Knock, knock, knocking

In the 87 degree heat, I net the school for a swim.

Lucky us!

I dither. Maybe I could read my book whilst they swim, but "Bill Bryson" eludes me. Those last 22 unfinished pages, have haunted me all summer long. I still have the book mark but not the dratted book.










Probably just as well, as there are already far too many distractions.



Nonna announces that she will retire to her room to rest, due to a combination of heart burn and leg cramps, two facts that she mentions in an off hand manner, over the shoulder, a mere after thought, but diabetics are like that.

After very little thought I grab the lap top, bound into the garden, open the pool safety cover and park myself on the edge.

Whilst the children swim, I research with a combination of brain burn and crampt cranium, as well as a slightly numb bum. I calculate the odds. If the lap top is splashed or drowned, will this provide sufficient grounds for my husband to divorce me, ignoring all other contributing factors?

In the house, Nonna knocks on the open window to attract my attention, just enough attention to startle. “There’s someone at the door Maddy!” she calls. I reply with hand signals, ‘no! can’t leave the children!’ She signals back ‘o.k never mind.’

The Pokemon swimmers are in full battle mode complete with volume. I shall wear them out, come what may. I strongly suspect that the more they swim, the more strong they become, so the more output is required to reach the original state of tiredness, but it’s just a theory.

After 90 minutes I have drawn no conclusive evidence for any one of my competing theories, as my attention is too fragmented. With the pool cover locked, I shower three small people, dry them and assist dressing. As I examine a split toe nail, the source of much weeping and wailing, I notice a shadow in the hall, a dim figure, an unfamiliar adult male person. I bark and shoo children away to the family room, the furthest away.

I step cautiously towards the hall. I realize that I should have adopted American sports after all. We must be the only family in the locale without a handy base ball bat. I do not recognize the blue T-shirt, jeans and white sneakers, nor the wide shoulders, thick neck and black hair with a glint of gel. I calculate our respective BMI, Blimp to Male Index. “Hello? May I help you?” He spins around to face me. Good grief, the painter from 3 weeks ago. “His Miz Maddy. I just come to check. To ...er .....follow up.”
“Oh…..I see…..but…….”
“Yur mom let me in. I’m happy to wait, it’s o.k. I dun need to be nowhere. I liked chatting with you last time.”

I blink.

He must have been waiting…….an hour and a half, at least, in 87 degree heat, in the hall. Clearly I need to brush up on my hand signals. “Well come along into the kitchen then, I’d better make us a cup of tea. Um.....on second thoughts, you go ahead and put the kettle on, I just need to check something,” I beam.

I leg it over to Nonna's room and take a peek. She lies on the bed in the darkened room, covered by a tropical print cotton sheet. Slightly tousled with open lips, her small frame is inert. A faint waft of eau de "Moustiques Mortes" and Tick Tacks. Her limp arm flops to the floor with her glasses directly by her finger tips on the carpet next an over turned coffee mug. A small dark treacly brown stain and not a breath of air in the fustering heat.

I see the elusive, unfinished "Bill Bryson" gently rise and fall on her chest.

Ahh tea!

Afterall it’s thirst quenching and very good for shock.

p.s. Yesterday I inadvertently used a phrase that's common enough in England but may not translate well into American. What I meant to say was 'unable to orchestrate a convivial social gathering in a Californian Winery' not 'couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery.'

My apologies.

Although free mo's are in very short supply, please nip across and say hello at my "new blog," if only to admire the technical genius of my first, nearly proper, blogroll.

A routine hic-cup

They have been in bed for barely ten minutes when I hear a soft tapping on the front door because I have better hearing than a bat, as is so often the case when a person has a weakness, other senses compensate. I fly to the door and welcome him in, “Hi, come on through.” The visitor’s soft footfalls alert the herd on high. They bound down the stairs to meet and greet, because anything is better than going to bed. Perchance to dream and rats to sleep.

Spouse’s visitor has arrived to discuss very important matters. The menfolk require solitude and silence to accomplish their goal. Their goal does not accommodate three minors who should be fast asleep already. They hang on the staircase dithering between two opposing forces, the Mother of all Titans and an unknown stranger. I lose of course. “What you are?”
“Hi I’m Hans.” He knows about our children.
“You are work?”
“No I’m a friend of yur Dad’s.” He’s a natural.
“You are night?”
“Yes, I think you guys are supposed to be in bed huh?” For a non-parent I am well impressed.
“We are say hello.”
“Hello.” Perfect!
“Come along you lot, say goodnight, not hello.” I am so cross that they’re all out of bed and we’ll have to repeat the whole ‘good night’ routine to get back into the well worn groove. The bed time routine encompasses specific words in precise order for two of them. It is time consuming and ritualized. Any deviation from form requires repetition, back to square one. Nothing less than perfection is acceptable.

There again, I am so happy that all of my children are interested in a visitor. It reflects the change in my multiple choice life of a few years ago. Then I had two choices, the stranger would be unnoticed, the stranger would be noticed and categorized as a ‘thing of terror.’ That was a considerable improvement on previous years, when only the second category existed. When the ‘thing of terror’ arrived I transformed myself into a Koala bear, where two cubs clung to me frozen with fear. The fear has gone because all children develop and grow.
“Why Hans he is here?” I debate. I decide that truth in advertising would be a good policy? I shall appeal to their innate sense of fairness which is deep seated and firmly entrenched.

“Hans is here for a play date with Daddy.”
“A play date?”
“Yes.”
“Where he be play?”
“In the garage.”
“In dah garage?”
“Yes.”
“We can be play in dah garage too?”
“Well sometimes it’s hard to share a play date, isn’t it?” They look from one to another and internal calculation of pros and cons, privacy and sharing or so I surmise because I am an expert. I know their internal workings and can anticipate all possibilities, instantaneously.
“Dis is yur first play date Daddy?” The men folk exchange cautious glances, wide eyed, “well….er…..yes!”

The children's bodies are already turned around in the process of scrabbling back up the stairs, as their spokesperson bellows, “play nice guys.”

I suspect that my own "social skills" could do with a brush up, over "here."