ps

ooh, I meant to tell you about the good looking bloke in the jeans place, but that will have to wait now - the whole pass the parcel philosophy has left me on a bit of a downer.

pass the parcel

Well, I'm better. Which is obviously a good thing in most respects, but it does mean I now have my appetite back, so I do need to hurry on down to the gym this week before the inevitable slide back to dimpled cheeks (and I don't mean on my face). 

I haven't been ill all week, but we have also had some friends visiting, so I have had the luxury of wine and conversation in the evenings, rather than have to huddle round my best-and-only-friend the laptop. 

They are trekking at the moment, poor things - we're having thunder and hail at the moment. It's all very dramatic, but probably a bit scary if you're halfway up the Himalayas. Ooh, and talking of drama and mountains, the wives trek turned out to be a right old hoo-har. I couldn't go as it was the week Hubby was in the UK (and anyway I was too busy commissioning jewellery). However, there was a schism, and it turned out that half the wives went to Annapurna, and the other half went to Langtang. Wish I could say more, but I'm not one to gossip, as you know.

It has been quite an exciting week. Lovely friends arrived on Saturday with their boys, who are a bit older than Son. The boys have been sleeping in Son's room and sharing baths, Bionicles, Roald Dahl books, etc. It has been quite busy in his room. However, as I said, they are off on a trek, so he's decided to have a sleepover with the Twins tonight. Good luck to him. Twin 2 has a cough like a forty-a-day-miner and Twin 1 appears to have totally lost her volume control. And there's a thunder storm going on outside.

He may manage to sleep through the racket, if only because he's utterly exhausted after his very exciting birthday party yesterday. 

I'm fairly exhausted too. Have you any idea how long it takes to wrap a pass the parcel present? Twenty layers, it had. Twenty. It was the size of a mini cooper when the game started. Amazing that it didn't knock out any of the younger participants.

I don't really understand why kids get so excited about pass the parcel. They know, that underneath the really humungous wrapping paper is just a poxy colouring set, or in this case, an educational book about astronomy, woo-hoo, and yet they still want to play. Why? 

It's a bit like buying a bikini: you look at the picture in the catalogue, and even though you know that you don't look like a swimwear model, you still hope that by some miracle that buying the bikini will shave inches off your thighs and years off your age. You are just setting yourself up for disappointment. So it is with pass the parcel. All the kids secretly hope that it's a huge present and that they will win it. The sad truth is, it will be something that cost less than a fiver, and probably all they will get is a small bag of cola fizz, in any case.

Do you think pass the parcel is a metaphor for life? Starting out with heady optimism and ending up with jealousy, bitterness, and a bit of tooth decay.

I should probably go now, don't you think?

I am far too ill to write anything.

good news/bad news

I've managed to get the mouthguard in before nine pm, and I'm happy. This may sound trivial, but the bleach has to stay on for two hours and our generator gets turned off at eleven, meaning all the lights go out. Have you ever tried extricating a mouthguard full of bleach in the dark?
I'm also happy because I've had three positive results from the three press releases I sent out for a local charity. Soldier magazine, the AFF magazine and the Belfast Telegraph have all promised to cover the story of the ex-soldier who rescues Nepali children from being sold as slaves into Indian circuses. Amazingly, he has managed to eradicate the practice of 'circus slaves' within just ten years, by rescuing the girls and prosecuting the traffickers and circus owners (the website is www.ebtrust.org.uk if you are interested). So that's good news.
The other bit of good news is that I have just ordered myself some lush custom-designed handmade jewellery for my birthday present from Hubby (he will find this out when he returns from the UK on Saturday - or sooner, if he happens upon this). It will be very lovely and classy and in-keeping for someone who is the wrong side of thirty five (I do feel quite matronly these days, especially when I hear about youngsters and their love lives: there is a very nice postie on camp who has a super-dooper girlfriend and I can't wait for them to get married about it - I find myself clucking about it like a mother hen). Actually I'm very much the wrong side of thirty five. I should probably be asking for Botox for my birthday, but I'm not sure where you can have it done here. There is a sign on a back alley up the road offering plastic surgery, but I'm not sure that's to be trusted.
The bad news is that Twin 2 did three poos in her pants today and I'm not convinced my fat-busting shoes are having any effect whatsoever. But let's not dwell on that.
Tomorrow Son is having a sleepover at his friend Toby's (Son calls him 'Tobes', but I'm not allowed to do that as it makes him embarrassed - when did my six-year-old turn into such a teenager?) as they are going to watch the school play together. I've declined to take Twins as the performance doesn't finish until eight, which is way too far past bedtime, and would induce tears, tantrums and hallucinations, not necessarily in that order. I have promised to take them out for a strawberry soda and some cookies instead.
Then on Saturday Hubby arrives home, closely followed by some house guests a couple of hours later. Thank goodness Sanu and Meena are both back at work, otherwise it would all be a bit scary.
Vasu, the driver, is still looking glum and truculent about the fact that he actually has to drive a couple of times a day in order to get paid. Wish I could employ a female driver. I know it's sexist, but I just think there would be less asking for pay rises and time off and more help carrying the shopping in from the car. Maybe I'm expecting too much from a twenty-two year old student?
Anyway, should go and do something useful (lunch boxes and water bottles).
Cheerio x

Janet Street-Porter

Hello. I've had a glass of wine, and I've got my mouthguard in, so you can imagine me as a slightly inebriated Janet Street-Porter. Except without the charisma or pots of cash.
I'm bleaching my teeth whilst Hubby is away. I have to keep on top of it. Left to their own devices they (the teeth) gradually turn the colour of wee. Now I try not to be vain (actually, that's a big fat lie, I embrace my vanity), but wee-coloured teeth with red lipstick is not a good look. Hence the bleach and mouthguard. The only downside is that I'm not supposed to drink tea, coffee, coke or red wine for the duration of the bleach week. So it turns into a bit of a detox as well, which does make for a bit of afternoon grumpiness. I feel I really need a teensy bit of caffeine to see me through the school pick up fiasco. Actually, I forgot yesterday and had a coffee and a coke, so that's probably undone all my good Street-Porter work so far.
So Hubby left on Saturday, which was fine. I invited lots of little friends around for my darling children to play with, and although the house was trashed, the kids were happy. I wasn't worried because we have a housekeeper. But then, doom and disaster, housekeeper called in sick on Monday. Yikes. To top that, Meena the cook also couldn't come in because her roof had fallen in and she had to sort out emergency repairs. The thought of having to go back to doing housework just scares the beejesus out of me, so we have been spending as much time away from the house as possible. I have managed to do some washing up and put some washing in the machine (astounding that I knew where it was), but do hope not to have to do too much more. How much am I dreading being posted back to the UK in eighteen months time?
Other than that, we are surviving the absence of the man of the house. Obviously I miss having the news on the whole time, having to make the kids wait until quarter to six to share suppertime with someone who insists on adding notes to his electronic phone gadget thing throughout the meal, and never being able to get into the bathroom in the morning. I also miss huffy expletives uttered over where the driver has parked or how the housekeeper has ironed the trousers. And how I miss someone asking me when-are-you-going-to-turn-off-the-light-its-nearly-eleven-you-know just when I am getting to a good bit in my book.
No, really, I do miss him.
Although if he knew what I looked like at the moment, with my mouthguard, mouldy old fleece and slouch socks, I doubt he'd be missing me whatsoever!

water bombs and anarchy

The city is rapidly running out of water, electricity and fuel but expat life carries on almost unscathed. Ladies still lunch and fancy dress functions are still planned. This week I even did my army wifely duty and organised a partners' club trip to a fair trade jewellery workshop. And the most we have to worry about is the escalating cost of diet coke. Meanwhile, the county is descending into chaos. Down in the Terai (on the border with India) there has been a region-wide strike for around two weeks now, and the airport is closed. Its all a bit strange and brings to mind a quote from an aristocrat in pre-revolunionary France I read today, which was something about dancing and laughing to the edge of the precipice. It does feel a bit like that.
This week, as well as putting to the back of my mind thoughts of forthcoming anarchy and deprivation, I've been struggling with feeling unpopular. I organised a class party for the nursery mums after school on Monday, which was spectacularly poorly attended. Afterwards many people claimed not to have received an invitation - hmm, that old chestnut. Then there was the partners' club trip to the fairtrade jewellery workshop, which was also very shoddily attended - not one of the Gurkha wives made an appearance (I suspect they only put their names down for the trip because the QMs wife asked them to, and then just 'forgot' to turn up). I'm trying not to take it personally. But maybe I smell?
I have started reading The God Delusion, which Hubby gave up on a couple of weeks ago because by the end of the first chapter he had cricked his neck and got a nasty bout of food poisoning. This he took to be a sign from God to read no further. I'm up to page 115 and not yet been struck down with muscle strain or botulism, so maybe God doesn't give a monkeys whether or not I believe in him, or maybe his punishment has been the subtle creep of paranoia about my body odour resulting from my two disastrous attempts at social events this week.
What else? We had Holi, where everyone goes round lobbing paint and water balloons at each other. That was a laugh. The gate guard suddenly got in touch with his inner child and was filling up water bombs for Son to lob at passing women. Luckily Son has inherited hand-eye skills from me and missed. Guard also went AWOL for some not inconsiderable amount of time with a water squirter and a cheeky grin. Decided it would be a bit tight to tell his boss he abandoned his post and left me and the kids unguarded and at risk from marauders and thieves. Luckily the marauders and thieves were all busy hurling water bombs as well.
Hubby is off to the UK tomorrow. He is busy packing his life into a little bag to take with him. His life seems to consist mainly of polo shirts and electronic gadgets. I would like to think he'll miss us, but I suspect he will be far too busy finding interesting new functions on his phone and being talked at by other men in neutral-coloured polo shirts. We will miss him though.

you shall go to the ball!

Well, I’m not sure what kind of a night our friends had at home with six kids, but the ball was actually very civilised and pleasant – not a bare buttock in sight. There was, however, a dwarf walking round dressed as a peacock, which apparently is a traditional Nepali thing, but just seemed downright weird. There were no snake-charmers, though. Apparently the snakes are all hibernating at the moment and won’t wake up, not even for the epic grandeur and scintillating, erm, stuff, that is the BGN ball. The deputy chief of staff was said to be very disappointed with the snakes. I would have thought that if she had had a word with them, they would have woken up. There is something about the tone of her voice that not even a semi-comatose cobra could readily ignore.

Hubby and I were terribly restrained and were in bed by midnight. We were awake again at six – out of habit – but felt very decadent having a lie-in until eight. Oh the joy of drinking tea in bed and watching Indian MTV. Tragic how easily pleased I am these days. Then we went to the gym and sat in the Jacuzzi for a bit before having the mother-of-all breakfasts.
And I didn’t even nick that much from the room before we left: just the soap, shampoo, conditioner, moisturiser, toothpaste and fruit from the fruit bowl. I left the sewing kit and the shoe cleaning kit– can’t have the staff thinking I’m a total pikey, can I?