Monday, 25 January 2010
strange, but productive
I had the strangest day. I put the kids on the school bus at 7.45 this morning, and didn't see any of them until 5pm. It was because they all had play dates after school and stuff, but it was really very odd having a whole nine hours without having to wipe a single bottom or fetch a single apple or turn on a single DVD or read a single story or anything. I guess this is what it will be like when they're teenagers?
Meena was a bit huffy as I was quite late back from picking them all up from their respective play dates, so she had to hang around until after six, just to make an omlette for Son and I (girls ate out). However, I apologised to her, and she knew better than to make a fuss - good job too as I was somewhat stressed by the Kathmandu rush hour traffic, and if she'd said anything even remotely disgruntled-sounding I think I would have exploded.
However, stressy journey home aside, it was a jolly productive day. I now have three main characters sketched out and some more ideas about the plot. Also I ordered 'Writing a romantic novel for dummies' off Amazon - need all the help I can get.
I know it sounds like an average day, but I honestly can't remember the last time I had a whole day to myself. I know I go to the spa, and cafes and so forth, but I have to fit it in around school runs, compulsory assemblies, etc. and the last time I had a whole day without even having to think about children was probably before I had any. And that's a very long time ago now.
Meena was a bit huffy as I was quite late back from picking them all up from their respective play dates, so she had to hang around until after six, just to make an omlette for Son and I (girls ate out). However, I apologised to her, and she knew better than to make a fuss - good job too as I was somewhat stressed by the Kathmandu rush hour traffic, and if she'd said anything even remotely disgruntled-sounding I think I would have exploded.
However, stressy journey home aside, it was a jolly productive day. I now have three main characters sketched out and some more ideas about the plot. Also I ordered 'Writing a romantic novel for dummies' off Amazon - need all the help I can get.
I know it sounds like an average day, but I honestly can't remember the last time I had a whole day to myself. I know I go to the spa, and cafes and so forth, but I have to fit it in around school runs, compulsory assemblies, etc. and the last time I had a whole day without even having to think about children was probably before I had any. And that's a very long time ago now.
Sunday, 24 January 2010
Mr Bigglesworth and Mr Burns
Hi, well, what can I say?
Mr Bigglesworth has gone and Mrs Dog is devastated.
Twin 1 has decided she doesn't want to be a boy actually. Good that we save on gender realignment surgery, bad that I have bought her two blue tops, a green top, a pair of blue jeans and a pair of jeans shorts - none of which she now wants to wear (might have to turn into strict mum and make her).
Friday night we had another do on camp: Burn's night. What is it with the army and Burn's night? I barely even knew who Robbie Burns was (apart from a reference to him in the cult 1980s film 'the clown and the wolfman' - with cameo performance from Mel Smith and soundtrack by Big Country) until I married a soldier, and I have been to many, many Burn's nights since. It's all a bit odd, really. I mean, soldiers are not known for their appreciation of our nation's literary heritage. It's not like we have a Shakespeare night or a Dickens night or anything (maybe I should suggest a Virginia Woolf night?) or even a Wilfred Owen night - which would be a bit more understandable. We don't even have any scottish soldiers in British Gurkhas Nepal - there is one major who says she's Scottish, but she is one of those posh ones from Edinburgh and she talks a little like the Queen, so she doesn't really count. Anyhoo (ooh, my own Scottish accent creeping in there), I was asked to read a poem at Burns night. Actually Hubby said, as he was leaving for his frosty trek, that he'd said I'd be happy to read a poem and my name was already down on the list - so it's not like I had much choice. I spent a few days saying 'My girls are the creme de la creme' in my best scottish accent in readiness. Then, just the day before the event, I was told that I wasn't going to be reading a Robbie Burns poem - no, I had to make one up myself. Thanks for that, Hubby. I had to do the 'reply by the lassies', which is supposed to be a cheeky response to a 'toast to the lassies'.
Well, I did it. Had to have a few Black Labels first (this tactic worked well for the Nepali dancing last year, so i figured it would work again for the Scottish poem thing too). Luckily I was on towards the end of the night, when many a Nepali had had to struggle through reading a Burn's poem (hard enough to fathom Burns even when read with a Scottish accent - even harder with a Nepali one), and we had listened to Robbie Burns' life story, twice (and the details were a little different the second time round -did he have ten children or twelve? did he die of syphilis or blood poisoning? did we care, after our tenth shot of Black Label? Not really).
I left as soon as the Commander did (you're not allowed to leave before him - not sure what would happen if you did, maybe firing squad?), right after the meal finished, but even so I was not home until midnight. And then, for some whisky-induced reason, perhaps buoyed up by the success of my poetry, I decided it was too early to go straight to bed, and read 'The consolations of Philosophy' until the wee small hours (as a real Scottish person would say). I'm not sure what the consolations of philosphy actually are, because I was of course too bladdered to take any of it in.
I was a little fuzzy on Saturday morning.
Mr Bigglesworth has gone and Mrs Dog is devastated.
Twin 1 has decided she doesn't want to be a boy actually. Good that we save on gender realignment surgery, bad that I have bought her two blue tops, a green top, a pair of blue jeans and a pair of jeans shorts - none of which she now wants to wear (might have to turn into strict mum and make her).
Friday night we had another do on camp: Burn's night. What is it with the army and Burn's night? I barely even knew who Robbie Burns was (apart from a reference to him in the cult 1980s film 'the clown and the wolfman' - with cameo performance from Mel Smith and soundtrack by Big Country) until I married a soldier, and I have been to many, many Burn's nights since. It's all a bit odd, really. I mean, soldiers are not known for their appreciation of our nation's literary heritage. It's not like we have a Shakespeare night or a Dickens night or anything (maybe I should suggest a Virginia Woolf night?) or even a Wilfred Owen night - which would be a bit more understandable. We don't even have any scottish soldiers in British Gurkhas Nepal - there is one major who says she's Scottish, but she is one of those posh ones from Edinburgh and she talks a little like the Queen, so she doesn't really count. Anyhoo (ooh, my own Scottish accent creeping in there), I was asked to read a poem at Burns night. Actually Hubby said, as he was leaving for his frosty trek, that he'd said I'd be happy to read a poem and my name was already down on the list - so it's not like I had much choice. I spent a few days saying 'My girls are the creme de la creme' in my best scottish accent in readiness. Then, just the day before the event, I was told that I wasn't going to be reading a Robbie Burns poem - no, I had to make one up myself. Thanks for that, Hubby. I had to do the 'reply by the lassies', which is supposed to be a cheeky response to a 'toast to the lassies'.
Well, I did it. Had to have a few Black Labels first (this tactic worked well for the Nepali dancing last year, so i figured it would work again for the Scottish poem thing too). Luckily I was on towards the end of the night, when many a Nepali had had to struggle through reading a Burn's poem (hard enough to fathom Burns even when read with a Scottish accent - even harder with a Nepali one), and we had listened to Robbie Burns' life story, twice (and the details were a little different the second time round -did he have ten children or twelve? did he die of syphilis or blood poisoning? did we care, after our tenth shot of Black Label? Not really).
I left as soon as the Commander did (you're not allowed to leave before him - not sure what would happen if you did, maybe firing squad?), right after the meal finished, but even so I was not home until midnight. And then, for some whisky-induced reason, perhaps buoyed up by the success of my poetry, I decided it was too early to go straight to bed, and read 'The consolations of Philosophy' until the wee small hours (as a real Scottish person would say). I'm not sure what the consolations of philosphy actually are, because I was of course too bladdered to take any of it in.
I was a little fuzzy on Saturday morning.
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Don't make me ask you again....
Luckily Mr Bigglesworth didn't do very much today, so I do have time to write to you. At bed time Twin 1 said he'd played tag all day with rocking horse, pink cat and Mrs Dog. I think he might have something going on with Mrs Dog, as they kissed for a long time at bed time. Also Mr B was naked (well, except for his smelly and unkempt fur), and I'm sure he had a dressing gown on when I left to pick the kids up from school.
So, anyway, it has actually been busier than normal here (not difficult as we are sociopaths and are not in the habit of either going out or entertaining guests). On Friday we had to go to a thingy to welcome the new Commander (who is very nice and not like an important colonel at all). It was the usual carefree mix of ... oh, no, it really wasn't. Sorry, I can't even be bothered with sarcasm. It was a Gurkha do, and just like all the others: standing about in the cold drinking whisky or coke, or even whisky and coke (because apparently nobody in the whole of British Gurkhas Nepal could possibly want to drink anything so radical as a gin and tonic). Good job I like whisky and coke, because it's all that got me through the evening.
I was stood by the makeshift bar, which had been set up in the play park (the stage for the 'cultural show' had been set up in the badminton court next to it). All of a sudden, the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) got on the microphone and told the assembled throng in no uncertain terms that we were not to crowd round the bar, and that he wanted ladies stood to the right of the stage and men stood to the left. Perhaps he thought we wives would have a better time if he forcibly separated us from our husbands -who knows? Anyway, nobody took much notice of the tedious little man, and then, about ten minutes later, he was back on the microphone, telling us again not to stand near the bar and to go to our allotted places. He finished his little spiel with "I have already asked you once, don't make me ask you again."
Of course I immediately went to stand right in front of the bar, and was joined by a gentleman who far outranked the RSM, so there was nothing the little twerp could do, which was quite satisfying.
(This morning I took great pleasure in saying a cheery 'good morning' to him when I met him going into camp. I had a big, big smile on my face and made sure there was prolonged eye contact. He muttered an unwilling 'Namaste' in response. I'm quite sure he hates me now, and I don't give a monkeys.)
So, on Saturday morning, Hubby and I were both a teensy bit hung over.
Then Hubby's mate arrived from Germany, to much whooping and showing off from the kids.
On Sunday we went to Haatiban and I didn't have the chef's salad. Yes, I am as wise as a big slice of wise pie.
Then, on Sunday evening Hubby's sister arrived, to even more whooping and showing off, and because it was past bedtime, head traumas and tears.
Now Hubby, Mate and Sister have all gone off on their trek, and I'm just left with Mr Bigglesworth and his lecherous ways with Mrs Dog. And Gary, who is about as much fun as a furry sofa (which come to think of it, could be quite fun - but not a sofa that smells of dog and asks to be let out when it's time for buffalo and rice).
This afternoon we had the Twins' "topic talk" at school, which seems to entail the class teacher making you feel guilty for letting your children watch DVDs, when they should be practising their sound blending or correctly forming the descender on the letter 'q'. I'm of the mind that they'll get it in the end, regardless of whether I interfere, but I did try to encourage Son to help Twin 1 with her letter sounds from her sound pot whilst I was doing Twin 2s physiotherapy this evening (meanwhile there were strange furry growly noises and the odd muffled woof to be heard from the Twins bedroom - most odd). Son and Twin 1 ended up pretending the sound pot sounds (little laminated slips of paper with letters on) were money and throwing them all over the room. I'm not sure that's what the class teacher had in mind when she talked about doing five minutes with the sound pot every night.
Still, I don't remember doing anything with Son, and he's a book hoover now, so I think it will all come good eventually.
I should probably go.
Take care xxx
So, anyway, it has actually been busier than normal here (not difficult as we are sociopaths and are not in the habit of either going out or entertaining guests). On Friday we had to go to a thingy to welcome the new Commander (who is very nice and not like an important colonel at all). It was the usual carefree mix of ... oh, no, it really wasn't. Sorry, I can't even be bothered with sarcasm. It was a Gurkha do, and just like all the others: standing about in the cold drinking whisky or coke, or even whisky and coke (because apparently nobody in the whole of British Gurkhas Nepal could possibly want to drink anything so radical as a gin and tonic). Good job I like whisky and coke, because it's all that got me through the evening.
I was stood by the makeshift bar, which had been set up in the play park (the stage for the 'cultural show' had been set up in the badminton court next to it). All of a sudden, the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) got on the microphone and told the assembled throng in no uncertain terms that we were not to crowd round the bar, and that he wanted ladies stood to the right of the stage and men stood to the left. Perhaps he thought we wives would have a better time if he forcibly separated us from our husbands -who knows? Anyway, nobody took much notice of the tedious little man, and then, about ten minutes later, he was back on the microphone, telling us again not to stand near the bar and to go to our allotted places. He finished his little spiel with "I have already asked you once, don't make me ask you again."
Of course I immediately went to stand right in front of the bar, and was joined by a gentleman who far outranked the RSM, so there was nothing the little twerp could do, which was quite satisfying.
(This morning I took great pleasure in saying a cheery 'good morning' to him when I met him going into camp. I had a big, big smile on my face and made sure there was prolonged eye contact. He muttered an unwilling 'Namaste' in response. I'm quite sure he hates me now, and I don't give a monkeys.)
So, on Saturday morning, Hubby and I were both a teensy bit hung over.
Then Hubby's mate arrived from Germany, to much whooping and showing off from the kids.
On Sunday we went to Haatiban and I didn't have the chef's salad. Yes, I am as wise as a big slice of wise pie.
Then, on Sunday evening Hubby's sister arrived, to even more whooping and showing off, and because it was past bedtime, head traumas and tears.
Now Hubby, Mate and Sister have all gone off on their trek, and I'm just left with Mr Bigglesworth and his lecherous ways with Mrs Dog. And Gary, who is about as much fun as a furry sofa (which come to think of it, could be quite fun - but not a sofa that smells of dog and asks to be let out when it's time for buffalo and rice).
This afternoon we had the Twins' "topic talk" at school, which seems to entail the class teacher making you feel guilty for letting your children watch DVDs, when they should be practising their sound blending or correctly forming the descender on the letter 'q'. I'm of the mind that they'll get it in the end, regardless of whether I interfere, but I did try to encourage Son to help Twin 1 with her letter sounds from her sound pot whilst I was doing Twin 2s physiotherapy this evening (meanwhile there were strange furry growly noises and the odd muffled woof to be heard from the Twins bedroom - most odd). Son and Twin 1 ended up pretending the sound pot sounds (little laminated slips of paper with letters on) were money and throwing them all over the room. I'm not sure that's what the class teacher had in mind when she talked about doing five minutes with the sound pot every night.
Still, I don't remember doing anything with Son, and he's a book hoover now, so I think it will all come good eventually.
I should probably go.
Take care xxx
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Mr Bigglesworth
There is a reason why I haven't been in touch over the last few days. The reason is Mr Bigglesworth. Mr Bigglesworth is a brown, smelly teddy that Twin 1 has been sent home from school with. He came with a book in which you are supposed to write down what Mr Bigglesworth does every day. Other mothers have set the standard for the diary, and the standard is high. Most of them have lost of photos and creative doodles, and, well, here's an extract from Mr Bigglesworth's week with Isabella. This is what Isabella (age four) told her Mum to write in the diary:...I understand that meeting and saying goodbye is a way of life, but most important is keeping in touch. Remember the good times spend together. We learn that lets make new friends, more friends, be friendly to all, go green and make this world a better place to live in. Always, Isabella. Hmmm. Do you think she really said that?
Anyway, should really get on and write more faithfully reported verbatim comments from my four-year-old in Mr Bigglesworth's diary.
Anyway, should really get on and write more faithfully reported verbatim comments from my four-year-old in Mr Bigglesworth's diary.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
skiving
Twin 2 had a really terrible cough this morning...until the school bus with her brother and sister in it was safely off down the road, and then she was as perky as you fancy, the little minx. So much for beginning the next novel. And it's not going to happen tomorrow because I have an exciting partners' club meeting to go to (no, it really will be exciting, because the silver jewellery stall will be there, and Hubby has promised something in lieu of not taking me out for our anniversary the other week - not really his fault as I was hurling my guts up all that night, so I don't think dinner a deux was on either of our minds).
I'm feeling a bit bad about not going to the partners' club thingys as often as I should, so asked Meena to make a big chocolate cake to take with me as a peace offering. I'm still not staying for the bingo though. No, I'm not, and you can't make me!
I'm feeling a bit bad about not going to the partners' club thingys as often as I should, so asked Meena to make a big chocolate cake to take with me as a peace offering. I'm still not staying for the bingo though. No, I'm not, and you can't make me!
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