started up. It's not the traditional Country and Western I'm used to associating with line dancing. It's something to do with an accordion and rather gloomy. Actually is the kind of music you might sacrifice bats to. If you're into that kind of thing.

I took the chance to glance into their hall. Turnout was disappointingly low this week - there were 5 of them (always an awkward number I find) and even more disappointing, the raffle prize, keenly displayed on the top table, had fallen from the heady highs of 'Pack of Orange Club Biscuits' which it was at before Christmas to 'Pack of Bachelors Instant Rice'. I can only imagine the euphoria that would produce in the lucky ticket holder.

Now if they just stayed in there and danced (or shuffled, or snorted instant-rice flavouring, or practised getting a good tune out of Jerry's organ or whatever it is they do actually do in there) I'd live with it and stop moaning - but no. They share use of the kitchen and boy do they like boiling that kettle and 'plating up biscuits'.

They spend inordinate amounts of time arranging custard creams and Digestive half-coats on plates. Stacks of them. Mountains. Lofty peaks of fondant cream and crumbly stuff. This a silent and serious task so you never know they're in there. You nip in for a cuppa and find them all, huddled, beady eyed, round a Family Pack of malted milks, dividing them up and stacking them. You get 'the look'. The look that says 'this is private business. Turn around and walk away. Pretend you saw nothing. Speak to nobody of this'. That kind of look.

I've tried to be friendly. A cheery 'hello!' or 'they look tasty!'. But no. The most I get is a grunt.

It is clear.

They have been using that hall since sometime shortly after the First World War and I, with my out of control balls and knitted breasts (well truthfully I don't actually have knitted breasts, I have enough trouble controlling my real ones, but I know a woman who does.....) am not only an intruder but as I don't live in the village I'm also an outsider.

All the same I was slightly shocked on Tuesday night when they tried to actually smoke us out.

Yup - huddled in the kitchen - over their hordes of shimmering cheap baked goods - they lit up.

Not literally (as in their skin started glow and one by one the emitted a neon glow - though I should imagine it might be possible) but as in they started smoking cigarettes.

Sigh.

I could hardly let this aggressive tactic pass. Apart from fumigating a room full of pregnant women they were also about to set off the fire alarms.

I (reluctantly) went into their lair. 'I'm really sorry' I mumbled 'but could you not smoke in here, its blowing straight into the room and anyway it's not allowed'.

5 pairs of ancient eyes stared back at me. The message they transmitted was 'not allowed? There is no such thing as not allowed'.

'Edith' bellowed the very old man standing next to Edith, 'they can smell our smoke'.

'Humph I'll open the fire door then' she shouted back.

And with that they all moved about 3 foot further towards the door.

Riiighhhht.

And with that awkward stand off I retreated back to my room (wondering why on earth smoking hadn't killed them yet).

Eventually I finished and left. Only to realise I'd left some very important things behind (namely my biscuits) so back I went.

On arrival they'd locked all the doors so I had to peer through the window and try to locate them so I could be let in.

They had moved into the area we had been using.

They were sitting on our chairs.

Head's tilted back they were laughing raucously.

Hands poised they were eating..... they were EATING MY BISCUITS!

I banged on the window. Hard.

Eventually one of them moved in my direction and broodingly let me in.

'Ive come for my refreshments' I said'.

'Ohhhh they're yours are they? We thought you'd finished with them' said Edith.

'Err no, I need to take them thanks'.

Edith stopped and looked me up and down. Head to toe and toe to head and then back down again. I wondered if in a past life she'd worked auctioning cattle.

''Hmm' she pondered 'that is a VERY pretty outfit you're wearing'.

'Errr thank you' I said, utterly disarmed and somewhat floored by this turn in events.

'Yes' she pondered 'and it must be EVER SO hard finding pretty things, you know, at YOUR size'.

Kerrching.

Round 1 to Edith.

When I pick myself back off the floor I shall plan my sweet revenge.....

Edith - mess with my fig rolls one more time and you're going down my love. Do you hear me DOWN!

Tweet

Slowly, Very Slowly...

This posting is brought to you somewhat painfully as I've managed to fry the end of my one of my fingers. I was frying eggs (that immensely complex and intricate culinary task) and one of the eggs seemed to turn to dust in my hand and my hand plunged mercilessly into the boiling oil.... I had to resort to spending the entire evening and most of the night with my hand in a glass of iced water and then turn to cider in an effort to limit the suffering. Cider is to burns what gas and air is to childbirth - it's not actually going to do anything about the pain but if you have enough you won't be able to string enough of a sentence together to make a coherent fuss about it.

Anyway so here we are in good old Half Term. Again. And it's pouring with rain. Again.

More on the Half Term activities (other than wall to wall Scooby Do watching and way too much Malted Milk eating) later, lets first turn our attention to the end of Term itself and that great bastion of parental pride - Parents' Evening.

I kind of dread this anyway because it feels as if you, as a parent, are being somewhat scrutinised too and you don't have to study my departures and arrivals at the school too hard to see that, at times, I'm not getting an A+ in the 'wondrous parenting and organisation of small people stakes'.

As we know there was the time where I had to stand in the playground wearing one welly and a sheepskin boot.

There was also the time I smashed the teacher's wine all over the front seat of the car.

Or the time I took the children back to school on a day it wasn't actually open.

To this I could add a multitude of other failings.

The football boots forgotten six Fridays in a row so that in the end I only had to rock up at 2pm on a Friday afternoon and shout 'it's me' through the intercom to be let in.

The forgotten packed lunches meaning I had to speed to the nearest shop (several miles drive away) and resort to a jumbo hot dog, Fruit Shoot and Freddo the Frog (these were the days I lived in fear that Jamie Oliver would rock up with a full Channel Four film crew and make a documentary sobbing over the contents of my child's locker. I would then appear on page 5 of the Daily Mail wearing ill fitting leggings and shouting at the camera in a angry fashion beneath the banner of 'The Mums that Just Don't Care Enough').

My comments in the 'Reading at Home' folder ('I notice that on page one of this epistle mum has the wine out. Well she had the right idea as by the end of trudging through this lot I'd had to sink half a bottle').

The Valentine's Disco where I broke all the rules and took an 'under 4 year old' only for him to disgrace me utterly by hurling a ketchup adorned hotdog onto the lap of the PTA Chair before crawling round the dancefloor and causing a pile up which I can only compare to some kind of outlandish contemporary dance performance designed to represent the 'inner torment of the forgotten soul'.

Or in fact the day my son returned home from the 'Welly Walk' to inform me that he'd enjoyed the outing but found it rather painful as I'd sent him in with one of his wellies and one of his three year old brother's...... He didn't say anything. Just scrunched up his foot and hobbled across the fields......mile after painful mile. In my defence - both wellies were green. There's nothing more I can say.

So I was nervous before I even sat down but if the general comments on Facebook, internet message boards and 'typical mummy blogs' are anything to go by, every other small child in the world has a parents evening which roughly goes along the lines of 'your child is the most gifted, able and wondrous being that has ever graced my classroom and every time I stare upon them I am beholden to their captivating intelligence, beauty, wit and manners'.

Every child it appears but mine.

For mine the teacher greeted me with a sigh. Her shoulders slumped in a fashion which indicated just too many years at the coal face of trying to persuade 4-6 year old to put their own knickers back on after PE, try not to take eachothers eyes out with the sharp ends of pencils and work out what to do with a magic 'e'.

'Your son' she stated 'has to be probably the most frustrating child I have ever taught. One of the kindest and most tolerant but boy oh boy is he hard to get going!'.

'I know' I replied 'I live with him'.

'It's not that he can't do it - he's clearly highly intelligent - it's just that, well to get him to actually DO anything, other than immensely detailed drawings and run around outside, it takes superhuman amounts of time and energy'.

I nodded.

I know.

Its this superhuman effort which means that by the time I have 'persuaded' him each morning to get dressed, eat, put his shoes on, close the car door etc etc etc I manage to forget his lunch, his PE kit, 2 matching wellies or his spelling list.

Well that's my excuse anyway.

And yet you put him outside (or in Asda, any large DIY store, long institutionalised corridor or cemetery) and you can't blimmin stop him!

Go figure.

I think he needs to go a forest school.

However, his teacher said, when he does click into 'go' mode he does come out with some lovely work.

She pressed his Topic book in front of me.

There was a beautiful drawing of what was clearly our bathroom, the two kittens and his brother. And there were all the bottles of beer filling up the bathtub (long story involving home brew). And there was 'mummy' in the doorway. With a face like the 'Scream' painting.

Beneath it was written:

'Last nite my bruver took the kittens and frew them in the bath on top of all the beer bowtles. Mummy went mad and towld him off and frew the kittens out and then we had to watch tele all nite long'.

Marvellous.

So now as well as thoroughly disorganised with a son like a Sloth with chronic fatigue, I'll also be down as the woman who keeps a bath filled with beer and allows her children to torture kittens before staying up all night to watch TV.

And the youngest one hasn't even started school yet.......and there my people's lies real trouble....

Tweet