Another crabby old day [England is Evil 12}

The trouble with holidays is that they are just so exhausting.

Without the bribery of ‘electronics’ time, we fail miserably in the ‘discipline’ and ‘routine’ departments. Even when we ignore the issue of jet lag, they’re still up and buzzing about until gone 11 every night.

“Go to sleep and tomorrow we shall have a treat!” just doesn’t cut the mustard.

“Go to sleep and then tomorrow you can rot your teeth on candy,” is no sweetner.

“Go to sleep and we’ll go to the beach tomorrow / have a day trip / insert any other enticement you can think of!” fails to meet the mark.

Sadly they need no electronic assistance to ping them out of bed just before six every morning.

I drag them to the beach for an educational extravaganza. I’ve given up saying ‘it will be FUN,’ as I appear to be in the minority. My daughter was quite keen initially until the weather took a turn for the worse. The boys are both aghast and horrified.

We pass the Life Guards setting up their site on the edge of the beach as we pick our way over the rocks.
“Whatawe gonna do if we catch one?” she asks with a hint of caution.
“We’ll look at it for a while and then we’ll pop them back in the rockpool.”
“Can we take em home?” she pleads.
“Well…..maybe for a few hours but then we’ll have to bring them back to the beach.”
“It’s just I heard you talkin to Dad about crab sandwiches. You’re not really gonna eat em are you?”
“Eat crabs! Dat is insanity!” he bellows. “England is evil!”
“Put a sock innit why dontcha!” she announces in her best American accent.

It appears that everyone is picking up the vernacular. It sets him off in a vortex,
“Sock? Wot sock? I am not be have dah sock. Wot sock!”
“Oh dear. Nevermind socks dear. Lets concentrate on crabs for the moment.”
“Crabs not socks?”
“Yes.”
“You are eat dah socks?’
“No, not socks nor crabs, anyway these, will be too small.”
“Good!” sighs my daughter, grateful for the pause. “Come on guys it’ll be fun,” she calls encouragingly. She looks at me. I look at her. She grins, “well maybe for us huh!” she adds conspiratorially.

So wise yet so young.


They boys generally lack enthusiasm for "new" experiences and this time is no different. “We used to do this when we were little too, but we used hooks,” I offer forgetting the trigger of anything that could remotely be described as a deadly weapon.
“Hooks!” he shrieks in anguish, “England is evil!”
“But not these ones. These ones don’t have hooks. They won’t hurt the crabs.”

I stuff luncheon meat into one of the tiny net bags and demonstrate my dangling skills amongst the crashing waves. “That’s never gonna work mom, you shoulda got the ones with the hooks.”
“Of course it will work, we just need a little patience.” My sons hold a bucket in one hand and a reel of cord in the other with expressions of those condemned on death row.

I pull up the string gingerly. I am flabbergasted to see a crab on the other end. “Quick pass me the bucket!” To my utter amazement two buckets are hurled at my personage. A lightening speed reaction. Horray! My daughter passes her across too.

We all peer in the bucket. Joint attention! Horray!
“Ooo he is a little gorgeous one,” squeaks my youngest.
“He ain’t little,” commands the middle one.
“He’s a girl,” demands my daughter. “Mom, how dya know if they’re girls or boys?”
“Er……”
“He no crab! Wot is it wiv five legs?”
“Um…”
“I am luv my new friend. We can take him America?”
“Probably not.”
“England is evil!”

I demonstrate, rather ineptly, how to pick up a crab without being pinched. I exist in a vortex of squeals of delight as the crab demonstrates waggling.
“He is dah cutest guy!”
“He is more gorgeouser dan my rock. I think.”
“What do you think dear?”
“Maybe I am liking England a lil bit.”
“Oh good! At last! About time Sunny Jim!”
“I am like free pet crabs and free rocks.”
His big brother looks across at him. Do I detect mischief? A tease or a prompt or both, I'll never know as he mutters, “America! Land of dah Free!” But it works, “ENGLAND IS EVIL!” he bellows to the surprise of Life Guards, up wind 50 yards away.

Saviour of the world [England is evil 10]

In England I find that the establishments we frequent do no provide napkins without some positive request on behalf of the patron. I feel exceptionally grumpy as my brain has been turned to mush by the latest mantras:- “Roger! Over and out!” with accompanying hand gestures and microphone voice, interspersed with “intruder alert! Intruder alert! Intruder alert!” in perfect Dalek, every time someone comes too close.

I know I shall be a complete basket case by the end of the day or deaf.

We sit in the café by the beach in the rain, a picture of misery, although that’s probably just me.

The first time my exceptionally clean son helps himself to a wad of paper, I lecture him on recycling, deforestation and scarce resources. “Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”

As usual, no-one is listening. “Roger! Over and out!”

I stomp back to the counter in a huff to return them to the dispenser.

Back at our table I find my older son, the filthy one, wiping his mouth on his T-shirt with a fully exposed tummy. I immediately spout on the subject of unnecessary laundry, water and detergent usage with thinly disguised grumpiness. I plod back to the counter for one more leaf of napkin.

When I return the little one grins at me, “intruder alert! Intruder alert! Intruder alert!” I expect a sense of humour failure very shortly, but I cannot see his brother, with his face hidden by a bowl as he licks the platter clean to the wrathful glances of other guests. I show him my best pouty expression with hands on hips for extra emphasis when he volunteers, “save trees use tongue!”

I shall resolve to try harder to avoid typecasting my children.

“Roger! Over and out!”

You're a what?

I assumed that the joys of "Longleat" had passed him by completely, but after a few days I find out otherwise.

Every time the bell strikes and I have a moment to draw breath, I find him teetering around on one leg, ballerina style.

"What are you doing dear? You'll do yourself a mischief if you're not very careful!"
"I am be do my exercises."
"Really! Maybe you could try a safer position?"
"No. I am need."
"Why?"
"So I can be do dis!"
"What is that.............exactly?"
"It is being .............. exactly....... er........
.... up-side-down double horned Rhino."





















I'm hiring him out as a sideshow at Longleat next year to undermine the "ungulates."

Indigo child! [England is evil 9]

“I am liking the English wimmins.”
“Yes indeed. I remember that you told me that.”
“Why?”
“Why did I remember?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Why you are not one?”
“Why am I not one what? A woman? I am a woman.”
“No.”
"English?"
"No!"
“No? Lets start again.”
“Why you are not being an English punk?”
“Er……I’m probably too old to be a punk.” Has he never seen an American punk?
“No.”
“Ah thank you dear.”

Sweet child of mine.
I think?

“No.”
“No what?”
“You are maybe not er.....um.....nevermind!”
“Nevermind! Really. Thank you luvvie.”

Ahh. Bless his little cotton socks. Tolerance personified.

“I am liking the English wimmins punks.”
“Oh good. I don’t remember seeing any actually.”
“Look.”
“Look where?”
“There.”

He points! Ooo a lovely pointing finger in the direction of…..the horizon…..the path…..some people……..lots of people.....which people....little groups……..some old ladies……one with a blue rinse!

Long leap [England is Evil 8]

I was going to say that our day trip to Longleat Safari Park was a bit of a flop, but that’s just the grumpiness poking out. A few years ago such an adventure would have been inconceivable or at least impossible once the double buggy went out of service. How I mourned the loss of the double buggy and it’s impossible to open safety straps, but heaving a five year old and a three year old around in the contraption became untenable. Freedom was the only way forward.

Freedom was a mixed blessing. I suspect that I stunted their ability to walk and navigate, but as one took flight and the other dropped in a heap I was at the bottom of another steep learning curve.

Thus we trundle around the park using our reluctant feet. It’s a classic scene from Dali as my children drape themselves over various fences and garbage cans. “Why dere are no fire hydrants for lying? England is evil,” he sighs. I yank the shoulder of my bra strap in the humidity. I wonder if I’ll find the time to buy additional garments in England as AAA is not available in the States. Mail order is silly when we’re already here, not so much battery powered and certainly not supercharged. British ones are so much more comfortable, free of wires and pads and other foul means of torture. I prefer a more natural line in any case, something that moves and breathes with you.

My youngest son is absorbed with pimples and pays no heed to the wide variety of exotic wildlife available for his entertainment. My older son is far more interested in the curiously abundant spiders’ webs. As such, our progress is slow.

Our slow progress is matched by an older couple, perhaps a husband and wife? Our paths cross frequently as we wind our way through the site. On each occasion I hear the same mutter, “acne uneven, acne uneven, acne uneven,” which is not a Dalek script that I’m familiar with.

My own elderly eyesight is poor, but apart from the male pattern baling they appear to be otherwise free from any blemish. Uneven? I have no clue. Why must everything match anyway? Indeed her crisp, Broderie Anglaise blouse makes me envious in the sticky heat. I pull at the pokey hook in the middle of my back. Who on earth designed this garment? A trip to Marks and Spencer’s lingerie department seems indispensable. Why do people wear luminous white bras under white fabrics? Why did I allow the volume control campaign to slide?

The park has one saving grace in the form of copious signs with interesting facts, figures and curiosities to read. We read each and every one of them. The boys repeat some detail that catches their fancy until we move to the next sign. As such, our progress slows still further until we are practically static. I’m discreet as I adjust an elastic strap that digs into my collar bone, maybe we’ll go to town tomorrow? Interspersed with these details, they insert their own interesting gems, extracted from the ether, “the lizard and the hobo, the lizard and the hobo, the lizard and the hobo.” I look around for visual cues. Where is it all coming from?

I notice that every other woman in the park is at peace with her lingerie choices. I also notice that there is a significant percentage of the population are without a foundation garment, and not only the men. I realize that I have never seen a braless woman in the States, not even in Santa Cruz. There again, until recently I’ve probably been too distracted to notice.

The strong American accent and growling, rumbling tone doesn’t help. I field a barrage of questions:-

“What is a ‘wanker’?”
“Why is this rock so gorgeous?”
“How you are spell ‘blue’?”
“Beep! Can I self censorship?”
“’Bleedin el,’ what is that meaning?”
“Can birds fly in the rain?”
“Is the night garden for babies?”
“Can you play cards wiv a cheetah? Never, never, never cheater.”
“An Afgan is a hound species?”
“Are seagulls have barbequed tail feathers?”
“Are there chips in English jacket potatoes?”
“Am I an endangered species?”

Non-verbal, my eye!

The lions yawn lazily in the long grass and so do the children in the car. Tigers drift through the shadows of trees and the children sink into their seats. The Rhinos nose in their feed bags and everyone decides that malnutrition is imminent.

We wander into the restaurant for sustenance and park ourselves next to the same elderly couple, now sporting a very fine wicker picnic hamper. “Acne uneven, acne uneven, acne uneven,” he glowers at them with his arms folded tightly over his chest.

“What’s the matter dear, you look ever so cross?”
“What deez fings are called?” he bellows at fifty decibels.
“Ow, don’t do that dear, people are looking!”
“Stop it! Don’t touch your mother’s……er…..don’t touch her……there.”
“Dey are not acne?”

Bailing Award

So lastly this weekend, this award [which was originally animated and now refuses to co-operate!] the 'I.O.U.1' award or the 'Bailing Out Award' which ever you prefer [?] goes to three magnificent bloggers simultaneously.

Why?

For bailing me out in the 'is it possible to barbeque croutons when it's 100 degrees outside?' burning question.

"The Anti-Wife"

"Bi-polar lawyer cook"
"Your Vegan Mom"

Please feel free to steal. Are there any rules? Um....

Give it to someone who has helped you out or
made a comment that picked up your spirits when you were feeling low or
when some brilliant flash of inspiration came from a commenter or
some posting that dragged you out of, or into reality, unexpectedly.

Cheers dears

Pause for thought

"Mike Stanton" of "action for autism" a member of the "autism hub" drew our attention to a "new case" which needs our thought. You can read the article here in the "Mail online" and I'll update with a link to the Channel 4 programme soon.

Very best wishes to Henry and his family.


If this seems an unlikely turn of events watch "here" it's about 1 minute into the piece after the headlines and it's about the first 9 minutes long. Click on the right side where it shows Ben Haslam [part three] and hit play. [Mon 14th July] I needed the volume up full to hear it. Bear in mind that the current US dollar to sterling is 2:1.

I'll let you know when I figure out how to access part 1 and 2.

Thanks to Sarah Spiller for this series.

To read an educated opinion on this trend go "here" on "Left Brain Right Brain."

For me, tonight's nightmare will consist of a private and personal discussion:- 'would we be willing to relinquish custody of our children to have their needs met by the State?'

But we're lucky, as it's only a theoretical debate.

Best Comment of the week award

<a href="http://whittereronautism.com/"><img src="http://i135.photobucket.com/albums/q158/mmcewen/Recipes-1-1.jpg" /></a>

[Inspired by "Scribbit."]

Goes to............

"Joe" at "Club 166" for his comment:-

"Just finished catching up on all the "England is Evil" posts.

I believe the British Bureau of Tourism would happily hire you as an ombudsman, if they read these.

Joe"




My kingdom for a job!

My republic for employment!

Yah!

Hear, hear.


Please feel free to do likewise with the award and make up some rules to go with it perhaps?

Cheers dears

Awards

"Autism Insights" has kindly nominated me for an award, the Arte Y Pico Award.

Upon winning this award you are tasked with the following rules…

1. You have to pick 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3. Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4. Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award. "arteypico.blogspot.com"


Since my language skills are poor, I find I'm obsessing on the 'art' bit, therefore first up would be "Karen" over at "Art in the Garage." If I were English, I would say that she is a real arty farty type, but as that is unlikely to translate that accurately over here in the States, I should probably say that her creative talents are inspirational! That would be the first lesson of the day = if someone says you're arty farty, it's a compliment.

Then there's "Tara" over at ""TLCIllustration"
She's more of an airy fairy type, but she can certainly be a "little devil" sometimes.

Then we can move on to "Louceel" for a jolly good yarn or two, or alternatively we can take a peek at his palatte and take in a "piccie."

That's all for now.

Cheers dears

Wall E movie review

Yes I know that everyone else on the planet has reviewed it and seen it already, but some of us have to wait until the dust has settled and the Theatre house is empty before we venture forth.

How I love empty theatres!

How I love Pixar.

There are lots of great things about this film for smallish people. For my smallish people the best thing was how there were very few words. The first half [?] was word free. The exaggerated noises, expressions and 'body language' made it easy to 'read' and understand.

When the people come along, words are used and conversations take place but I think it would be possible to turn off the sound and still understand the story as it's caked in visual cues.

Although Pixar is now Disney, or rather Disney's gobbled up Pixar, fortunately the movie isn't drowned in Disney mush.

I am probably biased by the environmental theme.

Warning:- some children may find that subsequently, robot noises and gesture are preferable to word production.

Pet Rocks [England is evil 8]

Sometimes I think we can be more direct as bloggers at the weekend, when traffic is lower, maybe more rambling, perhaps less slick and maybe more frank?

After several aborted attempts he is eventually lured onto the beach, despite the sand. I cannot fathom the derivation, but the new game, of his own making, works a treat. After nearly an hour of this play, it would be easy to think that his retrieval skills are unmatched.

His phrase is, “I went digging and guess what I found?” whereupon he presents me with a rock with an exceptionally surprised expression on his face and a little gasp. Then it’s my turn to say, “Wow, just as well I brought the bucket!” If I fail to look sufficiently surprised he gives it another go. He is patience personified. I have rarely seen him so content at play with something other than ‘electronics.’

For many this would be dull, especially the constant repetition. It’s probably the sort of thing you do with a toddler, but I really don’t care. I’m sure most parents love to play with their children, but for me, everything is always a group activity. If my other children were present my attention would be divided, and the ‘play’ would be a stresser. Who is doing what? Always on edge waiting for the next meltdown, the next disaster, the next unforeseen and unanticipated danger. May I’ve just forgotten how to relax?

I know we all have them, those sweet moments of perfect intimacy. It’s these tiny huge moments that slip through my fingers. Just for now, for me, one on one, is such a precious treat.

I’m so happy I could cry.

Ding, ding, ding, [England is evil 7]

It’s not that I’m ignoring him, more like not paying attention. He’s happy, playing, why break the spell?

“Ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” What a sweet adorable child. I wonder how long this one will last? I continue to make supper as the light fades. The minutes tick by as he continues with his new mantra, “ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” I can see him flit from one soft toy to another to repeat the same phrase out of the corner of my eye. Little gem. He darts between his brother and sister. She swats him like a fly but he's back to the soft toys in a ceaseless circuit of energy.


Where has this sudden good humour come from I wonder? Where has ‘England is evil’ gone? Ah the innocence of youth.

When I snap on the light in the kitchen I notice the gloom in the sitting room. I step in and reach for the table light but the darned thing is fused. “Ooo you had a good idea! Ding!” I look across to see him with the light bulb in his hand.

Light fingered Leviathan!

Still, it's an improvement on "last year."

OMG [England is Evil 6]

It would appear that travel not only broadens the mind but seemingly expands the vocabulary. It’s not a development that I particularly relish as I am surrounded in a ceaseless chant of blasphemy. Fortunately, they stick to the letter abbreviations rather than the words themselves, but it sends an entirely wrong message to the natives.

To be fair, if not even handed, the children are united in the opinion that they are really saying ‘oh my gosh,’ but few people give us the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it’s the American accents but heads turn and I’m sure to blush.

They acquire curious variations on old themes such as ‘little guys first in case they burst!’ and ‘apology not accepted,’ although neither phrase endears them to their relatives.

The final straw comes in an unexpected format.

Delightful friends pop over for dinner and catch up. As always, they bring entertainment which guarantees that their visit is both remembered and anticipated with glee, and not just by the adults. Long ago, we forced our children to watch one episode of Dr.Who, it was not a successful experience. When the door bell rang the troops gamboled into the narrow hall only to be greeted by a two foot moving "Dalek."

I am uncertain who was more surprised?

Predictably, we have absorbed each of the six phrases that the Dalek’s micro chip provided. We hear them frequently. Luckily, in England, if a child wanders the streets saying “exterminate, exterminate, exterminate,” no-one turns a hair.

I suspect a different reaction in America.

There again, if it wipes out the 'England is Evil' mantra all shall be well.

On the other hand 'England is Evil' in America might have all sorts of unforeseen repercussions.

Thank goodness for duct tape!

It’s a wild life [England is Evil 5]

I lean on the fence and look over the view of rolling green hills and a herd of giraffe. Whilst I look at the giraffe I can’t help but wonder why they do it? If you live in a small, dark pokey house with teeny tiny windows, why would you blot out the view with a three paneled dressing table mirror? I expect it’s just an English thing, as so very many odd things are.

A long legged calf trots along with the grace of some women in high heels as my daughter snuggles up to ask a question, “why are they all huddled up like that, all curled and hunched?” I scan the horizon for wizened giraffe without success. “Where? I can’t see any curly giraffe.”
“Not giraffes, women.”
“Curly women?”
“No Mom, those women over there, those English women that are all crumpled.”
“How do you know that they’re English?”
“Are they what you call ‘wimps’?”
“Wimps! English women aren’t wimps! English women are more like Amazons, cut off their right breasts to achieve better aim with a bow and arrow, or is it the left one or maybe I’m thinking of Britannia.”
“What?”
“Oh nothing, I expect they’re just a bit chilly.”
“Why are they standing like question marks?”
“Are they?”
“Yeah. Do they have dodgy deportment?”
“Dodgy deportment? Where do you get this stuff from? Actually, on second thoughts don’t answer that. I expect they’re just older and colder than some.”

My youngest son deflates against my body, exhausted after having walked five and a half steps from the car at Longleet safari park to my side, “Oh em gee! I broke a nail! OMG! I broke a nail! OMG! I broke a nail!” I pick up his spaghetti arm to check his fingers, just in case. Typical! Where has he picked that up from I wonder? He sighs as his chin sinks to his chest and then blinks at the view like someone deprived of light for the last 40 years, “I am liking dem.”
“I like them too, they’re such graceful creatures.”
“Creatures! Dey are not be creatures, day are be wimmins.”
“Not you too!”
“Yes I am liking the English wimmins very much.”
“Indeed! Why might that be then?”
“Coz of der squishy bits.”
“Which squishy bits?”
“Dah squishy cushions on der tummies for resting the elbows.”

Never let it be said that older women are not appreciated by the discerning, regardless of nationality.

Bolting [ England is evil 4]

It’s a common enough issue for many a parent. One moment they’re there, the next moment they’re gone, without so much as a puff of smoke. It is familiar territory for many a parent. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was some kind of warning or preamble:- “Hey mom! I’m just going to trot up to the top of that mountain o’er yonder to investigate the sparkly thing on the top. Catcha in 5!” Then they’d be the chance to intervene, deflect or distract. Perhaps they already know the IDD tactic that we parents employ? Whatever the case, the truth of the matter is that an AWOL child produces an instantly insane parent. It’s a given.

Exceptionally good parents, such as myself, know that the only solution is constant supervision, never let your guard down, never assume anything. This is the relationship that me and my bolter have enjoyed ever since his legs started working in a vertical propulsion kind of way rather than a horizontal kind of kicking the air kind of way. I’ve had seven years to perfect the art of padlocking the bolter.

But of course there’s always jet lag.

We slumber, all of us in our second floor flat in the holiday let at the seaside in the pitch black of the silent hours. Their father is with his mother, on the other side of town. The click of the unfamiliar latch is the only clue as the door closes with a sigh. I stagger out into the hall. For some reason my brain clings to the false clue, the empty unworn shoes on the mat. I force my mind to the land of reason, where no-one around here ever wears shoes voluntarily. I hover, can I leave two children asleep and unsupervised? I grab the keys and lunge out the door, down the stairs to the front entrance with the even bigger lock that closes automatically as a safety device. I whip outside to the forecourt and parked cars and the empty road. There is no sign of him in any direction. I hop from one foot to the other, which way to go? How far could he get in five seconds, or is it ten seconds or maybe several life times? Horror stories, headlines and urban myths percolate through my last functioning brain cell.

Cell phone! Who should I phone?

I cross the road to check in both directions down the dip.

Nothing. I dash back strangely breathless with the deafening thud of my heart beat. Blood rushes through my ear drums. No! Waves! The beach. The sea. The water! I rush around the building to the side entrance to punch in the secret code to the gate. This is ridiculous, he’d never remember that code, alpha numeric. Did we even tell him the code? I should be looking somewhere else. Where else? I burst through the gate, over the concrete, up the steps to a vista of silver starry beach. My son lies face down drained of colour in the moonlight, slowly making sand angels with his arms and legs. I plop down next to him. I wait before I squeak. I put a hand on the small of his back and take a deep breath. This isn’t my bolter but his older brother. He rolls over lazily, “hi mom,” he beams. We return to the slumberers as we watch the moons together, the one in the sky and the one reflected on the water.


The sixth time he bolted in the same hour I had a sense of humour failure and decided to sit on him!


Well.....more like drag him into my bed and admit defeat. I'm sure I'm not the only one who adopts the parental padlock pretzel position? I hope?

Between a rock and a hard place [England is Evil 3]

I sally forth with 20 minutes reprieve, to the corner shop to buy my caffeine fix. My face is puce, windburn rather than sunburn, evidence of Summer’s existence in England. I leave my compulsive hand washer and the rest of the rabble in the tender care of their father.

My new skin tone clashes violently with the radio active rock emblazoned on my chicken chest, a wedding anniversary present. The gift is a Dichroic rock, a by-product devised by NASA. It flitters between an iridescent shade of lurid green and virulent neon pink. Co-incidentally, it’s arrival matches the children’s sudden interest in minerals, gem stones and fossils that appear to consume our every waking moment. Since we are on holiday and therefore technology free, we are rapidly growing an impressive library of books, pamphlets and brochures on the subject.

By some stroke of genius, we also mined a true ‘find,’ a touchstone indeed, in the form of a lump of Quartz with it’s own little bag labeled ‘worry stone.’ It might as well have been carved in granite, chiseled in marble as a miraculous ‘cure’ for the OCD amongst us. I have a whole new respect for cheesy seaside shops. He quotes directly from the accompanying leaflet:- ‘an excellent channeller for healing, dispels negativity,’ which it most certainly does! A closet Indigo child perchance! Proof positive of the power of mind over body, as long as we remember to bring the lodestone along.


His ability to absorb and regurgitate facts, is exactly matched by my own shortcomings, my inability to do likewise. Hence, I have had the forethought to write ‘Dichroic’ on my left hand. I also have the gift of second sight, a veritable Nostradamus but even more scientific, reliable to a statistical significance of plus or minus 3, or 7 on a really good day. I know that some stranger will ask me, ‘what is that thing glowing on your rib cage?’ and I shall be dumbstruck, wordless and brainless in response.

I keep up a cracking pace along the path, bent horizontal into the force 9 gale. I see evidence of seagull carnage on the path. Only the feathers remain, swirling against a wall long after the urban fox has departed. I have yet another reason to be thankful that I’m alone and have escaped the trigger of death and all other matters related to a tenuous life span.

Strangely, once in the coffee shop, no-one asks about the rock, either because it is barely dawn or alternatively because the glow is smothered by several thick layers of waterproof clothing, customary attire for those on a beach holiday.

Fortunately the weather means that I am propelled back to the flat at warp speed with the coffee still piping hot, all ready for the next barrage of questions from the boys. Inside the gloom I prepare myself mentally for the vast diversity of instant explanations of all things English to include ‘the purpose of clotted cream’ and ‘the true nature of a cornet.’ How come I am suddenly the resident expert on all things English, a role for which I am woefully ill equipped. Sadly, I am poorly prepared for my daughter’s surprise question as she peers over her book, with a nest of bed head hair “what does ‘cleavage’ mean?” I look at the book, ‘A concise guide to rocks and minerals,’ and her gaping nightie neckline. I blink and think as she continues, “ I get the ‘name,’ ‘hardness,’ ‘specific gravity’ and ‘lustre’ even though they spelt ‘luster’ wrong on the chart but what’s cleavage?” Vast chasms of ignorance play with my brain. How many times am I destined to be exposed as an idiot before first light? Parenthood is so unfair on the middle aged. What use is my encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs now, assuming that information was still available and not already written over by miscellaneous facts and figures about Thomas, only to be subsumed by Pokemon details? “It must be something to do with…..splitability, how easy or difficult it is to shatter it.” I run away into the kitchen where I can wrack my thesaurus for a proper substitute for ‘splitability,’ wash my hands prior to breakfast and scrub off the ink as my youngest son pounces on me, “no!”
“No what? I mean……er….”
“I am mean stop, do not be wash yur hands.”
“Why? I’m just about to make breakfast.”
“You are not need to be wash yur hands now.”
“Why? Er breakfast……!” I seem to be caught in my own loop.
He uncurls his index finger to jab me in the chest, “because nuffin bad is happen. Now you are be have yur worry stone.”

England is Evil [2]

After 22 days in England, I grow weary of the mantra. It’s difficult to determine which is more annoying, the ‘England is evil,’ ditty, muttered in glowering tones of impending doom, or the ‘when we are go America?’ question, in the alternative. It’s tempting to climb into the tumble drier and hide, but of course in England domestic appliances are designed for people of diminished stature. I’d be lucky if I could put one foot inside the dinky little machine, manufactured to dry one pair of underpants at a time. It’s a timely reminder of why all British people wear thongs, regardless of age or physique.

The national shortage of Goldfish crackers, is of course unforgivable. Curiously, of all the many evils of England, the medieval practice of afternoon teatime at four o’clock is a big hit all round. I fester over the issue as to whether Jammy Dodgers biscuits are available in America, as their little red hearts are so endearing? Sadly, I already know that our arteries shall not be clogged with clotted cream, as strangely it is a culinary extravaganza that hasn’t caught on in the States.

22 days has meant a seamless automatic translation of fries into ‘chips’ without so much as a stutter. Collectively we overcome many new obstacles and learn a great deal. We learn that it is indeed possible to play beach cricket if one employs a neon yellow tennis ball, which appears to be close enough to ‘golden’ to make it acceptable foreplay. We learn that shower grouting can liquefy, but hardens very nicely on warm bodies. I learn that rather than a Rolls Royce being a stately and magnificent tribute to the British car industry, it is really only ‘cute’ and ‘weeny.’ We learn that the current level of hand strength means that it not possible to remove a three pin plug from a wall socket, even if you use a knife. We celebrate tool usage and a narrow escape from an ER visit. Furthermore, British road users prefer foreigners to use the same side of the road as they do, the left. My sons are indifferent, although it’s far more ‘fun’ when we drive the American way by mistake.

We learn that small fingers can be persuaded to pick up shells from sandy beaches. We learn that mother’s who lie about Hermit crabs inhabiting English shells are likely to be stoned, one way or another. I’d better nip that habit in the bud before someone becomes really crabby.

England is Evil

Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted that he feels able to express his viewpoint verbally. I’d just prefer it if he could be a little more circumspect, especially whilst we happen to be in England. I’m sympathetic to many of his complaints, that the milkshakes are too small and that weather is too big, but loud mouthed Americans are just to much of a cliché, even for him.

Handy travel hint of the day – to ensure that your suitcases are fresh for next year, tuck a tumble drier sheet inside before storage. Take care to assess whether or not tumble drier sheets should be eliminated from your life style, along with the tumble drier to reduce your carbon footprint on the planet. Should you suffer the misfortune of someone vomiting in your suitcase, admit defeat and chuck away the suitcase, carbon footprint be damned. Be grateful that your brain torture has ceased and that the mysterious stench is no longer mysterious. Don’t forget to thank the thoughtful child that shut the suitcase after use.

Normal service shall be resumed as soon as humanly possible.

May the force be with you too

In the salon I hand over the gift voucher with glee. An hour of frivolous indulgence should never be squandered. I leave with two parts of my scraggy anatomy spruced up to meet American standards of womanliness. I anticipate that the manicure should remain immaculate for the next twenty minutes during the drive home.

As I drive I calculate which mode to adopt on arrival? Guilty of the crime of ‘absent without leave,’ I shall be soundly punished one way or another. Maybe the sulky, silent treatment? Maybe mountainous meltdowns? It’s the price to be paid for such selfish skullduggery at the weekend. Whilst many a parent returns home to be welcomed with open arms, other parents need to be a bit more savvy.

On previous occasions I made the mistake of bringing home treats, due to a combination of gratitude for the time off and a hefty dose of guilt for being so grateful in the first place. For some reason, I had temporarily forgotten that most treats are in fact torture, but I learned from my error. Whilst it’s tempting to try for a hug, that too is subject to negotiation. There’s nothing like unexpected physical contact to really ruin someone’s day. I decide to play it by ear.

As I step through the door my ears are assaulted by a loud combination of someone playing the recorder, another one making rooster noises in protest, a third is buried head down in cushions and an aerated father has an air of exasperation.

“Oh good! You’re home! How did you get on?” We ignore our children, exchange glances. I permit him to note my sparkly finger nails.
“Ooo very………clean.”
Whilst it wasn’t the adjective I was looking for, it was a good try under the noisy circumstances. The rooster ceases to crow and gasps instead, open mouthed, a picture of awe struck, “you are be touch?”
“Pardon dear?”
“You are be touch me wiv your magic fingers!” I swear he's as sharp eyed as an eagle.





















Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse.

Bye for now

We’re off on our annual pilgrimage to "England," a green and pleasant land so they say, but not without it's "hazards."
There again, we have the opportunity to relish "family support" for a few weeks and take time to bask in those tiny huge "triumphs."
I suspect we shall spend less time in the "car" with the petrol prices and exchange rate being as they are. It's probably time to kick back, "relax" and let the "campaigns" slide.

1. "Chat, chat, chat - breaking news"
2. "Zero sum and the division of labour"
3. "I do not like green eggs or otherwise"
4."The Humane Society"
5. "Slap on the head for the handmaiden"
6. "Puppy dogs tails indeed"
7. "The Seven Deadly Sins"
8. "I hear Thunder"
9. "Truthful Tuesday, the sin of Pride"
10. "To be or not to be, that is probably the answer"
11. "Look to the Future."
12. "Occupational Therapy - no Flying!"
13. "A Labyrinth of Liars"
14. "Personal Learning Curves"



So here are a few bits and bobs in the interim.
Cheers dears