Why is it so hard to say no? How I wish my parents had taught me some charming yet decisive way of refusing unwanted invitations. Or alternatively taught me to lie convincingly.

Today Son went round for a play date at some friends' (yes, that apostrophe is in the right place as they are twins so it's a plural) house. The Mum asked what I was doing over xmas and whether I would consider joining them for a bit of a get together with some of the other army people, and their kids, and have a few drinks and some party games. I know that Hubby would rather poke needles in his eyes than spend the day with random army people (just because he's spent the last twenty years or so in the army, doesn't mean he automatically wants to spend every waking moment with soldiers), getting drunk and forcing him to play pictionary or charades. But, having stupidly admitted to not having any firm plans until New Year, what could I say? I was on the brink of saying "Ooh yes, that would be lovely" but had a flashing vision of me telling Hubby about it, him saying "Well, I'm not bloody going," and me having to go on my own with all three kids and make up some limp excuse about Hubby having a migrane or somesuch. So I said, "That's very kind of you, but, erm, we usually just spend Christmas Day and Boxing Day and all the rest of the Christmas holidays in fact, just erm, hanging out with the kids and you know, playing with them, but it's really kind of you to ask." 

I mean, puh-lease, how lame is that for an excuse. But what else was I to say? "It's terribly kind of you but my husband would actually rather saw off his tadger with a blunt butter knife than spend time playing the post-it note game with you and yours." I think not.

Can anyone offer better etiquette/lying technniques, as I am just utterly useless.

PMT in BGN

Sorry it's been a bit. It's because I've been spending my evenings in the gym. Well, I went last night. This evening Hubby and I decided that as it's pretty chilly out, and I'm in an atrocious mood, the time would be better spent sitting in bed, drinking a hot toddy and eating chocolate in front of a DVD (thanks to fab friend back in Blighty for timely delivery of Lidl chocolate goodies). 

I cannot begin to tell you what a terrible mood I'm in. 

I have managed not to shout and shriek at the family, but I have been muttering darkly about the cashmere tank top that the housekeeper has shrunk and the lack of decent food the cook has left us for the weekend. Luckily they are not here today, as they would probably both be sacked by now, which I would immediately regret as they are in fact both lovely people who are perfectly competent. I am just a hormonal witch. 

Good job it's not Christmas Eve today, as Santa Claus would take one look and go a bit wide-eyed and silently scurry off somewhere else, which is exactly what Hubby and the kids have been doing most of the day.

Hope I am not so scary tomorrow, and able to suggest:

1. not shrinking woolens, and

2. actually cooking some food

to my hapless staff, without causing mirrors to shatter and milk to turn sour within a three-mile radius.

Incidentally, in Nepal, women are considered 'unclean' during their periods and aren't allowed to touch other people's food, go to the temple, do the gardening, etc., which all seems a bit wierd and out dated; however, considering how I feel today, I think it may be an example of ancient wisdom that we would do well to re-incorporate into our modern society. It would avoid quite a lot of screeching, "Oh for God's sake I'll just do it myself, you moron", or "No, I haven't got PMT, you are just an insensitive fuckwit," etc.  and possibly cut the divorce rate by some not inconsiderable percentage.

Just a thought.

my kids are not a pain in the arse, honest

Played lot of black jack at the casino royale night. Drank a lot of daiquiris too. It was okay. I got to wear Aunty Jill's spangly sequined top, at least. It has been dragged around from the UK to Northern Ireland, Germany and now Nepal and I have never yet had the opportunity to wear it. My mum's friend gave it to her to give to me about ten years ago, and I just haven't been able to bring myself to sling it out. When it was first given to me it was way to big, but now fits like a glove - that's ten year and three kids for you: cheerio Size Eight, and welcome, sit down and have a cuppa Size Twelve. Anyway, thank you Aunty Jill for the seventies style sequinned top, which made me feel almost exactly like Pussy Galore (except with a tad more cellulite and incipient 'bingo wings').

Kids seemed to enjoy their sleepover. The lovely mum who had them said they were fine, and it was fine. She said 'fine' just a few too many times, which makes me suspect she's telling porkie pies. (What she actually thought was something more along the lines of 'I have them in my class all blooming week, wiping their snotty noses, whatever possessed me to invite them round for half the weekend as well?'). What I have come to realise, since being a mum, is that mums lie all the time. They always tell the other mums that their children have been fine, behaved well, etc. I know this, because I do it myself. It's like some unspoken pact not ever ever ever to criticise other people's kids. Even if they have been a right pain in the arse.

Of course my kids are never a right pain in the arse. They are practically perfect in every way. As I'm sure you'll agree if you ever have them to stay!

I love a party with a happy atmosphere!

Well, it was every woman for herself in the musical chairs, so I failed miserably there, but managed a good effort in the eat-as-much-chocolate-with-a-knife-and-fork event. 

Tomorrow is Casino Royale night in the mess. On the invitation it confidently stated that a well-known Kathmandu casino would be running the night. Then, yesterday (or possibly the day before), the someone from the mess committee went into Hubby's work to ask if some of the blokes in the workshop could knock up some roulette and black jack tables. I'm not sure if anyone ever bothered to phone the local casino to ask them to come to the mess, but they're not coming. Someone has perhaps learnt that writing something on an invitation doesn't make it come true (perhaps they have also learnt that wishes don't always come true, and that Santa is just someone's fat uncle; sadly even the world's bravest soldiers have to learn these harsh realities at some point). So, as it is, we'll most likely be playing top trumps on a tables cobbled together from bits of old army furniture - less James Bond and more Brooke Bond by the minute. 

Wierdly, Sunil has suddenly gone all keen, and in a strange role reversal actually phoned me up tonight to tell me that he was coming round for a final fitting. He has promised to have the dress and matching bag ready by tomorrow evening. I just don't have the heart to tell  him that I'm not going to wear it. It is a gorgeous full-length evening dress in leaf-green silk. I am not wasting it on a Casino Royale night, with no casino, which is rapidly degenerating into fancy dress (last night I heard of Miss Moneypenny and Blofeld's cat coming along, and there was also some discussion of wigs and gold bikinis). 

Lovely teacher from school has offered to have kids for sleepover, hurrah, but Hubby is officially on duty so will not be drinking, boo. 

If Hubby is sober and there is no entertainment, might have to stash a big bar of chocolate in my handbag and suggest impromptu game of eat-as-much-chocolate-as-you-can-with-a-knife-and-fork to liven things up a bit.

But not musical chairs.

It's nine pm and Hubby has had his hot chocolate and wowed Sunil with his great Nepali (you know, 'in my opinion my wife is a little fat...' blah blah) and is fast asleep already. No doubt dreaming of green baize table tops and the grammatically correct way of saying 'in my opinion my wife is a little drunk, so just humour her with the whole wierd eating-chocolate-with-cutlery-thing' in Nepali.

I am now swathed in cashmere. Well, nearly. I will be by this time next week, anyway. When I mentioned my trip to the cashmere shop to Hubby, he decided that I should use the 'three criteria' that we have promised to use whenever we make a purchase, ie. 

1. Do I need it?

2. Can I afford it?

3. Can I get it cheaper anywhere else?

It is quite hard to justify a customised copy of a Fenn Wright Mason wrap thingy in cashmere by this method, so I had to resort to emotional blackmail. After all, I said, you have chosen to miss our wedding anniversary by going on a trek with your army mate, so I'm only spending on this what you should have spent on taking me out for dinner. So hurrah, the wrap thing is being woven as I write. Have also bought cute little pink cashmere tank tops for the Twins. They wore them to bed last night, which I'm very happy with as it ups the cost-per-wear total, and I don't feel quite so extravagant dressing my three-year-olds in cashmere.

Yesterday was pretty much a perfect day, actually. I had coffee with a lovely friend, then we went to the cashmere shop, then had a haircut (from someone who trained at Toni & Guy, but only charges a fiver for a cut and blow), then did a bit of writing in a cafe and had lunch (not New Orleans cafe, which I'm boycotting at the moment), then saw marvellous Christmas production at the British School. Couldn't help a bit of a blub when the polar bear cubs came on stage...

So it's back to school to see the play again today, this time with Hubby. I'm planning on getting there half an hour early so we can get a front row seat - the best bit is being waved at. And tonight it will be the fabulous partners' club (two husbands) function in the mess. I checked the seating plan to make sure that the lady who gets my 'secret santa' table present will actually fit into it (the pink pajamas). Have also made sure that she is not sitting on the same table as me, so I don't get so see her face when she opens her present (although I'm sure she will be as thrilled as I would be to get a pair of pink pajamas with a puppy motif from Santa).

After the meal there are party games. I'm quite keen on having a go at the eat-as-much-chocolate-as-you-can-with-a-knife-and-fork-and-gloves-on, but less keen on musical chairs. Apparently it's quite competitive - many of the Brit wives are sensibly wearing trousers for speed and ease of sitting. Must make sure I drink plenty of mulled wine beforehand.

no more eggs hollandaise ever!

Dodgy tummy yet again. Must remember not to have eggs hollandaise at New Orleans cafe ever again. Have been feeling queasy for days and the inevitable (but somewhat belated) bottom explosion came this morning. Sorry, too much information probably.

I did have grand plans to start going to the gym three times a week, but the chef at New Orleans cafe has put paid to that. Still, even though I haven't improved my fitness, I'm quite sure I haven't put on any weight, so you know, silver lining and all that.

I can't honestly think about what else I've done this week or weekend. Although I'm sure it's lots. Book is going dispiritingly slowly. I'm worried that my main characters are all a bit lacklustre, and the plot is shuffling rather than racing, but maybe that's just a reflection on how I've been feeling. I have to say I'm rather annoyed with my heroine, who does seem to be turning into a bit of a victim, which is not good at all. Still, I'm sure I can find some inner cynicism to spice her up  somehow.

This weekend I have done very little except moan, clutch my stomach and look pathetic. Which means Hubby has had to do a lot more of the washing up/childcare stuff than usual. He has done a very good job, but it has used up every scrap of his patience, so he has run off (literally) to the gym to escape domesticity and feel like a man again. So I'll be putting the kids to bed in a minute. Because I'm a bad mother, I have therefore opted for the watch-extra-DVD-and-go-straight-to-bed-without-a-story option.

It's getting colder every day out here, and hurrah for that. I'm off to the cashmere shop tomorrow and not even a dodgy egg hollandaise will stop me.

Exciting week ahead what with school play (I have two polar bear cubs and a narrator to cheer for), wives xmas function and a James Bond night in the mess. Sunil the tailor has promised to have my stuff ready on Tuesday, but even as he spoke, alien tentacles were grasping at his ankles and a shaft of blue light was strobing down from the mother ship. So we'll see...

not pate for lunch AGAIN!

Sorry I haven't been in touch for a bit. Internet connection has been a bugger. What's been happening here? The 521 lads have gone home (that's 'five-two-one', like Hawaii five-oh, not five hundred and twenty one lads - which might have been pretty exciting - actually there were about ten of them). They have been building a new water treatment works on camp. Thought I might write them a little goodbye poem:

So,

Farewell then,

521 lads.

You built water treatment works

And drank beer

Here.

Yes, well that's enough poetry. They flew out on the Friday morning, and General Dannatt (apologies for spelling, I'm sure that's wrong) flew in around the same time. They might even have passed him at the airport and exchanged a cheery wave. The General, who is higher than God, in army terms (not sure what this would be, perhaps a great theory which unifies our understanding of the universe, personified), came to do some very important things like talk to the prime minister and stuff, but he also got roped into opening the new water treatment works, lucky man. Hubby forced him to drink a glass of the treated water, which he didn't seem to keen on (I don't think his hair has turned green or his tongue dissolved - yet). That was the important bit. For all of us lesser mortals (aka wives), we got to have a cup of tea with Lady Dannatt, who seemed jolly nice. As she was the wife of the great theory that unifies our understanding of the universe personified, I thought there would at least be decent biscuits, maybe with chocolate. But no, it was some boring old cake, with a few raisins scattered through like an afterthought. No wonder she seemed pretty keen to get away (although this might also be because she had twins 1&2 hanging onto her ankles like a pair of grubby leg warmers).

So after that pinnacle of excitement on friday, the weekend was somewhat anti-climatic. No 521 or important generals this week. Just me, and Grumpy Hector, who is making us all nervous with his male version of PMT. I'm not quite sure why having pate for lunch AGAIN and a cup of tea that's TOO BIG, causes so much wrath, but then again, he has to put up with me eating my body weight in chocolate and getting shouty and tearful on a regular basis, so can't complain!