It's the night before-the-night-before-christmas

Hello! It's the night before-the-night-before-christmas, which is really exciting (if you're six years old), so exciting, in fact, that Twin 2 decided to fall down the stairs. It was a great stunt-double tumble, involving a double somersault and only being halted by the dog's basket on the corner. I was wondering the other day quite what career Twin 2 is likely to pursue when she grows up, and I think a stunt woman will suit her very well. She is exceptionally good at falling over.
Tomorrow morning we're up at five to head off to the grandparents', which is fantastic. I keep having conversations with people asking me if I'm ready for Christmas, to which I reply that I've bought a bottle of bubbly (for me - Christmas being the only day when it's totally acceptable to start drinking at breakfast time, hurrah) and filled the car up with petrol, and that's it. How thankful I am to have a mother who loves cooking and a father who loves washing up - roll on the hols!
I have mentioned to the kids that their grandmother's way of showing them that she cares is by cooking, so it's rude to say you don't like something that she's served up. Twin 1 has been practising: "I'm sorry but I ate a big breakfast today so I can't quite manage this" - hope she won't use this line at every meal time, but at least it's better than: "This is yuk, why can't we have a hot dog in front of the telly like we do at home?"
Of course I won't be getting a Christmas present from Bah Humbug Major Bumsaw, who is stuck in his office in the middle of the desert, so I sent the kids off at Tesco the other day with £10 and an instruction to get me something nice. I even gave them a nice spangly gift bag and some sellotape so they could gift wrap it and I really wouldn't know what's inside. Even better, because everything's on bogof at the moment, I'll be getting loads (although I'm not sure quite what I'll be getting loads of).
All the presents are packed up in the car, along with the stocking fillers. Santa has been quite communicative this year and sent a video message and a letter (although no email - I decided to avoid that one since inadvertently sending him viagra and porn adverts when my account was compromised last year). Twin 1 also sent him a letter in which she asked for a guitar and a colouring book (phew, thank goodness she forgot about the Wii and the DS).
Right, I'm off to finish my wine and go to bed, because my alarm is set for 4.30 am...
Have a fab xmas xxxx

this morning I was woken up by a pirate attacking me, running off and then running back in to moon me.

Hello. Here I am, alone in bed, with nothing but my hot water bottle and my fulsome body hair to keep me warm (well, if your spouse was away for months, what would you do? And, actually, if there were ever any remote possibility of me thinking cheeky thoughts or getting into a situation where I could even consider a little adulterousness, it really would never happen with the amount of hair I'm now sprouting. If I was a bloke, I'd have a beard, 1970s sideburns and a big fat beer belly - yes that's the extent of letting myself go since my husband disappeared into the desert).
I have just spent the evening massaging the dog and eating the last Cornetto (because in the end I didn't eat it the other night, when I really deserved it), watching 'Ten years younger' on some sub species of ITV and leafing through the Slimming World manual with vague thoughts about how I should really pull myself together...but not until 2012.
'Ten years younger' is one of those guilty pleasures things, isn't it? I know, I ought to be watching Channel Four news and appraising myself of the developments in the euro crisis, but somehow it seems more urgent to discover what that woman is going to do about her bingo wings, crows' feet and candyfloss hair (whilst massaging the dog's arthritis and eating the last Cornetto).
Anyway, I needed to veg because of my frustrating time with electrickery...I was trying to get some Dr Who stories off the laptop and onto my phone, so that I could play them in the car on our marathon journey to grandparents' for xmas. It didn't work. Now, if Hubby was around, this would be the point where I would have said "It doesn't work..." and looked pathetic until the master of gadgets sorted it out. I know that's useless of me, but I'm very lazy, you see: I would rather look utterly stupid than have to engage with an instruction manual. I was half hoping that Hubby would phone from Afghanistan and I could ask him how to do it (at least it would give us something to talk about), but the phone call didn't happen. I tried burning the Dr Who files to a CD, but that didn't work either. And then eventually I did read the instruction manual, which was not an enjoyable or fulfilling thing to do, but I did it, and I did do something that I thought was technically competant involving the phone and the laptop, but after leaving the phone doing something active through the USB cable for the entire evening, Dr Who still  has not shifted onto the phone. Ah, well, now I'm full of wine and Cornetto and top tips for looking ten years younger I'm no longer in the mood for pfaffing about with an irritating little piece of electronics; it will have to wait until the morning. Which will only be a few short hours away, now... this morning I was woken up by a pirate attacking me, running off and then running back in to moon me. Then the pirate's sister came and did the same thing. Outside my bedroom door I heard Son killing himself laughing, as he'd set them up to it. So if today is anything to go by, I shall expect to be ambushed by some kind of evil fancy dress child in about six hours...
xxx

Tesco arrived, time for some wine....

Waiting...for the Tesco van to arrive (and somewhat impatiently as I'm out of booze)...last week it took the poor man over an hour to find us as he got lost on camp, and his English wasn't very good, so he couldn't understand the directions they gave him at the gate.
My super dooper Cruella de Vil coat arrived in the post this morning. I bought it on ebay and I shall wear it to a winter wedding (which I'm very excited about - the wedding that is, oh, alright, the coat as well). Actually it's more of a Cruella de Vil meets Bet Lynch thing. It's red leather with black faux fur cuffs and a huge faux fur collar. And it has a quilted lining, so it should be nice and warm.
I know I have to stop the ebay thing now. I know I do. But I had to have something to wear for this wedding...
Right, sorry, I'll stop banging on about my coat now. What else? I finally made it into university yesterday for the final session. Whoop, whoop. Amazingly nobody was ill. Of course, it couldn't last, and this afternoon on school pickup I was told that Twin 2 had been feeling sick...again!
Yikes, Tesco arrived, time for some wine....
take care xxx

week of vom

It's the end of the week, so here I am with my salt and vinegar crisps and a glass of rose in front of the telly. Classy, that's me. I know I should be lighting my Jo Malone scented candle, slipping into my White Company cashmere socks and sipping a large riocha, but I think I'm clearly a sub-standard officer's wife (or at least, that's how I feel after my lunch in the mess the other day...).
Anyway,  a small celebration is in order as it's the end of the week of vomiting. Twins decided to support the teachers' strike by keeping off school ever since, bless 'em. I've been probably the most unsympathetic mother, however, as they were both dumped in front of the telly with a sick bowl whilst I got on with writing. By yesterday afternoon Twin 1 was begging me to take her to school, so she went in, but Twin 1 had yet another day today of lying on the sofa watching kids' TV and shouting for me periodically to re-heat her hot mouse thing (it's a cloth mouse filled with grape pips that you heat up in the microwave) and bring snacks. This evening everyone seemed to be better though, so I might even get a night's sleep without having to share my bed with an ill girl tonight. I can't wait - I might even crack open another one of my teeny tiny bottles of wine and see if I can hunt down that old cornetto that I know is lurking somewhere in the back of the freezer.
Right, so other than vomit and rat poo, there's not much been going on this week, so I'm going to go and glug back some more booze and hop into my empty bed.
Night x

a bit tired and faintly viral...

Hi, how are you? I'm feeling a bit tired and faintly viral. Having had ill children sharing my bed every night this week I am now a) suffering from sleep deprivation, and b) succumbing to whatever lurgy it is they've had (it seems to be a yummy combination of tummy bug and cold, a kind of buy-one-get-one-free virus, if you will). Twins were off school yesterday, and I had to get a baby sitter in in the morning so that I could get to uni for my 'consultation' (I think once you're postgrad they stop calling them tutorials), which was basically just a bit of a chat about my work. When I set off on my bike the sun was shining, although the clouds looked quite dark, and I remarked to a passing neighbour that it looked like it would snow later. How prophetic I am. It started to sleet just as I was far enough away from home not to be able to turn back and get the car, and continued to sleet all morning, so I had to cycle back in it as well. I had a very soggy pashmina by the time I got home, and ended up retiring to bed for a bit to warm up and recover, whilst the ill kids watched yet more CBBC.
Last night I only had one child in bed with me, and that was only for the latter part of the night, so I thought it might be safe to ship them both off to school today. Had a productive morning working on the next academic essay (dialogue and point of view in Graham Greene's Two Gentle People) and decided to skive circuits in favour of an officers' wives' lunch in the mess - which sounds posher than it was. As it turned out it was toasted sandwiches and lots of talk about how Waitrose really is cheaper than Tesco (I kept quiet about my Lidl addiction) and I wasn't too gutted when I got a call from school telling me that Twin 1 was feeling sick and had to come home (I wonder if I could do a deal with the school secretary to do that next time I'm listening to a conversation about the best value turkey to buy?).
The good news is that as it's wednesday supper is hot dogs in front of the telly, hurrah, and my wednesday night chore is to clean the bedroom, which Bertha is doing as I write, so I may end up with almost no chores tonight and an early night, fingers crossed!
Take care xxx
ps - I will try to find something more exciting to tell you about next time...

'I bet you looked good on the dance floor...in 1984'.

So, blogging when you're drunk. A good thing or no? Lets find out, shall we, as I recount in tedious detail what was the adventure of the wive xmas party 2011....
I was sat with the lovely K, who is lovely, and agreed to come to the function with me, and I'm jolly glad she did, because I soon realised that I didn't really know anyone else. At all. K was sat next to a beautiful woman who told us a lot about her platinum jewellery and about the fact that her husband is her stepfather's best friend (as is the way in North Devon). The disco played a nice selection of music, including Black Box's 'ride on time' and B52's 'love shack' so of course, in my head I was eighteen again. Do you remember the Arctic Monkey's had a song a few years ago 'I bet you looked good on the dance floor...in 1984'. I think they had me in mind when they wrote the lyrics. I'm quite sure I did look good on the dance floor at some point in previous decades, but certainly not now. However, after many glasses of wine, I didn't care.
The disco was interspersed with karaoke. (Yes, it doesn't really bear imagining). I persuaded K to join me in a rendition of Madonna's 'like a virgin' but sadly the DJ had to leave before he got to our number. (Do you think he might have seen my dancing and thought better of letting me have control of a microphone?)
So then I got home to the delights of dog sick and rat poo. Quite a lot of dog sick, actually - I think giving Dog chips and beans for supper wasn't a very good idea, in retrospect.
If this blog is somewhat incoherent, I apologise, but place the blame squarely on the poor quality of the wine in the sergeants' mess.
Good night xxx

I survived the teachers' strike:

I survived the teachers' strike: made xmas cards, cupcakes and even managed to get to the gym for another near-death experience. Kids are ridiculously excited about the prospect of advent calendars in the morning. I have made a command decision, however, to keep the Twins' calendars in my room, so there will be no repeat of Twin 2 deciding to open all the windows in one go (she has no concept of delayed gratification, that one). Because of the strike, I haven't be able to write much this week - Wednesday is usually a great writing day. I have been trying to think more deeply about one of my characters and get into her psyche before writing some extra scenes for her, but all I've been able to do read a bit of Mary Churchill's memoirs, order some cardboard dividers for chapters (somehow I think if I can split it all up, it will be easier to manage - not sure why I think having bits of coloured card will make me a better writer...), and worry about what I won't have time to write by my Friday deadline. I tried writing a scene tonight, but then had to go to the laptop to try to discover what Grosvenor Gardens looked like in 1941 and then got sucked into Facebook and now it's gone ten and I have to go to bed. At least I remembered to change the bed sheets - Son brought a rat in to see me in bed this morning and promised me  that it wouldn't wee or poo. Of course, the second the little furry vermin got on the sheets it immediately did both.
Feeling slightly sad and wishing I could talk to Hubby, but I can't, so I'm going to swig down the rest of my wine and fill up my hot water bottle instead.
Nightie night x

important military hardware

Hi, here I am, in bed, with a hot water bottle and a glass of wine (oh, alright, an empty glass of wine). I have been drinking a whole bottle of wine a night since Hubby left. No, no, it's okay, I have been deliberately buying those teeny tiny bottles (two for three pounds in Tesco right now, hurrah), so I don't turn into a total lush whilst he's away.
At the moment I'm waiting for my cousin's girlfriend to appear on Tibetonline TV news. She's an amazing stained glass window artist and has made a window for a school in Dharamsala, which was officially unveiled the other week. Hmmm, just had another look at the link, and all I'm getting is the weather for Tibet on 19th November (cloudy with only occasional sunny spells, it looks like, so don't go booking any last minute breaks to Lhasa is my advice).
Hubby has been gone just over a week now, and although I have been feeling a bit gloomy, it's fine. Sort of. I sent him a parcel today - he said he needed a hole punch, so I bunged one in  jiffy bag. How army is that? Lets keep up the morale of our brave boys by sending them...hole punchers. Surely by now he should just be able to burn holes through paper with his thousand-yard stare?
Today, apart from sending out important military hardware to the front,  I've been Mary Churchill's autobiography, in order to give me some inspiration for one of my characters. Sitting at home reading a nice book and having cups of tea hardly seems like work, does it, but I keep telling myself that it's essential research. I did break from the 'essential research' to go to circuits for yet another near-death experience. We did shuttle runs interspersed with sit ups, press ups, etc. which I know doesn't sound difficult - and probably wouldn't be for anyone who hasn't spent the last three years sitting on their bum in Nepal - but really was. Will it ever get easier? Will I ever lose any flab off my chubby haunches? Who knows? Not me! xxx

Pam goes magical realist

We're doing something about 'magical realism' on the course at the moment, and the brief for this weeks submission was to pick a god and have him/her/it helping out in a specific contemporary situation, which got me thinking about Pam, from Hair by Pam, and I just wanted to share what I came up with...

(gə-nāsh')  also Ga·ne·sha (-nā'shə)

n. Hinduism

The god of wisdom and the remover of obstacles, depicted as a short fat boy with four arms and elephant's head. He likes to eat sweets. His mode of transport is a giant rat.

Oh, look at me, I’m all fingers and thumbs today. Can you pick that up for me, Shelley? My back’s playing up again…Thanks, love. Do you want a cup of tea, Mrs Jones…A Cup Of Tea? Yes?...Shelley, get Mrs Jones a cup of tea, will you.

Who died, Mrs Jones? Your sister-in-law? I’m very sorry…oh, your son-in-law. How terrible. That must be very hard…do you want larger rollers at the front, like last time?

Here’s your tea…Tea…careful it’s hot. Careful! Run and get a cloth will you Shelley, love.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Oh, hello Mrs Lavery, you’re early today. You caught the eleven fifty? Well you can always use the toilet here, you know. Yes, they do a lovely cheddar cob. Shelley, help Mrs Lavery to the toilet, will you.

Now, Mrs Jones, lets get you under the dryer, shall we?...Under The Dryer…watch out for your…Shelley, love, get a dustpan, will you, and clean up this broken mug.

There, are you comfortable Mrs Jones? Would you like something to read while you’re under?...Something To Read?...Shelley, bring Mrs Jones a magazine, will you. Thanks, love.

Oh, Mrs Lavery, is that better? Yes, it is in a bit of an awkward place, I keep asking Ken to fix it. There you are, sit down and I’ll get Shelley to bring you a cup of tea. What are we doing this time? Did you like Ash Whisper or would you rather go back to Silver Mist? Yes, it is, yes, very flattering on your skin tone when you’re…

STOP SCRATCHING YOUR BALLS!

Sorry, Mrs Lavery. Shelley, love, get out there and tell him. I won’t have people hanging about outside and doing things like that. And tell his friends to stop gawping. We’re a salon, not a zoo. Now Mrs Lavery, where were we? Thanks, Shelley. Will you get Mrs Lavery a cup of tea, thanks love. So you were saying, Silver Mist…

PISS OFF!

Sorry Mrs Lavery. Shelley, will you tell those ethnics to sling their hooks. I do apologise, Mrs Lavery. Where was I? Yes, banana boat, you’re quite right. And it’s our taxes that pay for them, I know. Here’s your tea. Careful, it’ll be…Shelley, love, run and get the cloth, will you.

So you’re settled on Silver Mist, then? Let’s just comb it through before we start. How has your week been? Biopsy? Oh, yes, Ken had to have one of those when…anal probe? Yes, I should think you would. Hypo what? Oh, glycemic. What’s that when it’s at home? Biscuits? Yes, you can’t take any chances. Shelly, love, go and see if we’ve got any biscuits for Mrs Lavery.

I’LL CALL THE POLICE, YOU LITTLE SHITS!

Sorry, where was I? Yes, Mrs Lavery, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry, but they live in our country now, and they have to abide by our laws. Yes, I know, and in the middle of the High Street, too! What’s that? Goat curry?

Did you hear that, Shelley, Mrs Lavery says goat curry! Shelley, what is it, love? No? Oh, well, take fifty pence from the till and pop over the road for some. And if you see those ethnics, tell them I know where they live. What’s that Mrs Lavery? No, I don’t.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Oh, hello Mrs Quaite, how are you? Just take a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment. Shelley will get you a cup of tea when she gets back. How’s the new flat? They charge you to what? …Did you hear that, Mrs Lavery? Mrs Quaite says they’re charging her twenty pounds to change a light bulb in the new flat. I know, they say not to climb up on a chair in case you fall, and then  - I tell you what, Mrs Quaite, next time give me a call and I’ll get Ken to change it for you, for a fiver! What’s that? No, we never have the radio on, the council won’t let us have a music licence. It must be Shelley’s phone. Sorry, do you mind Mrs Lavery, I’ll just take it for her…Hello? No, it’s not Shelley, she’s just popped out for custard creams. Oh, I see, I’ll tell her when she gets back. It’s the school, Mrs Quaite, Gracie-May has fallen off the monkey bars. They’re taking her to hospital. Monkey bars? It’s like a climbing frame.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Oh, Shelley, love, I’m glad you’re back. You’ve just had a call from the school. Gracie-May has fallen off the monkey bars and they’re taking her to hospital. Give me the custard creams and you get your coat. Monkey bars, Mrs Lavery…it’s like a climbing frame. Yes, Shelley, love, but we’ll manage, you get yourself off and go and be with your little girl. Really? Close by? Qualified? No, I don’t mind having a man in the salon. Well, I could use an extra pair of hands now Mrs Quaite’s here too. All right then. Ganesh. Thanks Shelley, love, and give Gracie-May a kiss from her Aunty Pam.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Right then Mrs Lavery, if you’d like to come over to the sink.

Mrs Quaite, I’ll have to do your tea in a moment.

How are you, Mrs Jones, is it too hot under there…Too Hot? No, good. I’ll check on you again in a little while, then.

Oh the phone!

Hold on a second, Mrs Lavery, just leave the water running.

Yes, Mrs Quaite, I’ll get you a magazine when I’ve taken this call. Yes I do smell burning.

Are you sure you’re alright under there, Mrs Jones…Mrs Jones!

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Oh, Ganesh, love, get the phone will you? Mrs Jones, I think you’re done…You’re Done! Yes, let’s get you up, shall we?

Ganesh, when you’ve written down that appointment, will you get Mrs Quaite a magazine and a cup of tea, thanks love.

Hang on, Mrs Lavery, I’m just coming. You’re right, there is something wrong with the shower head. I keep telling Ken to fix it, but you know what he’s like.

Ganesh, love, when you’ve done the tea, can you just use your trunk to sluice down Mrs Lavery’s hair and then shampoo in half a bottle of Silver Mist. Thanks, love.

Happy with your magazine, Mrs Quaite?

Ganesh, when you’ve done Mrs Lavery, can you bring Mrs Quaite another magazine. No, Jordan was last week’s. She wants the one with Kerry Katona going into the Priory. Thanks, love. Oh, and bring the custard creams…Mrs Jones, if you just sit down here by the mirror.

Ganesh, if you could just towel off Mrs Lavery and make a start with her rollers. The pink ones at the back, bric-a-brac – not too tight, mind, she’s got a sensitive scalp.

Mrs Jones, let’s get these rollers out, shall we? What’s that? Shelley looks different today? No, love, it’s Shelley’s friend Ganesh…Ganesh…he’s just helping out because Shelley’s Gracie-May fell off the monkey bars and they’re taking her to hospital…Monkey Bars…its like a climbing frame.

Ganesh, love, I can see a traffic warden coming. You’d better pop out and move your rat before you get a ticket. No, you can just park at the back next to the wheelie bin.

That colour has come up lovely, Mrs Jones, let’s brush it through. Do you want hairspray today? …Hairspray? Yes, that looks really nice.

Ganesh, can you take Mrs Jones’ money and help her on with her coat. No, Ganesh, the sweets are for the customers. Get your trunk out of there! Oh, he is a cheeky one, isn’t he, Mrs Jones? I Said He’s A Cheeky One. Goodbye Mrs Jones. See you next week.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

So, Mrs Lavery, lets have a look at those rollers. Oh, Ganesh has done a nice job. Where did you say you got your qualification, Ganesh? Dharma? No, not heard of it, is it near Mansfield?

FUCK OFF, YOU BLOODY ETHNIC BASTARDS!

Ganesh, love, do me a favour and set your rat on them. I know, but if you call the police they do nothing about it, and I’ve had it up to here with them today. Thanks.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

Right then, Mrs Lavery, lets get you under the dryer, shall we?

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

What’s that Mrs Quaite? Yes, the screaming is a bit loud, isn’t it? I’d turn up the music, but as I said, the council won’t let us have a music licence.

Ganesh, love, can you get your rat to disembowel the ethnics a bit further up the street. Yes, it is a bit loud, especially with us not having any music on. It’s putting Mrs Quaite off her magazine.

[A bell rings as the door opens and closes]

So, Mrs Quaite, would you like to come and sit down next to the mirror. We were talking about you going russet for the festive season…

"Stop scratching your balls!"

This morning Son woke me up at six thirty to helpfully let me know that Dog had left diarhoea all over the kitchen floor. Not the best start to the day. Then Twin 1 refused to get dressed and I shouted at her. Hmmm. We resolved it, and I apologised, etc. but then today she came home with a note from school explaining that she's getting a good behaviour award in assembly this week. So maybe she's only huffy at home? Or maybe I really am an evil witch.
After the kids went to school I went to Hair by Pam. The eponymous Pam wasn't there, but I'm hearing tantalising details about her. Apparently she has been known to run out into the street and tell random passers by to "Stop scratching your balls!" and to tell youths glancing in through the salon window to F-off. Given that the average age of the Hair by Pam customer is eighty-odd (I am not kidding, you should have seen the look I got when I asked if they had any serum), there is something unsettling about Pam getting salon rage with hapless Beeston youths. One day I shall have to make an appointment on a day other than Tuesday and meet the legend in person. Or maybe not. It might be a bit scary.
Yawned my way through uni this afternoon. I told my tutor that the main reason was that I was up very early cleaning dog poo off the kitchen floor. I'm not sure writer's lives are supposed to be like this. Shouldn't I be having angst-ridden-drug-addled nightmares in an attic somewhere? Surely real writers don't clean up dog poo and have their hair cut at Hair by Pam?
Right, it's twenty to eleven now. How did that happen? I have to go to bed, just in case there's another early morning spot of scrubbing to attend to.
Goodnight x

Luckily Dog didn't die

Watching military wives sing at the Albert Hall for 'The Choir' was probably not the best choice today. Blub? I should say so!
Hubby went off to Afghanistan last night. Everyone pretended to be fine with it, but Son was awake three times in the night, Twin 2 had a bad dream, and Twin 1 has been in a foul mood all day. So I think that secretly maybe we're not okay.
Luckily Dog didn't die on the vet's slab today. I got a call when he was under, and the vet said in a sombre voice that he needed to talk to me. I immediately assumed that he had some hideous tumour and was not going to wake up, but it turns out the vet was just checking I was happy for him to have his teeth cleaned. It turns out he just has rotten teeth and a bad back, just like any old man. Good job we have pet insurance, as otherwise Christmas would definitely be cancelled (I'm not going to tell you how much the dog's x-ray cost, but lets just say it was more than the price of a robotic hoover).
Just been speaking to lovely M, which is why this blog isn't longer (blame her!).
Will try to write more soon xxx

tired...

I know, I ought to be asleep and tomorrow I will pay for becoming increasingly nocturnal. But now at least the xmas shopping is done. Yes, even the stockings and the present from the dog (he is helpfully giving them all socks - such a sensible hound). I guess if he dies before xmas these will have to become a present from the rats instead. The rats are imminent*. Son is counting down the days. Hubby has promised to take him to buy them on Friday, whilst twins are in choir doing soaring ballads (Let the river run by Carly Simon, specifically).
Oooh, actually I am really tired now, and I guess I ought to go to bed before midnight (it was 1am yesterday as I was busy sorting out a present for the in-laws)...
Well, night then xxx
* Hubby is being replaced with rats when he goes on tour - I've mentioned that already, no?

An absent husband, a dead dog and a reputation for scaring speech therapists and angering poets...

Eleven Eleven, always makes me blub. Was feeling outrageously emotional this morning and then went and got all teary in front of Twin 2's speech therapist at school this morning. I'd only just met her - she probably thinks I'm a nutter, now. We had lots of long discussions about Twin 2's speech and other things, but perhaps she was just humoring me, in the way you do with people you suspect are a bit mentally unhinged...
It all started last night when Son was on the local BBC news. The school had arranged a remembrance service here on the army barracks, and the reporter had a chat to some of the army kids. Son explained that his dad was off to Afghan in a couple of weeks and this 'shoved a worried feeling down into his tummy'. I had to go an snivel in the kitchen with a big piece of kitchen roll after that. Then, even though I'd promised myself I'd do some writing that evening, instead I spent far too much time wandering vacantly round the house and going to bed too late. So then this morning I was all tired and over emotional, and after the speech therapist incident I went into uni for a discussion with some poets and managed to upset them by suggesting that the way to increase interest in their poems would be to get actors to read them at public performances. Woah! That really didn't go down well. I had to apologise and explain that I wasn't a poet or an actor and I really didn't know what I was talking about (at least I didn't cry).
Hubby has just interrupted my train of thought by suggesting that we get Dog stuffed when he dies. He thinks perhaps a cushion cover would be nice. Which is especially cheery, when I have Dog booked in for an exploratory x-ray the same day Hubby deploys. An absent husband, a dead dog and a reputation for scaring speech therapists and angering poets...this isn't quite what I had in mind on my return from Nepal.
Oh, yes, and now I have writer's block. Which I have never had before. I'm learning so blooming much about great writing that I'm beginning to realise how un-great mine is. And I have another six thousand words to write for next week.
Now I'm off to have my third glass of ginger wine, and you can't stop me.
Take care xxx

I am still here, honest

I've got time to write a quick blog, hurrah. I don't think it means that my time management is getting any better, just that I packed the kids off to bed early. Son is just back from a school trip to somewhere muddy in the peak district (and that's about all I know about it, other than that they sold slinkys in the shop) and needed an early night, because at the activity centre they all went to bed at half past nine (shock: I wasn't planning on bed times that late until he's at least sixteen).
I've been madly catching up on all the work I should have done during half term, but didn't because we were all busy having fun. So I've handed in my essay and my workshop piece and my portfolio piece and now I just have to write another six thousand words by next week, which should be easy, right? Just so long as nobody gets ill...
We had our early Christmas this weekend. The kids all got bikes and pajamas (Santa is nothing if not practical), so we were out in the rain, riding around the block this weekend. Of course peddling and steering and braking and balancing is all a bit too much for Twin 2 to cope with, so we had to attach her bike onto a grown-up's one, so all she has to do is hang on for dear life and try not to go flying off on the corners.
I made a lovely roast dinner (free range chicken, not turkey, since you ask). In the great traditions of xmas dinners it was an hour late, by which time everyone had eaten far too many sweets and was not the slightest bit interested in sprouts or roast parsnips. Good to see that nothing has changed since I was a child.
We had a christmas cake. The kids managed a small slice each, but I declined (mixed fruit, yuk), so Hubby had to eat the rest of the cake himself. Oh well, he'll need the extra insulation as those desert nights can get pretty cold at this time of year.
Even though I didn't eat any xmas pud or xmas cake, I still feel like I've put on a christmassy amount of weight - in fact, I'm too scared to even set foot on the scales as it will just depress me, and I'm sad enough about the prospect of losing my husband for six months, so I don't need any more bad news, thanks.
Anyway, I went to circuits today (which of course nearly killed me). I know that in order to lose flab one needs to eat less/do more, but I'm not one hundred per cent keen on the 'eat less' side of that equation, so I will just have to do more. Apparently typing burns up calories, so maybe my six thousand words for next week won't be totally wasted...and I have promised myself that I will go to circuits twice a week for the next six months - by the time Hubby gets back I'll be fit as a butcher's dog (whatever that means).
Anyway, I'm going to go now and have a look at what Santa bought me - a new Kindle, thanks Santa!
xxx

busy student - not oxymoronic, it turns out...

Really sorry for the silence. Who would have thought that being a student would be so busy? It's not how I remember things at all (but this is possibly down to the fact that last time I was a student I didn't have three kids...).
At the moment I'm printing out the novel I wrote in Nepal because it has been long-listed for a first novel competition. I was thrilled when I discovered this; however, having re-read some of it through my new creative-writing-masters-student eyes, I'm worried that quite large portions of it need substantial revision.
So I'm not expecting to win.
I've told Hubby not to expect me to win, either, thus dashing his hopes of a new yacht/car when the royalties start rolling in.
Deadlines are good. But Hubby's leave, parental visits and half term have all taken their toll and I am now so behind with things that I will have to sell my soul to the devil in order to be able to get through my workload this week. Not sure if the devil would actually want my soul though - it's a bit wrinkled and irritable, these days.
Talking of devils...here comes Halloween, hurrah, just a few short days after the dentist sombrely informed me that son has so much decay in two of his molars that they will have to be taken out. Oh well, let him stuff himself with candy first - the extractions aren't planned until the end of November. As usual, I left the dentist feeling guilty and immediately went to spend a fortune on new mouthwash, toothbrush, etc. etc.
I think the dentist and the vet must be in league (with the devil?) - just playing on my feelings of guilt and inadequacy to spend ever more money.
Right then, manuscript done.
Better get on and do some work, I guess...

tiger stripes

Bertha is busy in the hallway, bless her little bristly rollers.
I'm not going to talk about my hair-by-pam experience (and anyway, it wasn't by Pam, it was by lovely Michelle, who did apologise for the tiger stripes on my crown and for the lack of serum/paddle brushes/mousse in the salon, and for the fact that her low blood pressure gave her the shakes when she was weaving in the highlights - which might account for the tiger stripe effect, but lets not dwell on that because she is absolutely lovely, and two hours in the chair gave me plenty of time to finish Chekhov). If Chekhov were alive today, he would probably write a short story about a hair salon in Beeston, and the futility of hair products, because we will all die an ignoble and faintly comic death sooner or later anyway. He would, however, do this via a skilled use of shifting viewpoints (as I learnt by the time my three-hour workshop finished on Tuesday).
There is more Chekhov promised throughout the course, along with a generous helping of Flaubert, who seems to be less than cheery as well. Might have to up my dose of St John's Wort, then...
Finally finished the first draft of my first chapter today and sent it off to the others on the course for feedback. I also sent it to my mum, who immediately emailed back telling me that I'm getting my apostrophes all wrong (I blame going to school in the seventies and eighties, when nobody gave a stuff about grammar - but maybe it's just because I'm a bit thick).
I have to go now and do some more reading - thankfully not Chekhov. I'm sure Bertha will put herself to bed when she's ready.
Night then x

Hair by Pam

Its already nine, and I have to read a Chekhov short story by tomorrow. Chekhov is like East Enders - you just know it won't end well. Will chocolate and wine help ease the Russian misery, or just plunge me deeper into despair? I was thinking that maybe I could read it tomorrow at the hairdressers (I'm having it done at Hair by Pam. I think having your hair done at a hairdresser called Hair by Pam bodes as well as a Chekhov story. By this time tomorrow I may not only be saturated with Eastern European gloom, I'll have a pants hairstyle as well), but I would rather leaf through an old copy of Hello and talk about hair serum for an hour. Must go and face the vortex of doom xx
ps - Son's thought for the day: Did you know that you can get a dodecohedronal prism?
Nope, me neither.

supper time

So, Twin 1 looked pensive at the supper table...
Her: Mu-ummy....
Me: Yes, darling, what is it?
Her: When I'm dying, yeah?
Me: Well, I don't really want to think about it, but what?
Her: Well, d'you know what I'm going to do when I'm dying?
Me: What will you do, sweetheart?
Her: I'm going to eat cake.

I think my daughter has the soul of a very old woman.

aggressive housekeeping

Alcoholic ginger beer - what an inspired creation! Anyway, I'm going to save the rest for watching in front of Dad's Army (yes, I truly am a crusty old fart these days).
Hubby is here, reading something for work whilst we wait for Son to stop watching Merlin and give up the telly to the delights of 1970s comedy.
Hubby has been learning lots of new stuff for work, and relating it back to me. If I ever bump into a brigadier, I will be able to wow him with phrases like 'deep dive', 'handrail' and 'aggressive housekeeping' (oh yes, really - doesn't it just conjour up the image of a huffy old general in a frilly pink apron with Marigolds at the ready?), all of which are current military terminology. Apparently the chaps at the top aren't terribly keen on 'aggressive housekeeping' as armed forces jargon, but nobody can think of a better phrase for the particulars of managing the Afghan drawdown, so lots of top brass and senior civil servants are having serious chats in the corridors of Whitehall about aggressive housekeeping.
Talking of which - Bertha has been doing very well, recently (I've dropped the 'mini' and just accepted her as the only housekeeper worthy of the name in this house). Hubby has become, over the last 24 hours since he got home, somewhat obsessed with her, which may in part be due to her military pedigree (apparently she's a direct descendant of bomb disposal robots). He has spent most of the day following her around, cleaning her brushes, and marvelling at her efficiency. He was never like this about Sanu, or Meena (or me, either...). Dog, however is less impressed. Perhaps he senses the competition. Bertha scurries around, looking cute, and moreover, actually contributing something to the household, rather than just being a hairy parasite that costs a fortune at the vets. Dog has been huffily trying to shed hair at a faster rate than Bertha can clear it up. But nobody can beat Bertha; it's an exercise in futility to try. Poor Dog. Oh well, he should hurry up and think of something useful to do, like make lasagne or change the bedding, in order to justify his (increasingly miserable) existence.
Only three minutes until Dad's army so I have got to go.
Enjoy your weekend xxx

quickie

House-full again: Big H, Little G and E from over the road. Twin 2 has just told me I have to go upstairs to tidy up her bed and that if I don't she will turn me into a tadpole, so I guess I'd better go...BTW I have just discovered that I have to write six thousand words for constructive crit by the class by next week, which isn't daunting at all, honest (not sure if I'll get that lemon cake book finished now). Cheerio x

pre-loved rodents

I'm sitting on the stairs to keep out of mini-Bertha's way and looking up rats online for Son. It turns out there's a rat rescue home in Nottingham - who would have thought? Unfortunately they have no pre-loved rodents at the moment, but who knows, one might turn up by the time Hubby deploys.
Today I turned down the offer of a coffee morning and worked from home. It doesn't feel like work because it's too much fun, though. I wrote a short story and then rewrote it from a different point of view and then looked up books about women soldiers during world war two. I'm hoping that the university library can get a loan of a book of memoirs of an ATS woman from the Imperial War Museum, which would be fab.
When I went to pick up the kids from school, Son greeted me with a calculation about how many nanoseconds there are in a minute. He says sixty million. Is he right? Who knows! I said, well done, Son and handed him a carrot. What's he going to be like by the time he reaches secondary school?
Big H and little G came round to play after school and the house was swiftly filled with leaves and crisp crumbs and I didn't care because I know that mini-B would just relish the challenge.
So tonight, coursework reading (Chekhov) or the rest of the lemon cake book? I know I should be disciplined, but Chekhov does make me want to top myself, so I may have to plump for the lemon cake thing.
Ooh, tired now, must go. Night night x

shut up and stop embarrassing me, mum

Mini-Bertha has gone to bed (when she runs out of energy, she just takes herself back to her docking station and has a good old rest, bless her), and big Bertha has gone, too. Rebecca Bryan got left behind in the university, so now it's just me and a large spritzer and some chocolate.
It has been an exciting day for Bertha. Not only did mini-Bertha get an outing, but she took delivery of a very large washing machine, as well. Unfortunately the washing machine is flashing up an error code, which isn't in the instruction manual (which actually got read from cover to cover, honestly), so she has had to email the engineers. Bertha is keeping her fingers crossed that it's nothing serious.
It has been an equally exciting day for Rebecca, although sadly for her, Amy showed up at university as well, and filled an awkward silence before the workshop began by talking over-excitedly about her new robotic hoover. The other students gave a kind of shut up and stop embarrassing me, mum stare and Rebecca cringed internally whilst maintaining an outward calm.
Must remember in future to try to only be Rebecca in university. Amy simply is not cool; she likes to talk about lipstick and names her household appliances. Deary me.
Kids were all crazy and shouty and over-tired by the time I got back, but lovely, and didn't seem to care a jot that supper consisted of carrot sticks, hummus, salami and chocolate muffins (stop it, they had chicken curry followed by some kind of pie for lunch at school - and Amy was trying to save Bertha excessive washing up).
Have to go now and read 'The peculiar sadness of lemon cake' for next week's book club. It's very good, so far...
Night then x

mini-Bertha

Hi, here we are in October. October! How did that happen? I guess the summer just went unnoticed because it wasn't, well, summery. At all. Instead of enjoying the record-breaking Indian summer we're now experiencing (and, incidentally, have you noticed that in the UK we're all in a perpetual state of surprise about the weather: it hasn't been this hot in October since Edward the Confessor; the last time it was this rainy was when Boudicea was in power, etc.) because I'm just resentful that it wasn't like this in August when we were camping indefinitely on a windswept Dorset cliff top.
Anyway, weather-related resentment aside, I'm jolly happy because I have finally got my robotic hoover. My inner Bertha is jumping for joy - the house will be so much cleaner. I thought I wasn't going to get one because just as I was on the brink of ordering it, the washing machine broke down, so I had to buy a new one, of those,  and then felt that we really couldn't justify the robot hoover...but then, our old hoover broke too (and it broke when Hubby was using it, which was a relief, because he couldn't blame me of sabotage). As the hoover drone stopped, and Hubby's voice rang out with expletives, my heart leapt. However, it was a bit of a roller coaster of emotions, because he then tried to make me buy a normal hoover. Nooooo! He said that a robotic hoover won't clean under or behind things. I said that as neither will I (and neither did Meena, for that matter), it makes no difference, and in any case you promised me this when you found out you were off to Afghanistan. He reluctantly agreed, and I pounced on the laptop and got on Amazon (putting thoughts of gargantuan credit card bill to the back of my mind - surely the kids won't mind if we cancel christmas this year?). So mini-Bertha is now sat on her charging station and will be ready to tackle the house in just sixteen short hours. I already love her almost as much as I love my children and certainly more than I love the dog.
I start being a student 'for real life' (as the twins would say) tomorrow, which is pretty exciting. We won't be having lectures, we'll be 'workshopping' tomorrow afternoon for three hours. I'm a tiny bit daunted, especially as I'm the only one in the group from a non-English Lit background, and we'll be discussing an extract from Flaubert's Madam Bovary and a short story by Chekhov (I'm guessing Joanna Trollope is not on the syllabus....). Universities are very different places these days, let me tell you. Even the process of going to the library is somewhat intimidating. A very nice librarian who was trying so hard not to be patronising showed me how to loan a book today (they have a self scan system, like the tills that nobody uses in Tesco). Then I had to zip to the doctor's to get antibiotics for my spotty chin. The doctor was very nice and called it 'peri-oral dermatitis'; however basically I look like a spotty fresher, but with the addition of wrinkles - nice combo, as you can imagine. Its good to know that even my skin and hormones are getting in the swing of being a student.

multiple personality disorder

Hi, sorry I've been away spending time with the unpacking fairy. It's all nearly done now and I've been channelling my inner Hausfrau (Bertha) to try to keep it looking nice. Bertha is just the latest in a growing list of alter egos to help me keep my life together. Clearly there's Amy Waif, the army wife, and also Rebecca Bryan the fearless novelist, and now there's Bertha, too. My problem is that none of them really get on. Rebecca thinks Amy is a bit flaky. Bertha thinks Rebecca should do a little less thinking and a little more hoovering. Amy is a bit scared of Rebecca and Bertha and would rather avoid challenges of the intellectual or cleanliness variety and go out for a nice latte and bit of chocolate tiffin.
Frankly, it's all getting a bit confusing.
This morning Amy leafed through the Avon catalogue and ordered a new lipgloss, only to be elbowed aside by Rebecca, eager to get on with university induction, but by the time Rebecca got home, Bertha was ready with the Mr Muscle and the cleaning rota. I have to admit that by eight o'clock Rebecca and Amy had patched up their differences and decided on a bath and a glass of wine instead of the hoovering...
(I'm holding out until next month to buy my robotic hoover - but next month is now just days away, hurrah. Can't blooming wait.)
So, yes, multiple personality disorder aside, everything's fine. I'm now a mature student, single parent (almost) and reluctant housewife.
The other people on the course are far too young to be let out of the house without parental supervision. One of them asked me if I had always written, and I said no, only since I had kids, ten years ago. A look of befuddlement flitted across her eager young brow and I realised that ten years ago she was probably still in primary school. I tried to be friendly with them all, but I am quite probably as old as their mums, so there wasn't much point. There is one other mature student (who was wearing a very nice green jumper, must ask her where she got it from), but she's poetry, not fiction, so I won't see too much of her. So I'll have nobody to moan about homework and school trips with. I'm quite sure the others on my course will be far better writers than me (I am a bit downmarket, stylewise - more Lidl than Waitrose), but luckily they won't dare criticise my work because it will feel like they are insulting their mothers, so I think I'll get an easy ride.
Tomorrow I have to go in and show someone my first degree certificate. It's nearly twenty years old...

real food, pul-ease!

Hugh Fearnly-Whittingstall (spell check is confused by this and so am I) is doing something yummy with a rabbit on telly and I'm still resentful of the fact that the hotel's restaurant was closed for a private function this evening, so we had to traipse across to McDonald's yet again for supper. Hugh is eating tasty potted rabbit. I had a crispy chicken wrap followed by a Mc Flurry. It's not fair. I want some real food, now!
Oh well, homelessness is due to end tomorrow morning when I finally take over our quarter....

My new friend Mrs Starbucks hot chocolate

I've been hunched over the laptop in the darkened bedroom for a bit (really couldn't face the loo again), but I think everyone's asleep now, so I'll turn the lights back on - not that it would matter if the lights were still out as I can touch type, you know. Yes, if I fail to make it as a novelist, a successful career as an audio typist beckons. In fact, when we first lived here, way back in 1998, just after I became an army wife, I was an audio typist, briefly. At the time, I was trying to break into freelance journalism, having just spent lots of time and money on a postgrad  journalism course (oh, there is a bit of a pattern to my life emerging, no?), but at the time all I'd managed was a short feature on a heroic pooch for Dog's Today and something about drugs for a youthwork magazine, which meant I was a bit skint, so I had to put my Pitman certificates to good use by typing death letters for the Boots pensions department. I would spend hours typing letters asking people to send in their spouse's death certificate and letting them know that in future their pension would halve. What a cheery time that was.
Today has been a bit emotional. Kids all looked very spiffy in their uniforms, and I sent them off with a hug and a smile, and then as soon as I walked out of the school gates I burst into tears. However, a caramel latte and a dip in the hotel pool revived me a bit. Oh, and I'm a couple of pounds lighter on the scales in the hotel changing rooms, so it was nice to be under ten stone again - so nice, in fact, that I had to celebrate later with a hot chocolate with whipped cream (discovered that as Starbucks is in the hotel I can simply charge the cost of my beverage to my room, which is psychologically the same as getting a freebie). I did also do a bit of admin - I spent about a million hours filling in forms to register with the local GP, and I bought PE bags and things - but I'm finding it a bit hard to whip up the energy for stuff as I secretly just want to sit in the room with my new friend Mrs Starbucks hot chocolate and watch old movies on Film 4.
Right, I think I'm safe to turn on the TV now without waking anyone up.
Do you think it's possible to get a Starbucks delivered to my room?

hiding in the loo

I'm hiding in the loo (can't say toilet because my husband is a major now, so must use the posh word) with the laptop, which sounds as if I ought to be doing something illicit, but the truth is I'm waiting for the kids to go to sleep. We're sharing a room, as you know, and I'm desperate for them to get some sleep because it's the first day at school tomorrow, hence the hiding, to keep the bedroom dark.
Yes, so, Twin 2 is going to start school with the others. I took her into school to meet everyone and they agreed that she's a big faker (I think I heard the head mutter 'disability my arse' under his breath) and she will be starting school along with everyone else. Hurrah.
I have plenty of things I ought to be doing tomorrow (registering with doctor, getting a car pass, etc.) but I'm planning also on spending just a teeny bit of time in the jacuzzi...oh and Starbucks....and I may also pop into TK Maxx...(although can't actually afford to buy anything as I have just written an enormous cheque for the whole term's school dinners - if I hear reports that the roast turkey followed by apple crumble tomorrow wasn't snaffled right up then there will be more than one Bumsaw in the family, that's all I can say).
Feeling a bit overwrought today (good word, never thought I'd use it to describe myself, but there we are - I'm an overwrought middle aged lady, how blooming depressing is that?), which I'm putting down mainly to lack of sleep, because any other reason sounds a bit pathetic.
Right, I think everyone is asleep now. I did give them some 'sleeping potion' (oh, the power of the placebo - it was of course Bach Rescue Remedy) so I think it's safe to go back in and do some important form-filling for school.
Haven't heard from Bumsaw/Hubby today at all. Maybe he's socialising with new friends (Major Look, Major Stare and Major Loseyourunderwear, perhaps?)
Take care xx

The Smacked Bottom by Major Bumsaw

Hello. Still suffering mild post traumatic stress attack from camping trip. It hasn't, in fact, put me off camping per se, but it has put me off being homeless with three kids. Next time there's a gap between Hubby's posting date and our quarter becoming available I'm going to think long and hard about whether I actually want to hang about with no fixed abode for weeks on end.
At the moment I'm still camping, but a little more luxuriously in the Village Hotel in Nottingham. I'm sharing a room with the kids - it's about the same size as the tent, but mercifully about ten degrees warmer. I have drawn the very short straw by getting to share the sofa bed with Twin 2, who has a cough and a runny nose, lucky me.
We're in one room at the moment, because we're paying the bill ourselves this week, and Hubby is somewhere else, learning about important operational things (don't ask, I don't know the details and secretly I'm not sure he does either). Incidentally, he's a major now. I've decided to rename him Bumsaw (Major Bumsaw - get it? Oh, say it out loud) not for any sordid or smutty reason, but just because it reminds me of a spoof book title I saw once: The Smacked Bottom by Major Bumsaw, which made me laugh (and still does). On Friday, when Bumsaw returns, the army will pick up the tab for the final three nights, and he and I shall move into the extravagant splendour of the interconnecting suite (exactly the same as this room, but without Twin 2 snoring and snuffling).
Talking of books (The Smacked Bottom by Major Bumsaw, specifically), it seems as if I'm going to be the last person in my whole family to get a book published. I still have not heard from the agents I contacted so I'm guessing that in this case no news is, well, bad news. However, my Dad has published a book about the history of farms in the South Hams and my Mum has published a history of their local village and my Uncle has published a book about archaelogical dowsing. Oh, yes, and of course Major Bumsaw published that one about the smacked bottom. Me? Diddly squat. Bummer.

AWOL, no dongle

Sorry I'm absent without leave at the moment. I'm camping in Weymouth whilst we visit the in-laws. They are very helpfully letting us use their washing machine, etc, but even having nice clean clothes can't make up for the horror that is camping in a howling gale. I had visions of what late summer camping by the seaside should be: lots of lazy evenings sitting outside our little tent with a glass of Pimms, perhaps, whilst our angelic children slumbered peacefully inside, and all was quiet but for the odd barn owl or some such. Well, that'll teach me to daydream. Too cold to do anything but hop right on into the down sleeping bag, wearing pajamas and a cashmere jumper and pashmina (no, I'm not kidding). And certainly no late night drinkies as I can't risk needing the loo and having to get up in the torrential rain in the middle of the night. Furthermore, what with it being bank holiday weekend, the campsite was rammed with people in camper vans with really loud televisions. Still, we have seen the grandparents and watched Punch & Judy and had fish and chips, and Hubby is still managing not to instigate divorce proceedings, as I slouch around with a frown, thinking longingly of a place where we had to put the air conditioner on at night to make it cool enough to sleep, and there was someone else to do the washing up...
You might not hear from me again for a bit, as I haven't got a dongle...

holidays etc.

We had another sleepover at the cousins' yesterday - will the holiday excitement never end? Sense and Sensibility on DVD in one room and Harry potter and the order of the phoenix in the other and pizza for supper. And today I have continued my pursuit of payback for national trust membership by visiting another old country house, this time in Cornwall. It was very lovely and so were the ice creams, thanks. Tonight another enormous pile of ironing is lying in wait for me, boo. But tomorrow Hubby is back, hurrah - and he will be all perky because he has been re-learning how to be a soldier again this week, which always makes him happy (not sure why running about in the rain and shooting things makes people happy, but it seems to work for him).
Take care xxx

a bad dream of snow and poo

Yesterday at my sister's I did get too sit down with a cup of coffee, which was fab. However, someone also suggested a picnic, so we walked for miles, through nettles: me, my big sis and seven kids (yes, we are a fertile family), trying in vain to avoid being leapt upon by posh people's out-of-control Labradors with alcoholic names ('Pimms, come back here now! Pimms! PIMMS!! Oh, she is a naughty girl, you know'). When at last we reached the picnic site it started to rain. After our hastily-scoffed cheese sandwiches we traipsed all the way back, but this time with one exciting difference: Twin 2's wellies had given her blisters, so I had to carry her all the way. Oh the joys of summer hols in Devon....
Right, I'm back again had to break off there for a moment so that Twin 2 could tell me about her bad dream (something about poo and snow?) and Son could borrow my mobile phone to tell Hubby about an exciting development in Star Trek.
The sleepover was fabulous, of course. Nobody got any sleep whatsoever, and as a result were very underwhelmed when we took them to Dartmoor Zoo today and saw tigers feeding, falcons flying and racoons doing racoony things (the spellcheck says that's not how you spell racoon, and it's American, so it should know. However, I don't).
Twin 2 is calling me because there are apparently more details of the snow/poo dream that I have to hear in order for her to be able to get back to sleep, so I should go.
Bye x
ps - still no news from agents (is this a good thing?), boo.

stop throwing those bloody rocket propelled grenades at me

Son has just told me that my watch must be wrong: it can't possibly be bedtime as it's still light outside. I blinded him with my superior knowledge about the tilt of the earth and the northern hemisphere etc. and we  have decided that bedtime can be whenever Star Trek finishes, which is good, as it gives me time to write to you.
Kids are wildly excited this evening because tomorrow they are going for a sleepover with their cousins. They have been counting down the days. I have also been counting down the days, because I know that as soon as we get to my sister's house, my kids will be whisked off, and I can sit with a cup of coffee and (hopefully) a nice open tin of biscuits and not feel like I ought to be doing colouring in or taking people for healthy walks in the fresh air. I do like a bit of colouring in, and also nice walks in the fresh air (although I have to say that it's a bit too blooming fresh here - will somebody tell the weather that it's August, for goodness sakes? I did bring a pashmina with me, as a precautionary measure against the vagaries of the British Summer, and it's been so nippy that I've been wearing it to bed), but, you know, there are still weeks of the holidays left to go and I wouldn't mind a bit of down time.
I weighed myself again on my parents' scary digital scales the other day, and got excited because I thought I'd lost half a pound - turns out it was just because I weighed myself first thing in the morning (probably just after a poo), as I was back to lardiness later on. Boo.
Hubby has gone up to Nottingham today. He's got a week of learning to be a soldier again, after three years off. He said, hopefully, that he thinks he can still tell one end of a gun from the other, before he zoomed off in his hire car. I hope so too, because if the army's cuts keep coming as thick and fast as they have been, there'll only be him and a couple of others left, and Camp Bastion will end up like a re-run of Rorke's Drift ('Stop throwing those bloody rocket propelled grenades at me!' - to be said in Michael Caine-type voice).
Star Trek over. Have promised to have a thumb war before lights out. Must go xxx

tag in the bath

Girls are playing tag. Yes, that well-loved playground game, but with a twist: they are playing it in the bath. I'm going to keep writing this until I'm called upon to do emergency resuccitation (oh, that's not how you spell it? How do you spell it then?) Twin 2 suddenly wants to get out. Perhaps she's realised that tag-in-the-bath isn't a brilliant idea if you are a young girl with physical disabilities, the numpty. Gotta go xxx

rain, fog and chocolate

It's foggy and rainy, but we have chocolate and Harry Potter, so I'm still happy to be back. Hubby keeps coming out with comments about how much of a relief it is to be back in the UK - even driving to Tesco is a joy (although I suspect the thrill of it will wear off eventually).
I'm getting increasingly reluctant to check my emails, because my book has been sent to an agent, and is also with an author who said he'd have a look at it and possibly also recommend it to another agent. Every time I check my mail, I hope that I'll get a good response from one of them, and also dread getting a bad response from both. But what if? What if one of them reads the first three chapters, thinks I'm brilliant and can't wait to get in touch and set up a meeting (slim chance, I know, but hey)? So I'm having dancing a crazy dance of emotions every time I glance at my aol account. Phew.
I'd like to tell you about something thrilling, but I really did mostly eat chocolate and watch Harry Potter today. I did go for a little run this morning (in the rain, natch), which almost made me feel okay about the chocolate, until I saw my big sister in her size eight skinny jeans having nothing but a bit of carrot soup for lunch.
Now I have to go and search for camping shops, because it's not long until our epic camping trip....

Back home

Hi honey, I'm homeless! Well, only for another five weeks, until we can move into our quarter.
I'm quite enjoying being back in the UK and taking full advantage of our nation, it's culture and traditions: I have already had a McDonald's, a KFC and been to Lidl. Oh, and I've also watched a whole episode of 'Come dine with me' and a little bit of an old Bergerac. Fab. Because that's what makes Britain great, you know.
Actually, it is very nice to be back, with un-pot-holed roads. And to see the family of course (probably should have prioritised them above the road quality, really).
My mum is being a top hostess and cooking lots of tasty food, and has stuffed the cupboards full of jaffa cakes and walkers crisps, which I can't eat, because it's been so long since I had a tummy bug that I am now far heavier than I ought to be (although I can't possibly diet, because I'm still on holiday). Those scales in the gym at BGN, they lied! I thought I was still quite slender and waif like, but it turns out I'm a tub of lard, bummer!
I have just heard my mum asking the kids where I am, and them saying 'no idea', so I guess I ought to go downstairs and be available.

the final countdown

Just had my last yoga session. I'd like to say that I'm sad, but frankly it's a relief not to have to go through the humiliation again. However, I did get a bit sad when I went to the blue shop today to do final shop for cartons of milk, Chocos and many bottles of bleach (I'm trying to run down the food before we go. Kids are very dis-chuffed at the lack of anything tasty in the cupboards at the moment - at snack time today I offered cream crackers or cereal bars, and was met with some very underwhelmed expressions). When I got in the car to come home I realised that it would be my last ever trip to the blue shop. Boo Hoo! I don't think I was really upset about the shop, I think it was just symbolic, if that makes sense. Anyway, I couldn't let myself be upset for long as it's not safe to drive with teary eyes out here, you need your wits about you not to mow down dogs/sacred cows/small kids on large bicycles, etc.

We've had final swimming lession, final physiotherapy session, final trip to Thamel and to Patan Durbar Square. Tomorrow will be final speech therapy session and trip to the American Club. I don't think I've yet had my final near-death experience with a manic motorcyclist - quite looking forward to that one, though.

So, we're onto the final countdown (da da der da, da da der da da - oh, surely you remember the supergroup Europe? Where were you in the eighties?) this week. The packers' assessment chap came round this morning and sucked his teeth and fussed about with a tape measure. I'm a little nervous about the packing, because he wouldn't be drawn on how much stuff we have, all he'd say, rather hesitantly, was that we'll have more than eleven cubic metres. I said, but how much more? (We're only entitled to 13 cubic metres, so I'd like to know if I have to make a last minute dash to the post office to post the extras). He wouldn't say. We agreed that he'd pack the horrible white plastic garden furniture last, and then if there isn't enough room we could just leave it behind.

I'm hoping we don't have too many medical dramas this week. Today Twin 1 managed to get her baby finger trapped in Son's bedroom door and has had her hand elevated in a sling to relieve the pressure all afternoon. I have never heard her scream quite so loud, for so long (except when she was a baby and I had to hide in the cellar to escape her wails), poor thing. Even a forbidden cola flavoured lollipop and a trip to the medical centre didn't cheer her up.

Right, running out of battery power and I'm off for a glass of port (there's no wine left, and I felt I couldn't really refuse tasty treats for the kids on the basis that I'm running down the stores, and then buy myself a nice bottle of sauvignon, seemed a bit hypocritical). If you don't hear from me for a while you can assume that it's because I'm either:
a) sobbing into a port-and-rescue-remedy cocktail, or
b) trying to post an entire set of garden furniture through the BFPO system, or
c) taking one of my kids to A&E with broken limb/appendicitis, or
d) all of the above.

Cheerio x

ps - just realised that living here is the longest I have lived anywhere in the past twenty-odd years (since I went to university, in fact). No wonder I'm getting so sad about leaving - bizarrely, Kathmandu is more home than anywhere.

week 4 - halfway there!

Hello! What have you been up to? I'm sure your life has been more exciting than mine...it's the end of week four of the school holidays and the kids have finished their English workbooks and got their respective presents. As I write, Twin 2 is sitting in a wildly inappropriate bubblegum pink crinoline-style creation, which was less expensive than I expected, so she also has a kind-of large Polly Pocket thing with pink hair. Ah the rewards of hard work!
Talking of which...you know I revised my first chapter and re-submitted it to the peer review site. I confidently expected to get better reviews this time round, but they are worse! So much for taking on constructive criticism. Anyway, I'm sending the first three chapters off to an agent next week (Rebecca is coming round later, to help me write the synopsis), so fingers crossed.
Hubby is in Pokhara tonight, having his leaving do from the Pokhara office. He'll be there now, probably on his fourth whisky, waiting for the dahl baht to cook (do you think I'll get a present, even though I'm not there?). He nearly didn't make it, because the monsoon storms have been so severe that the airport was closed until lunchtime. He's booked to come back tomorrow, but who knows if he'll make it? People sometimes get stuck there for days, so I'm planning a weekend of single parenthood (brunch in the mess, DVD, then trip out to the ice cream parlour tomorrow; swimming lessons and roast dinner at the embassy on sunday, to be specific). Tomorrow I have to have the car cleaned, or Hubby's successor will have second thoughts about buying it, and we will never be able to afford my creative writing MA course (which clearly, by my current ratings, I really need to do, if I am ever to make it as a novelist). The only problem is that there are no car washes in Kathmandu. No, not one. Luckily someone has agreed to do it for me (I haven't told him that the last time I washed it was six months ago and that we did have a resident rat in the car for a while - wouldn't want to put him off), for which he shall be handsomely rewarded.
So, what's been the highlight of the week? Could it possibly be Twin 2 running across in front of the Headquarters building on the Gurkha Camp singing 'Like a Virgin' (the Moulin Rouge version) whilst her knickers slowly made their way towards her ankles? Yes, it could.
I secretly hope the Cheif of Staff happened to be looking out of his office window at the time and was appalled at the wanton behaviour of my six-year-old.
Right, better go and sort out sleepover room for kids, who have a friend staying tonight (they have already wowed me with a play about aliens, and I'm looking forward to more dramatic performances nice and early in the morning).
Take care x

bean counters

It's just gone nine, and Hubby's asleep, of course. I'm doing a jolly good job of easing myself into Greenwich Mean Time (or is it British Summer Time), by waking up later and later, the closer we get to moving back to the UK.  (Unfortunately Hubby doesn't have that option as he will be working right up until five o'clock in the afternoon on the day we leave - we fly at eight). This means that our house is effectively on different time zones at the moment. When I zipped chirpily in from gym and yoga this evening, he was already beyond monosyllabic and slunk up to bed with a frown on his working-man's brow.
Rebecca Bryan was going to make an appearance tonight, as she has vowed to edit the first three chapters and get them off to an agent before we move. However, I've noticed that it's already nine, and somewhere in the house, if I can find it, is a really good book I'm three-quarters of the way through, and, well, nine pm is a little late to begin one's working day, even if I am progressing towards a different time zone. I hope Rebecca isn't too unhappy with me for my lackadaisical attitude (I'd ask her, but she scares me a bit).
Today the bean counters came round. No, they weren't actual bean counters. But they were actual fork and sheet counters. They gave me a useful list of all the army stuff that we signed for when we moved in three years ago. I spent quite some time today counting cutlery and trying to locate missing electric heaters, etc. Which is partly why I want a bit of time to read my book tonight as I feel like I deserve it, after being very responsible for a couple of hours this afternoon.
What I've come to realise over the course of my time as an army wife, is that the moving doesn't bother me in the slightest. I love moving house and going somewhere new. What I don't love is all the scary bean counting that goes with it. You know, getting fined for not having a tidy garden, or whatever. I remember there being a charge for excessive dog hairs on the sofa when we left Northern Ireland, for example. I'm such a bad housewife (I'm the antithesis of a domestic goddess - domestic demon perhaps?) and have such lamentable attention to detail that remembering to do all the right things to hand over a married quarter is just a bit too scary. And it's not just getting it wrong, it's the embarrassment of admitting that I wasn't a good enough housewife to bother hoovering the dog hair out from in between the sofa cushions, or checking that there wasn't a half-eaten cake in the desk drawer.
So I think Rebecca can come over tomorrow and get stuck into chapters two and three.
Come to think of it, I should have invited her over this afternoon to deal with the bean counters, and maybe she could just take over the whole moving business?
I know she'd do a far better job than me.

Saturday hangover

Went to Hubby's leaving do in the 'yard' (the patch of concrete in between the offices and the workshops at his work) last night. It was the usual sit-about-and-drink-for-three-hours-until-the-dahl-and-curry-is-cooked. They gave a speech for Hubby, but as it was in Nepali we had (almost) no idea what they were saying (I understood two words: 'water' and 'therefore' - good to know all that money we spent on Nepali lessons wasn't entirely wasted), so all that clapping could well have been a response to "What a huge relief this water treatment taskmaster is finally leaving us, and therefore lets hope that the next bloke is a bit more of a pushover" (cue earnest nodding and applause).
Anyway, the workforce are so happy that Hubby is finally leaving that they clubbed together to buy him a nice kukri (curved knife) and a lovely embroidered pashmina for me (one can never have too many pashminas, you know) as leaving gifts. Normally the choice of drink at these functions is: whisky or coke or whisky-and-coke. However this time they really pushed the boat out and there was wine. So I drank far too much wine and Hubby drank far too much whisky and all we have managed to do today is take the kids out to KFC for lunch. Right now everyone is watching Indiana Jones, which is an almost perfect choice for a Saturday hangover.
The reality that we are actually moving is taking hold. I checked out the thirty-day weather forecast for Devon yesterday, and quickly went on to Amazon to buy wellies and get them sent to my parents house. I think I might have to pack the odd pashmina or two as well, as it doesn't look like summer in the UK is set to get terribly summery...
Ooh, keep getting distracted by Indie (it's the bit where they are in Nepal, escaping from the Nazis, just before they get to Egypt), so I'd better go and give it my full attention.
Have a great weekend x

Rescue Remedy

It's raining, raining and raining a bit more here at the moment. Good practice for the UK, I suppose. All the kids have been having bad dreams recently, so I've been dosing them up with that well-known nightmare cure: Bach's Rescue Remedy. Seems to work - might have to give it a go on Hubby, who never seems to sleep beyond about 4.30 am these days.
Apart from bad dreams, kids continue to have a jolly nice summer hols. Remarkably, they are still doing their holiday workbooks, but I think this might only be because I reminded them that there will be a present for every book finished. Son wants a photographic book about Nepal, to remember out time here. Twin 1 wants a pair of slippers because hers are broken. Twin 2 wants two princess dresses. You don't have to be much of a psychologist to figure out their personalities from this: Son is thoughtful; Twin 1 is practical; Twin 2 lives in a fantasy world of her own making and is prone to extravagance and diva-like demands.
Today, we did workbooks, swimming and I escaped for a couple of hours this afternoon whilst they watched a DVD. What I should have done is used the time to go to the gym. What I actually did was to go for reflexology and a bar of chocolate. But when I came back I played hide-and-seek and hunt-the-Barbie for an hour and a half, and that must have burnt up some calories, surely?
Right, nearly bed time. Tomorrow I think I'll do something wildly exciting with the kids, like, erm, workbooks, swimming and a DVD...There's only about seven weeks until they go back to school...
Right, I'm off for some Rescue Remedy.
Goodnight x

Bawhana 'Scissorhands' Rana

This morning we've had haircuts and doughnuts. Does life get any better? Actually, only the kids had haircuts - I wisely opted to get mine done the other week in Dubai, to escape the whirling blades of Bawhana 'Scissorhands' Rana. Still, she did a good job on the kids - fast, too - and it's not just hair cutting, it's cost-cutting as well, because after she's been at their mops, they won't have to have another haircut for at least six months, hurrah.
We went to Cafe Hessed for doughnuts afterwards. I told the lovely Korean owner that she makes the best doughnuts in Kathmandu. It's true (but I also think they might be the only doughnuts in Kathmandu, as I haven't seen them anywhere else in the past two years).
After that we went to get more welfare discs (more of the thrilling Ken and Dierdre at the pottery class storyline in Coronation Street - can't wait) and for a play in the play park.
Tomorrow we've got a leaving thing in the afternoon, so the kids have been practising their speeches. Twins are going to say how much they have enjoyed the swimming pool, and Son plans to say something about how nice and flat the roofs are in Nepal. Whatever they say will be a lot more interesting than anything I could muster up, so I'm going for the supportive wife and mother role (you know, lipstick and a dress and a quiet smile - should work a treat as long as I don't have too many Pimm's and let slip what I really think about BGN...)
Right then, better go and start on the change-of-address letters.
Take care x

jockey-tastic

Hi, Twin 2 is up with Ganga the physio and the others are watching Star Trek with Hubby, and I'm fairly amazed at my lack of hangover. Last night we went to a cocktail party/games night in the mess. It is a bit bizarre to get all glammed up, only to play oversized board games and screech along to Singstar on Wii, but army life is nothing if not surreal. The oversized board game was in fact a horse race, based on the Grand National (the leading horse's syndicate had to down a glass of red wine when the horse made it over Beecher's Brook). I was in three different races, or maybe four (my memory is a bit hazy) and our team won two of them. In the final, Hubby and I entered a 'horse' called Gary Baharda Rai, in honour of our lovely mastiff dog, and we romped home and won ourselves eight thousand rupees (about £70). Not bad, eh? Even with the amount of Mojitos I consumed over the course of the night, we more than broke even. And, even better, I haven't had a real hangover today - I was up by eight cooking french toast for the kids (okay, I had to have a little power nap this afternoon, but then, I usually do on a weekend).
Luckily the do was held at night, as the dim lighting helped disguise the big rash of acne/eczema that has appeared on my chin. I'm beginning to think that I really ought to have splashed out on burka in Dubai, as it would help prevent the looks of revulsion I've been subjected to over the last few days. Even the doctor seemed horrified at the sight of the monstrous carbuncles in my peri-oral area and immediately prescribed antibiotics and steroids - do hope they work, as I don't have the option of growing a beard.
Rebecca Bryan is away right now (and don't tell her about the mojitos or the horse race as she would only disapprove), but before she left she uploaded a revised chapter 1 onto the peer review site. She now just has to review lots of other people's first chapters in order to get some good reviews for hers over the next two weeks - it's a bit of a numbers game. I think she'll have to come back tonight, or possibly tomorrow...
Anyway, have a good weekend xxx

Rebecca

Rebecca Bryan hasn't gone down too well with Hubby. She is too work focussed and a little bit grumpy. Tonight for example, Hubby suggested an episode of Corrie and Rebecca said in her best authoress voice "I have to work". She did not say, "Ooh, yes, and let's eat lots of chocolate whilst we're watching" because that's not what she's like. She is focussed and professional. Later, Hubby came up to where Rebecca was working - at that point she was just saving a document and morphing back into me. He said: "Well, I don't know what you've been working on..."
Rebecca was not very happy that Hubby couldn't know that she has spent the last three years writing, and has just completed a manuscript, especially as she told him she was revising chapter one this week, in order to get it peer-reviewed before entering it into a competition. He appeared to know nothing about this. Rebecca, on the other hand, knew all about super-chlorination and the difference between chloroforms and coliforms, and other water-treatment related work issues.
Rebecca feels that Hubby has scant interest in her writing beyond a potential means to retire early and buy a yacht.
I'm not Rebecca, though, so I'm prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. This time...