The down dog is becoming my friend.
Apparently it's good for your brain and stops early onset of senile dementia.
Might be too late for me, as I think pregnancy and gin have put paid to several million brain cells already but I am giving it a try (it's nothing to do with Barbara Woodhouse, but a terribly important yoga posture).
So Thursday mornings is now yoga mornings. Not quite as scary as circuits, but then neither is the teacher one of Linford Christie's better-looking young relatives, so not nearly as exciting (no chance of anyone at yoga saying I have a nice bottom when I'm doing the down dog...hmmm, on re-reading that last sentence I am beginning to sound distinctly Julian Clary-esque, which must be what happens when I have a very large pink gin before sitting down at the PC).
Somehow manage to arrive at yoga stressed and late, which isn't very good as everyone else is sitting quietly meditating and I am shoving nappy sacks back into my handbag and trying to ignore bleeping phone, etc. (Twins go to creche there, which is great, but does mean that along with yoga blocks, water bottle and so on, I have to remember nappies, wipes, juice and biscuits.) Also with my new resolution to try not to shout at my children, I am being terrribly calm and patient:
so instead of, "For Gods sake put your shoes on now, OR I WILL HAVE YOU ADOPTED!"
it's, "Now, lets see, would you like your pink shoes or your red wellies today, darling?"
which is great, but also means we are now even more late than ever.
So today I rushed in late and flustered, and tired as an old dog (not a down dog, who would of course be a perky and flexible dog) because Tescos delivered my shopping at 11 o'clock last night and then Twins woke up at 11.30 just as I'd finished putting the shopping away, God love 'em.
However, I did my best to look calm, with my greasy hair and only six hours sleep (Son woke up at six, and decided to go for a 'big poo' and tell us all about it, bless his cotton socks).
I did ok through most of the session, until it got to the creative visualisation bit at the end, where we are supposed to relax and the teacher guides us into a happy state by describing a walk along a beach, for example.
Except today it wasn't a walk along a beach.
Today she chose to ask us to imagine ourselves in a lovely big field of poppies.
Now, bearing in mind where Hubby is right now, every time I envisioned myself in a poppy field, a Taliban wielding an AK47 would leap up from behind a crimson clump of flowers. I kept trying to banish them, but the harder I tried, the more they popped up (funny, that).
So, not very relaxing at all.
Maybe I'll go back to circuits next week.
Friday 30 November 2007
Wednesday 28 November 2007
I am gagging for a G&T so this will just have to be another very short one. I actually made it 'outside the wire' today, with Twins in creche and son in school had my weekly two hours of total freedom, hurrah! Sadly I spent much of it buying birthday presents for various little friends as there seem to be lots of parties coming up. Twins are horribly sociable, and our street is teeming with their little mates, so every other day it's on with the sparkly wings and off to be the kind of fairy princesses who yell loudly when they don't win pass the parcel and go blotchy and manic from eating too many pink marshmallows. Luckily Son isn't being invited to nearly as many parties as when he first started school. I don't care if this means he is developing mild anti-social tendencies as it saves a bit of cash.
Haven't heard much from Hubby, except an email to say they have only had one rocket attack so far (hope the multiple pants and special mug are proving their worth).
Chin chin, off to find gin!
Haven't heard much from Hubby, except an email to say they have only had one rocket attack so far (hope the multiple pants and special mug are proving their worth).
Chin chin, off to find gin!
Monday 26 November 2007
Quickie
This will have to be quick because I have a mountain of ironing as big as big as, well, a mountain (that is, if you were a small pink plastic pony, it would be a mountain. Obviously it is not really as big as a mountain as that would be silly).
With Hubby away, I was worried that the weekend would be scarily endless (as endless as a mountain of ironing would look to a small pink plastic pony, perhaps) but it was ok. Well, I've got through it at least. And I haven't resorted to shouting or gin to do so, so I am feeling pretty good.
On Saturday, to perk up a cold grey morning and add a bit of excitement to buying wellies and picking up the dry cleaning, I promised the kids to snack time at the new Starbucks. So we traipsed in, trailing gloves on bits of elastic and used tissues. Five minutes and ten pounds later, we had our mid-morning drinks in front of us. Yes, ten pounds. And I only had a coffee. Still, I take some comfort in the fact that a large proportion of the exhorbitant profits on our 'snack time' will have to be spent on specialised cleaning to rid their armchairs of smoothie, marshmallow, chocolate and snot. (I did my best, but there is only so much a wet wipe can do).
With Hubby away, I was worried that the weekend would be scarily endless (as endless as a mountain of ironing would look to a small pink plastic pony, perhaps) but it was ok. Well, I've got through it at least. And I haven't resorted to shouting or gin to do so, so I am feeling pretty good.
On Saturday, to perk up a cold grey morning and add a bit of excitement to buying wellies and picking up the dry cleaning, I promised the kids to snack time at the new Starbucks. So we traipsed in, trailing gloves on bits of elastic and used tissues. Five minutes and ten pounds later, we had our mid-morning drinks in front of us. Yes, ten pounds. And I only had a coffee. Still, I take some comfort in the fact that a large proportion of the exhorbitant profits on our 'snack time' will have to be spent on specialised cleaning to rid their armchairs of smoothie, marshmallow, chocolate and snot. (I did my best, but there is only so much a wet wipe can do).
Saturday 24 November 2007
pants
I have been a bad mother today. It started badly with me yelling, "What part of 'put your coat on NOW' don't you understand?!" to Twin 1 when we were getting ready for the school run this morning. As she is only two-and-a-half, bless her, there is probably quite a lot of that sentence she can't understand as:
a. she has not yet developed any meaningful concept of time, and
b. she can't put her coat on by herself yet
So she burst into tears and I have felt guilty all day.
A day which ended with us having bacon sarnies and Smarties for supper (please don't tell Gillian McFoodfascist, or whatever her name is).
In my defence, Hubby left for Afghanistan at 3am and Twins both have hideous coughs, which kept us awake pretty much until he left.
Yes, he has finally gone, even though I clung to his right leg whilst he was attempting to pack, wailing "Don't go!" (when I did this he reminded me what I said on Saturday morning. But of course I didn't really mean that...)
Whilst hanging onto his calf I did notice that he seemed to be packing an awful lot of pants. Earlier in the day I had even had to do an extra wash load and tumble dry to make sure that each and every single pair were fresh and ready for the journey. Which seemed kind of odd. I'm not sure why, I just assumed that the army would have some kind of rule about this (as they seem to about everything else). For instance, you are only supposed to drink two cans of beer per day when you are on operations, or you are only supposed to use two sheets of toilet roll for wiping your bottom when you are out in the field. (These facts are indisputably true, and I know this because I remember seeing them on Lads Army on the telly a couple of years ago). So I thought he would only be allowed two pairs of pants. I thought there would be a wash one, wear one thing going on. But no, apparently things are very different in today's modern military.
When I mentioned this, he just said, "The more pants the merrier," in an offhand way and began the slow process of prising my fingers from his lower leg.
So now he has gone, and I am not only a bad mother in his absence, but a bad mother who is left with the lasting vision of her husband, lost and alone in terrorist territory, with nothing but his special mug and his band of merry underpants for protection.
I do hope he'll be okay.
a. she has not yet developed any meaningful concept of time, and
b. she can't put her coat on by herself yet
So she burst into tears and I have felt guilty all day.
A day which ended with us having bacon sarnies and Smarties for supper (please don't tell Gillian McFoodfascist, or whatever her name is).
In my defence, Hubby left for Afghanistan at 3am and Twins both have hideous coughs, which kept us awake pretty much until he left.
Yes, he has finally gone, even though I clung to his right leg whilst he was attempting to pack, wailing "Don't go!" (when I did this he reminded me what I said on Saturday morning. But of course I didn't really mean that...)
Whilst hanging onto his calf I did notice that he seemed to be packing an awful lot of pants. Earlier in the day I had even had to do an extra wash load and tumble dry to make sure that each and every single pair were fresh and ready for the journey. Which seemed kind of odd. I'm not sure why, I just assumed that the army would have some kind of rule about this (as they seem to about everything else). For instance, you are only supposed to drink two cans of beer per day when you are on operations, or you are only supposed to use two sheets of toilet roll for wiping your bottom when you are out in the field. (These facts are indisputably true, and I know this because I remember seeing them on Lads Army on the telly a couple of years ago). So I thought he would only be allowed two pairs of pants. I thought there would be a wash one, wear one thing going on. But no, apparently things are very different in today's modern military.
When I mentioned this, he just said, "The more pants the merrier," in an offhand way and began the slow process of prising my fingers from his lower leg.
So now he has gone, and I am not only a bad mother in his absence, but a bad mother who is left with the lasting vision of her husband, lost and alone in terrorist territory, with nothing but his special mug and his band of merry underpants for protection.
I do hope he'll be okay.
Tuesday 20 November 2007
Why don't you just go to Afghanistan RIGHT NOW?
Why don't you just go to Afghanistan RIGHT NOW?
That's what I said to Hubby on Saturday morning when he was being grumpy at breakfast (Twin 2 was choking on her toast and, rather than patting her on the back or hooking the glob of food out of her oesophagus, he chose to tell her off for not chewing properly. As she turned purple in the face. I think in medical terms this would be called 'unhelpful'.)
He later expressed regret at this, and I later also expressed regret for wishing him in a war zone, as he will be there soon enough anyway.
He is due to go out at some point this week, but nobody knows when, as flights are hard to come by. So we are in limbo land for a few days. Which is somewhat irritating. And the longer the delay before he goes, the closer it gets to Christmas, and I keep thinking about how his boss went out this time last year and got stuck there until after the New Year because the bad weather prevented the flights.
So if Hubby had gone to Afghanistan at breakfast time on Saturday it would have been a good thing, as it would have been the equivalent of wishing him home for Christmas (not the equivalent of telling him 'bugger off, you grumpy old git', oh no).
At least I am not worried about his safety out there. I know he will be okay because in addition to the super dooper army kit they now get issued, he has been to the camping shop and bought a brand spanking new top of the range.... mug. Yes, really. Apparently there is nothing to contain hot liquid in the whole theatre of operations in Afghanistan, so my husband has to take his own. It is a black thermal thing with a screw top, which apparently stops spillage and keeps the tea warm for ages. Handy for when you get caught up in a firefight, I guess. Not sure if it is also bullet proof, however.
"Dog tags - check
Body armour - check
Weapon - check
Really super state of the art mug that keeps tea hot all morning - check"
Oooh the Taliban will be really running for the hills! Those insurgents will never stand a chance so long as our lads have used their initiative and popped on down to Millets before deploying.
That's what I said to Hubby on Saturday morning when he was being grumpy at breakfast (Twin 2 was choking on her toast and, rather than patting her on the back or hooking the glob of food out of her oesophagus, he chose to tell her off for not chewing properly. As she turned purple in the face. I think in medical terms this would be called 'unhelpful'.)
He later expressed regret at this, and I later also expressed regret for wishing him in a war zone, as he will be there soon enough anyway.
He is due to go out at some point this week, but nobody knows when, as flights are hard to come by. So we are in limbo land for a few days. Which is somewhat irritating. And the longer the delay before he goes, the closer it gets to Christmas, and I keep thinking about how his boss went out this time last year and got stuck there until after the New Year because the bad weather prevented the flights.
So if Hubby had gone to Afghanistan at breakfast time on Saturday it would have been a good thing, as it would have been the equivalent of wishing him home for Christmas (not the equivalent of telling him 'bugger off, you grumpy old git', oh no).
At least I am not worried about his safety out there. I know he will be okay because in addition to the super dooper army kit they now get issued, he has been to the camping shop and bought a brand spanking new top of the range.... mug. Yes, really. Apparently there is nothing to contain hot liquid in the whole theatre of operations in Afghanistan, so my husband has to take his own. It is a black thermal thing with a screw top, which apparently stops spillage and keeps the tea warm for ages. Handy for when you get caught up in a firefight, I guess. Not sure if it is also bullet proof, however.
"Dog tags - check
Body armour - check
Weapon - check
Really super state of the art mug that keeps tea hot all morning - check"
Oooh the Taliban will be really running for the hills! Those insurgents will never stand a chance so long as our lads have used their initiative and popped on down to Millets before deploying.
Friday 16 November 2007
Dishy Dave and curly kale
Yesterday Dishy Dave came to fix a dripping tap. Actually, he's not really called Dave and not really that dishy, but it makes me feel better when I tell Hubby that Dishy Dave called in to sort out my pipes. If this were Wisteria Drive he would no doubt be some muscle-bound twenty something hunk and would entice me into a spot of afternoon delight.
But it so isn't Wisteria Drive.
Hubby is a bit paranoid ever since we lived in Germany and a local workman came to touch up some paintwork in the hallway. Nine months later Son was born, coincidentally tall, blonde, blue-eyed and, well, aryan looking (Hubby is short, brown-eyed and what hair he has left is also brown). He has a suspicion -totally unfounded of course - that the paintwork isn't the only thing that Hans touched up.
But he needn't worry about Dishy Dave.
Dishy Dave is the wrong side of 35, with a receding hairline and an increasing waistline, despite having been on a diet forever - or at least since we arrived here, which is over a year ago now. He is on some blood group diet, which seems to involve him eating, wierdly, lots of curly kale. I know this because he has told me about it at length. When we used to get veggie boxes delivered I would save up the curly kale for him. When I saw his white van coming past I'd run out and offer it up, like some sacrifice to the Gods.
Anyway, his wife has just got a new job and he just got some great value jeans for his son from the sports shop in the retail park, and he's nearly fourteen stone now, despite the curly kale.
He told me all this, and much more, whilst fixing my dripping tap. Now I'm no plumbing expert, but I think that two hours is a fairly long time to spend fixing a tap, curly kale or no. However, this is nothing compared to the lengthy discussions we had earlier this year when there were several radiator valves that needed changing. You don't need to know the details, but after a couple of days, I began to feel that I had missed my true vocation and should have been a Relate counsellor.
This time, however, the Twins kept whingeing and refusing to have their juice and biscuit because of the 'scary man', and eventually I threw them into the buggy and legged it down to school to pick up Son.
Not only did I not have some snatched moments of passion with the handyman, I have reason to beleive he's been lying about the curly kale, too. I whipped into the shopping arcade to use the cash machine today and saw him in his van, parked outside the chippy, stuffing his face with something out of a paper parcel, and it didn't look green or curly in the slightest.
But it so isn't Wisteria Drive.
Hubby is a bit paranoid ever since we lived in Germany and a local workman came to touch up some paintwork in the hallway. Nine months later Son was born, coincidentally tall, blonde, blue-eyed and, well, aryan looking (Hubby is short, brown-eyed and what hair he has left is also brown). He has a suspicion -totally unfounded of course - that the paintwork isn't the only thing that Hans touched up.
But he needn't worry about Dishy Dave.
Dishy Dave is the wrong side of 35, with a receding hairline and an increasing waistline, despite having been on a diet forever - or at least since we arrived here, which is over a year ago now. He is on some blood group diet, which seems to involve him eating, wierdly, lots of curly kale. I know this because he has told me about it at length. When we used to get veggie boxes delivered I would save up the curly kale for him. When I saw his white van coming past I'd run out and offer it up, like some sacrifice to the Gods.
Anyway, his wife has just got a new job and he just got some great value jeans for his son from the sports shop in the retail park, and he's nearly fourteen stone now, despite the curly kale.
He told me all this, and much more, whilst fixing my dripping tap. Now I'm no plumbing expert, but I think that two hours is a fairly long time to spend fixing a tap, curly kale or no. However, this is nothing compared to the lengthy discussions we had earlier this year when there were several radiator valves that needed changing. You don't need to know the details, but after a couple of days, I began to feel that I had missed my true vocation and should have been a Relate counsellor.
This time, however, the Twins kept whingeing and refusing to have their juice and biscuit because of the 'scary man', and eventually I threw them into the buggy and legged it down to school to pick up Son.
Not only did I not have some snatched moments of passion with the handyman, I have reason to beleive he's been lying about the curly kale, too. I whipped into the shopping arcade to use the cash machine today and saw him in his van, parked outside the chippy, stuffing his face with something out of a paper parcel, and it didn't look green or curly in the slightest.
Tuesday 13 November 2007
Monday
Today the sun was shining and the birds were singing and I only shouted at the children once whilst gearing up for the school run. The only thing that woke me up in the night was the fire alarm battery running low and making irritating loud bleeps at silly o'clock in the morning. Feeling pretty good, apart from greasy roots and inevitable toddler snot on left shoulder.
Before taking the girls to playgroup I had small errand to run, moving some empty packing boxes from one married quarter where the family had just moved in, to another where the mum and son were about to move out. Twin 1 and 2 were happy because I let them eat chocolate in their car seats whilst this was going on.
Normally the army pay for your move, including the boxes, but this woman's husband had just left her, so she had to pay for her own removal boxes and vacate her quarter within three months of the marriage breakdown.
Her son was in the same class as my son.
I remember him coming round to play in the summer and us talking about how great it would be that his dad would be back from Afghanistan in time for his birthday, which he was. They had waited a whole six months for him. However on his return Dad immediately announced that the marriage was over, and moved back into the block. Now Mum is having to give up her job, take him out of school, move back to her home town, and declare herself homeless, in order to qualify for a council house. My 'good deed' of shifting some boxes is pretty paltry, given the situation, and has probably only saved her around a tenner. But this time next week she will be a homeless single parent living on benefits, so actually that tenner saved might make a difference. I hope it will.
Meanwhile Dad is living the life of a single soldier.
Some aspects of army life just suck.
Before taking the girls to playgroup I had small errand to run, moving some empty packing boxes from one married quarter where the family had just moved in, to another where the mum and son were about to move out. Twin 1 and 2 were happy because I let them eat chocolate in their car seats whilst this was going on.
Normally the army pay for your move, including the boxes, but this woman's husband had just left her, so she had to pay for her own removal boxes and vacate her quarter within three months of the marriage breakdown.
Her son was in the same class as my son.
I remember him coming round to play in the summer and us talking about how great it would be that his dad would be back from Afghanistan in time for his birthday, which he was. They had waited a whole six months for him. However on his return Dad immediately announced that the marriage was over, and moved back into the block. Now Mum is having to give up her job, take him out of school, move back to her home town, and declare herself homeless, in order to qualify for a council house. My 'good deed' of shifting some boxes is pretty paltry, given the situation, and has probably only saved her around a tenner. But this time next week she will be a homeless single parent living on benefits, so actually that tenner saved might make a difference. I hope it will.
Meanwhile Dad is living the life of a single soldier.
Some aspects of army life just suck.
Monday 12 November 2007
Homecoming
Hubby came back from his course on Thursday night. (Hurrah, Fun Dad is back. And he has only watched Top Gear three times since then.) A releif because I was getting rather bored of Twin 1 telling me earnestly "Daddy on a horse" every five minutes. I suppose when you are two years old, a course may as well be a horse. Maybe that could be a new concept in military training: security briefings coupled with a little light pony trekking. I expect the cavalry would be in favour, anyway.
He arrived home at around eight thirty in the evening, whilst the mobile reflexologist was working on my feet. We had the lights dimmed and the harp-and-bird-tweet-music, and I had just chosen which type of moisturiser I would like, so it was all very relaxed and ambient (well, apart from Twin 2 who was sitting on my tummy, feigning an ear ache so she could pretend to be an only child for a bit). Then in stomped Hubby, muttering darkly about the dreadful journey, and complaining that his meat and two veg was absent from the microwave etc. So the whole relaxing reflexology vibe soon disappeared.
Apparently the pre-deployment course was interesting, he told me, between mouthfuls of cheese on toast (despite not being conducted on horseback, which must have been a bit of a disappointment), and one of the big security problems out on operations is smart phones, which are really easy to tap into and do various darstardly things with.
So he rattled on about this for a bit, and then, after pausing to take a big swig of tea announced that he'd really like a Nokia E90 for Christmas. I said, isn't that one of those smart phones that costs about a million pounds. He conceded that it was quite expensive but it had just come on the market and he'd wanted one ever since he read about it in some magazine (I forget the title, 'Gadget porn your wife doesn't want you to have' probably).
I thought for a bit about his getting a million pound shiny christmas present and Santa shopping in Lidl for the rest of us.
But didn't you just mention that you couldn't take smart phones on operations, I said. Absolutely, he replied, you can't take them into theatre; however it would be great for work.
But you are an Ops Officer, I said, your job consists almost entirely of going out on operations. All the time.
Good point, well made, I thought.
And if we're not spending a million pounds on a little shiny thing, all the more money for reflexology for me...
He arrived home at around eight thirty in the evening, whilst the mobile reflexologist was working on my feet. We had the lights dimmed and the harp-and-bird-tweet-music, and I had just chosen which type of moisturiser I would like, so it was all very relaxed and ambient (well, apart from Twin 2 who was sitting on my tummy, feigning an ear ache so she could pretend to be an only child for a bit). Then in stomped Hubby, muttering darkly about the dreadful journey, and complaining that his meat and two veg was absent from the microwave etc. So the whole relaxing reflexology vibe soon disappeared.
Apparently the pre-deployment course was interesting, he told me, between mouthfuls of cheese on toast (despite not being conducted on horseback, which must have been a bit of a disappointment), and one of the big security problems out on operations is smart phones, which are really easy to tap into and do various darstardly things with.
So he rattled on about this for a bit, and then, after pausing to take a big swig of tea announced that he'd really like a Nokia E90 for Christmas. I said, isn't that one of those smart phones that costs about a million pounds. He conceded that it was quite expensive but it had just come on the market and he'd wanted one ever since he read about it in some magazine (I forget the title, 'Gadget porn your wife doesn't want you to have' probably).
I thought for a bit about his getting a million pound shiny christmas present and Santa shopping in Lidl for the rest of us.
But didn't you just mention that you couldn't take smart phones on operations, I said. Absolutely, he replied, you can't take them into theatre; however it would be great for work.
But you are an Ops Officer, I said, your job consists almost entirely of going out on operations. All the time.
Good point, well made, I thought.
And if we're not spending a million pounds on a little shiny thing, all the more money for reflexology for me...
Thursday 8 November 2007
Bottom
Got very excited today when the instructor at circuit training told me I had a nice bottom. At least, that's what I heard him say. I began to flush girlishly, undecided whether to be offended or flattered when a bloke who looks like Linford Christie's cute young nephew comments on my gluteals.
Then I realised.
He had in fact said "Nice bottoms", referring to my Adidas leggings. I mumbled something about them being very old and took a big swig from my water bottle (I think this is what is known as a 'displacement activity' - when you do a pointless activity in order to cover up your embarrassment. Children are excellent props for this, incidentally, as a full nappy will extricate you from any kind of tricky situation. Sadly the Twins were in the creche at this point so that wasn't an option).
Of course he didn't say "nice bottom": I am a middle-aged mum-of-three and it is no longer 1971 and he is not Sid James and I am not Barbara Windsor.
Thought I might manage to salvage some dignity by being super ace at circuits - it was my first time and I was hoping to impress. I was fairly sure of being pretty fit. I push a double buggy to school and back five times a week, so that must count for something , right?
Erm, no.
I'm just grateful that it's not the kind of gym that had loads of mirrors, as seeing my beetroot face and wobbly (not nice!) bottom bobbing around hopelessly would certainly not have been a pleasant sight.
Still, I have decided to give it another go next week because:
a) there is a cheap creche for the Twins (happy days);
b) it's a way of escaping from camp, which does get to feel a bit Trueman Show -esqe sometimes
and
c) things can only get better.
In a minute I will park my not nice bum on the sofa and get stuck into a super large G&T. Chin chin!
Then I realised.
He had in fact said "Nice bottoms", referring to my Adidas leggings. I mumbled something about them being very old and took a big swig from my water bottle (I think this is what is known as a 'displacement activity' - when you do a pointless activity in order to cover up your embarrassment. Children are excellent props for this, incidentally, as a full nappy will extricate you from any kind of tricky situation. Sadly the Twins were in the creche at this point so that wasn't an option).
Of course he didn't say "nice bottom": I am a middle-aged mum-of-three and it is no longer 1971 and he is not Sid James and I am not Barbara Windsor.
Thought I might manage to salvage some dignity by being super ace at circuits - it was my first time and I was hoping to impress. I was fairly sure of being pretty fit. I push a double buggy to school and back five times a week, so that must count for something , right?
Erm, no.
I'm just grateful that it's not the kind of gym that had loads of mirrors, as seeing my beetroot face and wobbly (not nice!) bottom bobbing around hopelessly would certainly not have been a pleasant sight.
Still, I have decided to give it another go next week because:
a) there is a cheap creche for the Twins (happy days);
b) it's a way of escaping from camp, which does get to feel a bit Trueman Show -esqe sometimes
and
c) things can only get better.
In a minute I will park my not nice bum on the sofa and get stuck into a super large G&T. Chin chin!
Wednesday 7 November 2007
Bonfire night. Great excuse to have 'bonfire party' supper (ie pizza eaten with fingers directly off kitchen roll - no cooking, no washing up, hurrah!). A couple of other wives came round later to help me take the littlies to the fireworks display. It was a cold, clear night - perfect conditions - and you can always trust soldiers to do a good job with pyrotechnics, so it all looked promising.
Headed straight to the refreshments tent for refuelling: toffee apples for the kids and mulled wine for me. When all you've had for supper is a slice of pizza, one Gluhwein can be pretty potent. I feared for the safety of Twin number 2, strapped into my backpack.
Son sat down to watch the display and said the fireworks were 'beautiful'. Twin 1 found various small friends to dance about like a maniac midget with. Twin 2 was happy just to wave half-sucked toffee apple into my hair throughout. I had a second Gluhwein and started to sway along to the music, grinning half-wittedly at random onlookers.
It was a great display for us dependents (wives and kids) but probably not such fun for the soldiers, given that most of them will have had some experience of altogether more real 'firework displays' recently. However, no-one shouted "Incoming!" and ran off to take cover - but some did look slightly twitchy, and with good reason.
I began to think about how Guy Fawkes was himself orchestrating a terrorist plot in a religious war. There was probably some important point to be made about irony, historical parallels, etc. but after several mulled wines and with a toddler spitting mangled toffee apple down my neck, I was not the one to make it.
Headed straight to the refreshments tent for refuelling: toffee apples for the kids and mulled wine for me. When all you've had for supper is a slice of pizza, one Gluhwein can be pretty potent. I feared for the safety of Twin number 2, strapped into my backpack.
Son sat down to watch the display and said the fireworks were 'beautiful'. Twin 1 found various small friends to dance about like a maniac midget with. Twin 2 was happy just to wave half-sucked toffee apple into my hair throughout. I had a second Gluhwein and started to sway along to the music, grinning half-wittedly at random onlookers.
It was a great display for us dependents (wives and kids) but probably not such fun for the soldiers, given that most of them will have had some experience of altogether more real 'firework displays' recently. However, no-one shouted "Incoming!" and ran off to take cover - but some did look slightly twitchy, and with good reason.
I began to think about how Guy Fawkes was himself orchestrating a terrorist plot in a religious war. There was probably some important point to be made about irony, historical parallels, etc. but after several mulled wines and with a toddler spitting mangled toffee apple down my neck, I was not the one to make it.
Monday 5 November 2007
Had a bit of a to-do with the Commanding Officer's wife last week. Bearing in mind the CO is my husband's uber-boss and therefore God in human form, it was pretty much like falling out with the Virgin Mary - were the Virgin to have Crabtree and Evelyn hand cream in her downstairs loo and a penchant for Bollinger.
It all started early in the week with a supper party for wives at her house. I should have had an inkling of things to come when I mistook her husband (aka God) for a wine waiter - well I'd never met him before so how was I to know - and things went downhill from then on.
I will spare you the details, but it all culminated with a full and frank discussion over coffee at her house at the end of the week.
Initially the atmosphere was as frosty as her hairdo (actually that's a bit unfair as her hair is quite nice, but it does remind me a bit of icicles); however, as I found it impossible to take the moral high ground, submerged as I was underneath my sticky, grumpy two-year-old twin daughters, things soon sorted themselves out and we are now best friends. Well, I have said I will start to come along to coffee mornings etc. at least.
Hey ho.
Managed to briefly escape it all and meet some non-military freinds at a park on Sunday, who also have three children. They are in the enviable position of not living in the same street as their boss, on the same estate as their boss's boss and all their co-workers. Do you know, I don't think they even live in the same town as any of their work collegues - what bliss! It was lovely to see them but of course cut short as my husband had to leave to do some pre-deployment training down south. Well, we have had him home for all of eight days, since coming back from his last overseas jaunt with the army, so we should be grateful I guess.
So it's back to camp and back to being simultanously a single parent and modern-day Stepford wife...
It all started early in the week with a supper party for wives at her house. I should have had an inkling of things to come when I mistook her husband (aka God) for a wine waiter - well I'd never met him before so how was I to know - and things went downhill from then on.
I will spare you the details, but it all culminated with a full and frank discussion over coffee at her house at the end of the week.
Initially the atmosphere was as frosty as her hairdo (actually that's a bit unfair as her hair is quite nice, but it does remind me a bit of icicles); however, as I found it impossible to take the moral high ground, submerged as I was underneath my sticky, grumpy two-year-old twin daughters, things soon sorted themselves out and we are now best friends. Well, I have said I will start to come along to coffee mornings etc. at least.
Hey ho.
Managed to briefly escape it all and meet some non-military freinds at a park on Sunday, who also have three children. They are in the enviable position of not living in the same street as their boss, on the same estate as their boss's boss and all their co-workers. Do you know, I don't think they even live in the same town as any of their work collegues - what bliss! It was lovely to see them but of course cut short as my husband had to leave to do some pre-deployment training down south. Well, we have had him home for all of eight days, since coming back from his last overseas jaunt with the army, so we should be grateful I guess.
So it's back to camp and back to being simultanously a single parent and modern-day Stepford wife...
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