In my opinion...

Hubby is now a fluent Nepali speaker. He thinks. Actually the only sentence he can speak with any degree of grammatical accuracy is: "In my opinion, my wife is a little fat". He has said this with irritating frequency today, as it never fails to elicit loud guffaws from the locals (the loudest of all from Meena-the-cook). As I haven't done the introductory Nepali course, I can only respond with: "I like papaya" or "Come at ten o'clock", which doesn't really work as a witty and acid-tongued response. I will have to resort to just making 'Joey Deacon' faces at him over the cornflakes at breakfast time. Because I'm mature like that.

Also, I have discovered the secret power base behind expat Kathmandu. There are a group of ladies-who-lunch on a Friday at a nice restaurant in town. Today I just happened to be there with Mum and Twins at the same time. They are all Very Important Wives - wives of ambassadors, commanders, head of UN etc. Will have to bug their table to see if I can discover any exciting gossip about the expat community, as its highly unlikely I will ever be invited along, especially not with tomato-sauce-chops and poo-pants with me (cute from a distance, noisy and smelly close up).  

And talking of the expat bubble: I managed to miss a whole day of civil unrest yesterday, just by being cocooned in lady-of-leisure-land: Mum and I took the kids to the British School (nice private school mainly for DfID and UN kids) and then went on to a hotel for an art class. The class overran, so we decided to have lunch at the hotel, then we popped into the cashmere shop next door to order a jumper, by which time it was time to pick the kids up from school again. On the way home all the shops were shuttered up and the streets were empty of vehicles (which Hubby would describe as a 'combat indicator').  Turns out there had been street protests throughout Kathmandu all day, all the public schools were shut, stones were thrown at cars and the riot police were out in force. All this happened between about nine and two, whilst we were all tucked up safely in private school/plush hotel respectively. 

I love the life I lead, don't get me wrong, but I do worry about turning into some kind of latter-day Marie-Antoinette, just completely divorced from reality ('Will someone please tell the rabble to riot a little more quietly; some of us are trying to finish our portraiture class in time for a salad on the terrace')...

in his dreams

Hubby has made it down from the mountains with Dad. He phoned tonight, sounding very, very drunk - but insisting he had only had two beers - and harangued me for half an hour because he had a dream last night in which I apparently copped off with some welsh channel 4 presenter. Tried to explain that I'm not responsible for his overly paranoid subconscious, but he was having none of it. Whilst he was having that dream, I was asleep  at home fully clad in my my fleece and yoga trousers, because it has come pretty darn chilly this week. Looking like that, I'd be unlikely to cop off with David Blunkett, let alone some dishy TV presenter. Hubby said that in the dream he was absolutely livid because I was looking 'fit as you fancy' as well. So it obviously wasn't me he was dreaming about. Ah well, he will have forgotten all about it in the morning after his wild night on the town with Dad...

Two drivers, one car

Hubby is wise. He told me that if I didn't phone Bishu Ram (the driver with the imaginary broken leg), then one day he would just turn up and expect his job back. I said I'd phone him. Then I forgot all about it.

This morning I was upstairs putting on some slap (to try to make myself look vaguely human before the school run), when son announced that Vasu (new, nice driver) was here and so was Bishu Ram (lying old driver). So, lipstick in hand, I had to rush downstairs and do a bit of impromptu human resources ie. tell Bishu Ram to stop taking the p*ss and sling his hook. Although I did it with a smile on my face, because I'm nice like that. He still tried to get either his job back or get me to pay for his medical expenses, though, the cheeky Chettri. 

So that was a thrilling start to the day.

A day which consisted of shopping, mainly, but sadly no exciting poo on the potty.

Sunil-the-tailor phoned to say couldn't make it. I could barely understand what he was saying, probably because he was making the call from the mother ship in a distant galaxy far, far away. Hopefully he will find a hole in the space-time continuum and make it here tomorrow evening as he has a silk shirt and two Miss Muffet outfits to complete, alien abduction or not.

The book has taken a back seat since parents arrived. I feel a bit sorry for all the characters, being left in limbo like this: the heroine falling for the wrong man, the right man about to go to war, and the heroine's parents failing to patch up their failed marriage. And the brother is about to get blown up, too. I'm sure they will all be happy when I start writing again as they can get some clarity about their future (apart from the brother, who will be gutted - oops wrong terminology, sorry rather sick but unintentional pun there).

Anyway, must go, three kids to put to bed. Ta ra xxx

shopping mostly, and an exciting poo

I've given myself an ebay ban, but it's proving almost impossible to keep to. All those things that I'm sure I really, really need, if only I could just have a little peek... but no, I mustn't. It's a waste of time, money and another good reason that I can't remember. Still I'm managing to get some vicarious retail therapy in by having Mum around, which I'll tell you about in a bit.

The only really exciting thing that happened today is that Twin 2 did a poo on the potty. We were all so thrilled that we just had to phone up Hubby and tell him. He is in Pokhara with Dad. They are going on a three-day trek together, for a jolly old bit of father-in-law/son-in-law bonding. Good luck to them both! 

Hubby was muttering darkly on the phone about getting drunk and going to see the dancing dwarfs. Which should be a reet ol' laff, with my seventy-four-year-old father. 

Mum is happy to miss out on dancing dwarfs and scaling peaks. She just wants to shop. I asked her this morning if she wanted to go to a famous temple with great views over the city, but she said she didn't give a stuff and would rather max out on her visa card (I am paraphrasing, of course). 

There haven't been too many tuts or frowns indicating my lax parenting skills either - luckily kids have all had their charming pants on all week. So I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I don't go for the double whammy and fall out with her as well.

So tomorrow we are off into town again, to buy silver necklaces, fleeces and bicycle clips (today we bought fossils, jewelry boxes and pashminas). By the time Mum has finished her xmas shopping, there will be tumbleweed rolling through the streets of Kathmandu, as the shop owners loll on their yachts in the Caribbean.

here we go again

So, I have already fallen out with my Dad. It happened with depressing inevitability less than 48 hours into their visit. Now I have a permanent knot in my stomach. I just should not have been drawn into a late night discussion. I should have said no to the hot chocolate and gone straight to bed. And of course I should have kept my opinions to myself. 

Still, they are off to Chitwan today, and as luck would have it the flight has been put forward by a couple of hours, so they leave mid-morning. They haven't got up yet, so I'm writing this, waiting downstairs to apologise (again). Hopefully by the time I've apologised and they've had breakfast it will be time for them to leave...

parents - yikes!

Quick one. Have to get one in before somewhat scary parental visit - they arrive tomorrow evening. I have had some emergency reflexology today to calm me down. It will be lovely to see them and I'm sure it will be fine (so long as I remember to breathe deeply, think happy thoughts and not get embroiled in any of Dad's late night 'discussions' - discussion being a euphemism for reactionary ranting).

Kathmandu is getting colder by the day, but luckily I have taken to cashmere layering. I'm pretty excited about it getting really cold in January as it will necessitate another visit to the pashmina shop. I have been shopping for slipper socks and flannelette pajamas on ebay (the latter turned out to be baby pink with patterns of cartoon puppies on, so I think they may possibly end up as a secret santa present at the wives xmas party - but don't tell anyone). Hubby says he needs slippers, so that's his xmas present sorted. He needs a tool kit as well, he says. Whatever happened to the wild and reckless young soldier I married?! Still, if I can get excited about the prospect of a new cashmere tank top, I can't exactly claim to be the wild and reckless young filly I once was (actually I wasn't - I mean, how can anyone who has Dire Straits on their playlist claim to be wild and reckless in the slightest? think I was probably only ever as wild and reckless as a warm cup of cocoa. In fact I remember a drunken discussion in my twenties when we were asking people in the group what kind of food they thought your personality was. I was hoping to be something exotic, lobster thermidor at the least, but the conclusion was that I was an Irish coffee with not enough whiskey and too much cream. Talk about damning with faint praise.).

Went to Remembrance Sunday at the Embassy, with the kids. Everyone remarked on how good they were, but what they didn't realise was that they were getting drip fed Smarties throughout the entire service. It was good to go. I blubbed at the Last Post, of course. The Embassy handily enough has a climbing frame and clubhouse, so it was actually a pretty nice family outing, which seems like a strange thing to say about Poppy Day. There is another one on camp tomorrow (kids will be at school, but I might take Smarties anyway).

Then Parents arrive in the evening. 

I'm expecting to have my re-sitting-maths-A-level-without-revision nervous dream tonight in anticipation...

ps - I might have amoebic dysentery. Really excited about the prospect as I remember learning about it in 'o' level biology. After the last exploding bottom incident, I had to give a 'hot stool' sample (which basically means it's straight from the lavvie to the lab), which felt pretty dramatic - and I managed to impress our doctor by being able to poo on demand, although it's not difficult when you have diohrea (apologies for spelling). Anyway, the results appeared to show that I have dysentry. The doctor is sceptical though, as I look a bit too healthy, so today I had to do yet another poo in a pot to present to the med centre. I am hoping that it is dysentry, because last time I was abroad for any length of time I was boringly healthy, whilst everyone else seemed to contract typhoid/guardia/malaria. 

Still, I have just bought slipper socks for the whole family so at least we can rule out the whole cold-feet-causing-runny-poo theory posited by our housekeeper.

Wolfmanche!

Hubby is away in the UK. I was tempted to ask Gary-the-dog to take his place on the double bed - Tibetan mastiffs are nice and furry and warm - but had I done so then by now Gary would be ordering rare steak from Meena and I would be sleeping on cold concrete in the guard house. He is not a dog to be trifled with. 

Haven't heard from Hubby at all. He is at a forum on estate management, and could hardly contain his excitement on the prospect of finding out new and innovative ways to fix toilets and paint walls etc. Either the forum is so engrossing that he can't tear himself away to pick up the phone, or so dull that he's fallen into a deep sleep. (Hmm, wonder which?) Or alternatively he's having an affair with someone in the estate management community - an interesting thought as they all seem to be men of a certain age (and weight, and male-pattern baldness), although who knows, there may be some fox in red stilletoes there whose idea of foreplay is a lengthy discussion on the continuing issue of ammonium in water treatment. Good luck to her.

So since he's been gone we've been to church and been to bonfire/halloween night, so had a good old mix of Christian and Pagan to brighten up the weekend. Although I have to say, the Pagan bit was way more fun. Kids got to dress up as skeleton/pumpkin/cat respectively and go into a haunted house to collect ingredients for a magic potion to help banish the werewolf. After collecting lizards' blood, eye of newt, etc. they took their plastic cups to the wicked witch, who stirred them all up and turned the werewolf into a pumpkin. It was brilliant, and so scary that Twin 2 weed herself (actually, I think she would have weed herself anyway - potty training is a very long process...). Son has slept in the Twins' room ever since,  just in case 'Wolfmanche' decides to reappear.

Whilst writing this I'm listening to my playlist on i-tunes. I chose tracks to remember certain points in my life, but hearing it all just reminds me what shocking music taste I have. 'Every rose has its thorn' by Poison, anyone? or 'Romeo and Juliet' by Dire Straits? Oh deary deary me. I truly was a desperately un-cool teenager. Do hope my kids do a better job of it than me (I can't wait to say 'For God's sake, turn it down - that's not music, it's just noise!').

broken leg, my foot!

I should've guessed. Our absent driver, Bishu Ram doesn't have a long pointy nose because he's a Chettri, it's because he is in fact Pinnochio...

At school yesterday one of the other mums caught me on the way back to the car and asked where Bishu Ram was. I answered that he had broken his leg so we had a temporary driver, Vasu. Oh, she replied, but I saw Bishu Ram at the Shangri-La hotel ten days ago, unloading stuff for Emily (whoever Emily is). I asked whether or not he was on crutches or were there any visible signs of a plaster cast and she said no, he was carrying some big boxes. Are you quite sure it was him, I said. Oh yes, she replied, he worked for us for two years until he fell out with my husband when he smashed a headlight: nice guy, smart, but he talks a bit too much - yes I know Bishu Ram very well. She also told me that this Emily woman is moving to Pakistan in a few weeks - which probably explains why Bishu Ram said he'd be out of plaster cast within a month.

What a cheeky bugger! Obviously just after earning a bit of extra cash for a few weeks and so fabricating an injury.

So it looks like Vasu, the temporary driver, has now gone permanent. 

The silver lining in the whole sorry tale is that I've used what I saved by only paying for a driver for two weeks in October to buy some cashmere tank tops. It is getting quite parky in the mornings now!

ps - Father Christmas has been on ebay and miraculously found a white chicken (not real) for a mere two quid. Don't know if ebay will also be able to come up with a solution to global warming and personal tragedy/depression for under a fiver, but he has assured me he will try...