BB's Best Day Ever

The new fridge arrives at 7.45 a.m.
It's Saturday morning, and our modest lie-in is shattered by the brisk clank of the doorbell.
FH scrambles out of bed, pulling on clothes and stubbing his toe in the dark, while, in the next bedroom, two boys (awoken by the bell) start to whoop and holler.

I manage to slip into their bedroom just before the front door is pinned back and the gigantic object is heaved into our narrow hallway, closely followed by two sturdy, overall-clad specimens of virility.

"What's happening, what's happening?!" BB clamours excitedly, scooping up teddy and making a bolt for the door.
"It's the new fridge," I yawn, misty-eyed. This is what you get for refusing to set foot in a home improvement store (or whatever they're called) and demanding door-to-door delivery.
LB, who waits for no man or fridge, demands his milk.
I settle him down with a bottle (he is like a mobile phone whose battery must be recharged instantly every morning - the very second you flick him "on": failure to do so results in a very piercing and persistent alarm bell).

Once the milk has duly reached its target and revitalised the youngest member of the clan, we are able to proceed as one into the kitchen, where the new fridge stands tall, almost regal in its splendour.
Wow.
It suddenly becomes apparent that we have been surviving with a very, very small fridge all these years.
The four of us contemplate the beast, wide-eyed and slightly intimidated.
"It's big..." BB observes, in quiet wonder.

Turning our attention away from the mega-fridge, we suddenly notice that every square centimetre of surface space is occupied with fresh food: the entire contents of our old fridge (which has been abruptly unplugged and taken away by the same sturdy men who delivered the beast to our kitchen. Such is the harsh reality of life: survival of the fittest).
We are facing a pile of yoghurts, two bottles of milk, some cheese, and an assortment of other foodstuffs that must somehow make it through the day until the new fridge can be plugged in (in case you didn't know - I didn't, needless to say: you have to wait 12 hours before plugging in a new fridge, to let the liquids settle, or something).
No matter: it's still cool enough outside to transform the garden into a temporary fridge.

But. There's something else.
At the same moment, all our eyes settle upon a half-filled box. A pale yellow container with a flower on top. An innoccuous little box containing something that will not survive the day, even if placed outside.
Something that must be either sacrificed and left to melt... or else consumed at once.

Ice-cream for breakfast.

This is BB's Best Day Ever.

The First Sip of Beer

The title is a reference to a book by Philippe Delerm, a book that celebrates a selection of life's simple pleasures.
I would highly recommend it to any romantic soul... though I should warn you that it has (quite justifiably) been dismissed as "too French" by someone who - er - is not French.

Anyway, that's really beside the point.
This Sunday marked not the first sip of beer but the first outdoor lunch of 2011. (The blustery picnic we cobbled together and forced the boys to "enjoy" in mid-January doesn't count).
That magical first lunch of the year that is preceded by the hesitant words "Mmm... you know, we could almost... I'd say it's warm enough to... what do you think?"

And it was warm enough. A table laid for three adults and two little boys, a dish of Provençal vegetables, fresh fish and a bottle of champagne... for no reason other than to celebrate the first outdoor lunch of the year. And because - in my humble opinion - champagne goes best with unplanned moments, its taste so much sweeter when it celebrates "nothing in particular".

It's not the end of winter. But it's a glimpse of the beginning of the end.
And LB has a rosy sunkissed nose.

Home Alone

February 1st: my first bout of sickness so far this winter.
I suppose, with hindsight, it was inevitable. Only last week I heard myself boasting to a couple of sniffly colleagues: "It's amazing! None of my family has been sick so far this winter! You know, I really think our immune systems are tip top now..."

Yes, naturally, I deserved to get sick after such a blatant flouting of superstition.

So, yesterday afternoon I writhed about a bit at crèche, fuelling suspicions that "no. 3 is on the way."
No, no, no, absolutely not.
But you know how it is: you puke up at crèche in front of a gaggle of mothers, and the rumour is launched. It will probably take another 6 months to demonstrate beyond any doubt that it really was just a tummy bug.

I then made a quick "sick stop" on the journey home - much to LB's disgust - and proceded to be sick for most of the evening.

Today, I feel better, but really: what's the point of rushing in to work with an empty stomach, a headache and a pressing urge to be horizontal?

This is the new me: the one who is kind to herself.

Today it's home alone: just me and the soft purr of the washing machine: that unique feeling of physical weakness mingled with euophoria: I have a day to myself! No pressure! No expectations! Just rest up and get better!

A Bird in the Hand is Worth...

The infringement of wildlife onto our little urban oasis continues.
After the mouse in the kitchen (last summer), this Sunday morning kicked off with... a bird in the bedroom.

OK, it was just a sparrow. But, if you're not quite 3 and a half, and just emerging from an 11-hour sleep, believe me: the sight of a sparrow hurtling towards you in the semi-darkness is pretty scary.
I know, I was there.

So, BB was frantic, LB was bemused, FH was flustered and I was trying to be mature about the whole thing. You know, to set an example (or whatever it is us mothers are supposed to do).
And the sparrow... well, he was absolutely terrified, from what we could see.

As FH tried to coax him out from under the bed of the frantic child, the bird stole its chance and made a kamikaze dive for the bedroom door.
It was at that point that I totally gave up the attempt to appear calm, and released a tragic, piercing shriek of my own.
See, I was standing right by the doorway, and so got a nice bit of "wing-lash" as birdie rocketed past.

Well, after that, FH was well and truly on his own.
I barricaded myself into the bedroom with the boys, slipping effortlessly and gratefully into "women and children first" mode.
It's amazing how a mere whiff of danger sets us right back a century or two.

A few minutes later, FH announced that our winged friend had been shown the door.
I insisted he swear on the Bible and a few precious people's heads that this was no lie, knowing FH's penchant for the "say what they want to hear" theory.
He promised.

So, it wasn't even 8.20 a.m., and we'd already experienced major drama. It was definitely going to be "one of those Sundays."

But on the upside, at least that explains the unfathomable noises we've been hearing above the boiler for the past few days.

LB, always cool in a crisis

Upward Spiral

Friday night, and I'm going out.
In the car, on the way to Sophie's house, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and bask in the sense of freedom afforded by the darkness, the classical musical, the warmth of the heater and the prospect of the evening ahead.
All the lights are green; I buzz once in the frosty air and Sophie is down in a flash.

Now there are two of us in the car, two bottles of wine, some homemade cakes, a dab of lipstick.
We laugh about something silly that happened earlier, wonder whether I have enough petrol left to get us to Marie's flat and back. Sensibly, I pull in at the next petrol station and pump 10 euros' worth of petrol in. All I have on me is a 10-euro note: the petrol station guy is mighty impressed with the precision of my filling... and Sophie and I have a laugh about that too as we drive off.

Marie greets us with a hug; we proffer our chinking bottles of wine.
She's wearing fluffy slippers, and her new flat is cosy and elegant: we spend a good 20 minutes touring round and exclaiming over the details, though there are only 50 square metres to explore.

Marie is proud of her new corkscrew, but in the course of her bottle-opening demonstration, the cork splits and tiny splinters flutter into the very, very nice wine that is 10 years old and most probably not improved by the addition of bits of cork.
We have a real laugh about that, as we clink glasses.

The hours pass, and sometimes we are all talking at once, all laughing at once, or repeating that same anecdote from 2007 that we all know word for word... that we are embellishing as the years go by, in unspoken agreement.
We laugh about our colleagues: the usual idiosyncracies... the annoying habits that we mimic with affection after the third glass of wine.

Later, we talk about when we were children. We didn't grow up in the same country, of course, didn't watch the same TV programmes or speak the same language... but the way we feel about it all is the same, and that's all that matters.
Then it's 1.30 a.m., and we should really get home to bed.
We chatter our way to the door, chatter through the coat and glove ceremony, chatter our way down the stairs and back to the car and home.

Sophie and Marie and I have worked together, in the same unpretty office, for over seven years.
We see each other practically every working day.
If I think about it, I spend more time with them than anyone else, FH included.
We have had a couple of cross words in seven years: one or two misunderstandings and uncountable hours of conversation and laughter.

There is never a sliver of silence between us.
I never stop to censor what I say in their presence.
They know just about everything that has ever happened to me, and I'm pretty sure I know how they feel about most things.

Sophie and Marie don't know I write a blog. Somehow - through an unavoidable technicality - they got classified into the "colleagues" category in my mind, and I consciously decided not to mix blogging and colleagues.
So the chances are, they'll never read all of the above.

There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about the things we do together, or the conversations we have.
There is absolutely nothing extraordinary about our friendship, in the same way that there is nothing extraordinary about the routine of daily life.
Except that - from time to time, in a flash of lucidity and gratitude - we realise that all this so-called ordinariness may well be the rock that holds us together.

As unbelievable as it sounds, it was only last night that I finally saw what was right in front of my nose, so close I overlooked it for seven years: these are my friends. What would I do without them?

I have spent a lot of energy moaning about the fact my job doesn't provide me with the intellectual stimulation I expect.
But perhaps, in a way, I've been missing the point all along.

Frozen in Time

Our fridge was a donation from the in-laws. It came to live with us in our first rented flat in the Marais in Paris: a lone domestic appliance with only a cardboard box-cum coffee table and FH's student sofabed for company.

The years passed and the furniture clan grew slightly: eventually, there was a small oven to snuggle up to, a "real" bed (well, a futon) and a Swedish bookshelf.
The fridge wasn't pretty or special, but it did its job, survived one move, then another and another and another... with never so much as a rumble of complaint.

It has been with us for over 10 years, though it's actual age (unknown) is probably more like 20.

And now, one marriage, two kids and 10 eventful years later, the fridge is nearing the end. Though it bravely rattles on - stoically cooling the dozens of yoghurts and family-size packs of child-friendly cheese spread we stuff into it week after week - it is starting to show its age.
Were it a human, it would be wheezing and spluttering and crawling into bed for a nap.

Touchingly, it is only now that the end is near and its performance waning that we have started to actually notice it. Oh the injustice of life! Years and years of silent service without so much as a second glance... and yet now, as it struggles towards its last breath, we finally stop, take a look, poke around inside a little.

And the inevitable decision is made: our old fridge must be replaced.
Such is the unforgiving nature of life. Though - if it's any consolation, dear fridge - you should know that, had you fallen into any other household, you would probably have been replaced years ago. In a way, you got lucky.
You fell into the hands of a couple whose materialism thrives in the form of clothes and footwear... but ceases to exist completely when it comes to domestic appliances.

In fact, the mere burden of selecting and acquiring a new fridge tires us. After a few timely clicks on the laptop, FH announces he's found a suitor, and asks if I want to see it.
I don't.
Just order it, I mumble from behind my novel. Domestic appliances, like car problems and certain Swedish furniture stores, are my own personal hell. A sort of quagmire of boredom, the simple prospect of which makes me snappy and irritated.

But, while FH sighs and does the necessary, I do have a passing, tender thought for you, dear old fridge.
I think: you served us well, though you weren't flashy or modern or pretty by anyone's standards. You are part of a different era: you belong to a young, penniless couple setting up home together, an idealistic man and woman who didn't think twice about plonking an upside-down cardboard box in the middle of their living room, and calling it a coffee table.
They just don't make 'em like you anymore. And in a funny sort of way, I'll miss you.

Therapy

A few weeks ago, when two fellow mothers and I booked a weekend's "retreat" here, it all seemed rather frivolous and... expensive.

But, now that the countdown to departure time has begun (2 hours to go! Freedom calls!), the whole exploit appears not frivolous but.... vital.

Massage or meltdown?
Pampering or prozac?
Spa or bust?

Looks like we made a wise choice.

Off Balance

Imagine our enthusiasm: a rare opportunity for a night out, made possible thanks to the fortuitous combination of
1/ A group of friends
2/ A kind-hearted babysitter
3/ A good restaurant

So, the evening was fun, the food was OK - but brazenly over-priced - the break from routine was invaluable.

FH started to look a little wobbly on the bike ride home.
Once home, he quickly excused himself and went to bed, while I made tea and had an hour-long debriefing session with the kind-hearted babysitter.

Then, the OK meal removed itself from FH's stomach and deposited itself all over the bedroom, hallway and bathroom in three stages (4 am, 5 am, 6 am) that seemed to roughly correspond to the three courses in which it was served.

No pretty sight, no pretty odour, let me tell you.

A bit of a kick in the teeth for an overwrought couple with few, treasured opportunities for nights out "à deux".

Stumbling out of bed after a sleepless night, thinking of the rather large credit card payment made only a few hours ago, that scene from Fawlty Towers replayed itself in my mind's eye:
Basil's dinner has made one of the snooty guests sick. When the snooty guest's husband asks Basil for a refund - in view of the circumstances - Basil is typically mean-spirited.
"If it was off, why did she eat the other half?"
"Fine!" snaps snooty husband, "in that case, you can refund half now... and if my wife brings up the other half in the night, we'll claim the balance in the morning!"

Classic

Saturday Night

Saturday night: a glass (or two) of wine, a few books, Internet access, two boys in bed, a husband out of the house but accounted for (with sister), SILENCE.

There may have been a time when I aspired to slightly more than this on a Saturday night. But now... Now... I have to say that this exquisite scenario actually constitutes something bordering on perfection.

Desperate Housewife

Every November, the plumber comes round to check the boiler.
After cleaning, purging, disconnecting and reconnecting a bunch of complex-looking wires, he downs a coffee, munches a biscuit and declares us OK to switch the heating on for another winter.

The scenario is always the same: he works, I make the coffee, he talks to me about cars.

But for some reason, this year is different. This year, he doesn't want to talk about cars. This year, despite the fact BB is home with me - gazing at the plumber and his array of tools with undisguised admiration - all the plumber wants to discuss is.... (how to put this politely?): extra-conjugal matters.

Entirely unprovoked, he launches into a frenetic monologue detailing his many - many - extra-conjugal adventures, and the ample opportunities that are the icing on the cake of his profession as a plumber.
While I nod and struggle to remain impassive (we're in my kitchen! We're discussing one man's sexual exploits in front of my 3-year old son!), he paints me a few pictures that may or may not be the truth... but seem to delight him all the same: women who answer the door naked except for a loosely tied bathrobe... bored housewives who grab him from behind while he kneels to bleed a radiator... The fantasies unfold before my eyes.

"Well, you know, I don't judge..." I offer unconvincingly (ten minutes earlier, we were comparing anecdotes about our respective children), whilst raising my eyebrows and nodding in the direction of BB. The point is: please curb the s*x talk in front of my kid. The message he appears to receive is: your stories are certainly making me hot under the collar.

So in confusion I take the last-resort option that is the privilege of every parent: I pretend BB needs me for something - quickly - and I leave the room.
I shuffle BB into the bathroom and force him to use the potty.
We linger as long as we can over the whole operation.

When we return to the kitchen, the randy plumber is packing up to leave, so it is with relief that I hand over the cheque and throw open the door.
"Well, see you next year!" I call brightly, thinking 'damn, we need to find a new plumber'.

"Sure, sure" he grins, toolbox in hand, "and you know - next year... maybe if you're alone..."

What? What?!

I can hardly believe the insinuation. Maybe I'm imagining it. Is he really suggesting some sleazy naked housewife scenario?
Crazy.
We close the door and I can sense BB is disappointed.
I'd promised him an exciting half hour watching a handyman at work (tools, noise, mess: a little boy's dream), and in the event, the plumber was just a boring man who talked a lot.

And to think... I actually answered the door with wet hair.
I shiver as I rush to fetch the hairdryer.

Photo of my hotel room in Rome. A plumber-free zone

You take the high road & I'll take the low road...

What does it say about me that, in a traffic jam involving at least ten cars, I was the only person who got out, assessed the situation, spied the fire engines up ahead, sussed out that none of us was going anywhere fast if we didn't back up, walked from car to car explaining the state of play to each driver individually, then supervised the entire "rescue" operation??

As I strutted from car to car, explaining to each occupant that the road ahead was definitively blocked, I saw as many profiles as there were cars:
- Mr Stressed (anger, impatience, steering wheel gripped in fury)
- Miss Cool (couldn't care less, would sit and wait all day if need be, took advantage of the imposed break to reapply make-up)
- Mrs Anxious-but-wishes-she was-cool (tense forehead, cigarette in hand, fingernail clicking against steering wheel)
- Miss Timid (sub-consciously leaning back as I approach, feels like any confrontation with a stranger is an infringement of her privacy)
- Mr Arrogant (tie knotted tightly, ruddy face, refuses to believe that the road will not magically empty for him, despite evidence to the contrary).

So who am I? Of course, I would like to think that my actions prove that I am
Mrs Self-Assertive.
Either that or Mrs Control Freak, right?

Anyway, it's back to cycling for me. Driving is far too much responsibility.

For BB: An Anecdote

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I stare in disbelief at the gaping hole, and my mouth contorts into a semi-wail, semi-smile.

To help you understand why I’m in this state: here’s a little background.

At 7 pm, I biked into town with BB, on a mission to purchase a waterproof jacket for his first ever school trip tomorrow.

I knew I’d left it late, but the teacher’s note said “in case of light rain, make sure you provide your child’s waterproof jacket”, and – although I shrugged and took note of the fact BB did not as yet possess a waterproof jacket – I never thought it would actually rain.

Only today at 5 pm did Google think to inform me that rain was predicted. OK. No matter: when FH got home to relieve me of one kid, I hot footed it to Monoprix with the other.

And hey presto, we were in luck. There was one waterproof jacket left in his size. Perfect. We bundled it into the basket with the ingredients for his picnic (also a requirement of the School Trip Which Must Be Perfect), handed over the cash, and cycled home.

Home at 8 pm, and of course, it’s the usual hysteria, made worse by the fact we’re running late and everyone’s more tired and hungry than they should be.

With tears and some shouting from all sides, the boys are coaxed into their bedrooms. FH embarks on the usual story/calming routine, while I run around like a gameshow contestant who’s been instructed to “prepare the perfect day in 15 minutes max.”

I butter bread, slice cheese, pack the dinky water bottle and cheese slices and fruit pot into the dinky lunchbox. Then I whip out the iron, locate the name label, smooth out the spot on the lovely new waterproof jacket where I will lovingly iron on my son’s name.

As I press the hot iron down over the label, I am exhausted and yet filled with a sense of the importance of my mission: I am preparing my son’s first ever school trip. He’s going to have a lovely time and it’s all going to be perfect.

When I lift up the iron after the recommended 10 seconds, an ominous sizzling sound suggests that all is not well. There is an iron-sized hole in BB’s new waterproof jacket.

This is the part where my mouth contorts.

Funnily enough, my first split-second reaction is: that’s pretty funny. But a second later, I want to howl. Literally sink to the floor and cry and yell “It’s not fair!!!”

But here we get to the crux of the story (and if you’re still reading at this point: thank you. I hope you will find the next part rewarding).

While the (irretrievably damaged) iron still sizzles in my right hand, my mind has already flipped into High Alert Survival Mode. I reckon I have about five minutes before FH re-emerges from the bedroom and gets an eyeful of this ridiculous scene. I know with stomach-knotting certainty that this anecdote (and yes, I’m already aware that it will be an Anecdote) absolutely must have a happy ending. This cannot just be the story of "the time I burned a hole through BB’s new jacket”.

So I unplug the iron (I’m no fool), grab my fluorescent cycling jacket and run out of the house.

I pedal like a woman possessed. I reach Monoprix at 9.30 pm. I couldn’t remember whether it closed at 9 or 10, but luck – after deserting me once – seems to be back on my side: the shop’s still open.

I rush in, scan the rows of boy clothes, scrutinise the labels on all the jackets.

And yes, I do find another one in his size. Another one which – I swear – was not there when we came in earlier. Interpret that as you like: personally, I like to think that the good Lord helps us out in little ways when He sees the messes we get ourselves in to.

I pay for my second waterproof jacket of the evening, get back on my bike, start the ride home. And as I pedal along in the dark, tears start to run down my face.

Not because I’m impressed with my heroism, or because I think the jacket has life-altering importance, but because this modest mission has just made me realise something major: a mother will do absolutely anything in her power to make her child happy.

And sure, some of it is about me, about perfectionism. But a bigger part of it is about him. Because I can’t stand the thought of him being the only kid without a waterproof jacket. Or – er – him seeing the jacket we bought together with a stinking great hole in the back.

So BB: this story is for you.

In fifteen years’ time, who knows how you and I will be getting along? You’ll be 18, and chances are I’ll be annoying you like crazy. I know: I annoy myself a lot of the time.

But, if one day you want to read through some of these blog entries and find out a bit more about the little things that made up your childhood, then I hope you’ll read this tale and smile.

And know that your Mum – despite her many faults – once cycled through the darkness for half a hour like a maniac to make sure your first school trip would be perfect.

Or near enough.

The Tortoise and The... Hare

It's 9.08 a.m., and I'm crammed into a tiny toilet cubicle at work, frantically changing clothes and smoothing down my wet, unruly hair (I cycle to work), when I have one of those sudden flashes.
You know: one of those moments of truth - a timely insight into your life, your state of mind, your daily plight.
A five-second stock take.



And that's when my inner voice whines: would you just look at you?? You spend four fifths of your life in a constant hurry. You rush from place to place, commitment to commitment... with only the odd hour's respite here and there. Your head is spinning most of the time - if you stand up too quickly, you feel light-headed. Your bag always contains a change of clothes, deodorant and a spare nappy (not for me, I stress). Here you are, scrambling around trying to tame your hair into some kind of style, at 9.08 a.m., just so you can slip behind your desk by 9.12 a.m. and look poised enough to fool anyone (your boss) into thinking you've been there diligently since 8.30.

This is my life. Is it normal?

I wonder whether it has to be this way. Perhaps I am partly to blame. I mean - wouldn't it all be just a little simpler if I didn't insist on cycling everywhere? If I could just resign myself to the concept of sitting patiently in traffic, rather than racing between crèche, school and work on a pushbike, sometimes with a 13-kilo kid strapped on the back?
Maybe. But that old cliché about sport being a drug has some truth to it.
There are days when I look at the car, and the grey sky, and the drizzle, and I consider my options. But even on the days when the car wins out, I end up cracking somewhere along the way (usually as soon as I spy the tailend of a traffic jam...), dumping the car back home and switching to two wheels.

It's the freedom, the addictive part. This much, I'm sure of.
But the downside, of course, is the haste, the sweat, the change of clothes, the messy hair.

So now - insightful flash over - it's 9.10 a.m.
I dab at my sweaty face, clip my hair up, sigh, unclip it.

And as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I realise that actually - all things considered - there's just one thing that would make my life easier.
Just one, small, barely significant thing, that would make the hectic timetable of my life a little gentler to implement, help me win back precious minutes.

Why oh why oh why can I not have hair that falls into place naturally???

Sweet September

Saturday: an Autumnal breeze, light grey clouds, a pair of socks, retrieved, an hour's escapism for me (a ride into town, a hot black coffee, a good book).

Sunday: a bright blue sky, warm sunshine, perfect stillness, summer returns, a bike ride with friends (one boy on the back of each bike), picnic in the shade, a bunch of flowers, just for me.
September may be dethroning June as my favourite month of the year.

The Curious Incident of the Mouse in the Daytime

I wander into our kitchen on an uneventful Saturday afternoon, and there's a mouse in there.

A picture-book mouse, just sitting there, rather snootily, if I have to choose an adverb.
I gasp - inhale - clutch my chest, as one does when in shock.
I think: "yes, I know I said I wanted to live in the country... but this is not the country. This is no place for a mouse. If I was in the country, then of course I would expect to see a mouse, and be entirely calm. But here, I do not expect to see mice in my kitchen, so that is why I am not calm" (this is how we justify our silly fears, I know: the rather shameful chasm between the person I imagine myself to be, and the person I am).

Then I flash back to our house in England: I am a kid or a young teen - I can't remember which - and there's a huge rat in our kitchen. After he has gone to inspect and confirm the rat sighting, my Dad (a grown man!) runs back into the living room, visibly scared and uttering a four-word expletive. While he panics, Mum goes off to calmly deal with the rodent.

So what to do?
Survival instinct for non-murderous yet non-rodent-loving urban vegetarians: I throw a big plastic bowl over the mouse, thus rendering it captive.

Then I rush out of the back door, sprint over to our neighbour's back door and yell "there's a mouse in my kitchen!!"
As you may have gathered if you are a regular reader of this humble blog, I am not on hugely friendly terms with my neighbours. I guess you might say "we put up with each other." As people who share a communal garden must.
And yet - and yet - today I am weak-kneed with gratitude: I HAVE neighbours and they are kind enough to be at home!
They come at once to help - three of them: two scared females and one wonderously virile male carrying an A3 size hardback tome that he will use as Utensile B in my grand mouse-evacuation plan.

The mouse is moved, in its plastic prison, out of my kitchen, out of my house and across the road. Us three females, and a wide-eyed BB, trail behind my male neighbour, like a gaggle of groupies.

The mouse is deposited on a patch of grass, scuttles free, glances up to take stock.
As one, the cortege of females plus child takes a step backwards.

Then, as the mouse (who is admittedly fairly cute when not inside property I own) sniffs and scampers on its new patch of turf, the neighbours and I laugh and chat and make fun of each other, sitting along the low wall opposite our house.
We are soon joined my Grumpy Old Man and Wife, who are never slow to pick up on a whiff of drama.

For a few minutes, we are friendly, chatty, relaxed, connected.
And I'm so happy to have neighbours.

French Connection

... And, as if purchasing my first mobile phone after all these years of "abstinence" wasn't enough... yesterday I actually managed (all alone, with no help from anyone) to connect up our new landline phone.
The one that - shamefully - has been sitting in its box, untouched, since December 2009*.



Man, this has been one major week for telecommunications.


* Not strictly true: I did make an attempt to connect it sometime last spring... but aborted the mission sometime around 1 a.m. when the Freebox and the phone line just refused to hook up.
The phone only narrowly escaped a grizzly end at the bottom of the bin lorry then, let me tell you.

Date Night

So, FH and I have devised an original new way of dating.

He goes to the cinema on Friday night. I stay home and babysit.
I go to the cinema on Saturday night. He stays home and babysits.

Sunday afternoon, if we're lucky enough to get a conversation slot, we exchange a few words about the film we both saw.
It's date night stretched over three days... with two kids factored in :-)

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Ladies and gentlemen: sit comfortably and be prepared for a shock.
Tomorrow, I will do something I never imagined I would do.
I will force myself to cross the threshold of one of those horrible, negative-vibe infested stores that have sprung up like ugly wild mushrooms these past few years, and I will purchase...
a mobile phone.


What has happened? I hear you cry.
Well, let's summarise.
In the case of "Western Consumerist Society versus Shirley B.", it would appear that Western Consumerist Society has won.
But let it be known that Shirley B. did not go down without a fight.

For years, even as friends, family, pensioners, kids and the rest of the human race began swarming like flies towards the cow-pat of telecommunications, I resisted.
I stood tall, principled and defiant: I firmy and utterly believed (believe) that mobile phones are unnecessary. Unnecessary, over-used and one of the main culprits behind the decline in common courtesy. They render their slaves child-like and incapable of those two un-glamourous skills I vaue so greatly: Forward Planning and Organisation.
Their use at the wheel makes me froth at the mouth.
Their ubiquitous presence, the drug-like power they seem to assert on their poor, addicted owners, who caress and stroke and gaze at them at every opportunity - even in the company of others - makes me cringe.

But you know all that.
Let's move on to the more interesting part: why I have conceded defeat.
Well, ladies and gentleman, despite all my misgivings (nay, disgust), it has over the past few weeks become apparent to me that I can no longer aspire to play a full role in society without possessing - moi aussi - one of these vicious little objects.
We phoneless are being gradually pushed out of existence: gone are the handy payphones on every corner... gone are the people who know how to fix a meeting 3 days in advance, and stick to it.
I have finally had my fill: sick and tired of pitching up at the allotted place and time, only to find that the person I've come to meet has changed the place, or the time, or whatever... but hasn't been able to get in touch to tell me.
And yes, folks, the pendulum has swung so far that these missed meetings are now actually considered to be MY FAULT. My fault, because I don't possess a mobile, of course.
People - all people - even nice people, even professional people - do not plan anymore.
We live in a spur-of-the-moment, wait-and-see-if-something-better-comes-along kind of society... in which it is vital to be able to receive text messages.

So here I go.
Faced with the serious threat of becoming friend-less and forgotten, I have opted to take the plunge.
And yes, I do know what's going to happen.
Us latter day converts are - laughably, ridiculously - condemned to be the most addicted of all.
We are the born-again Christians of the mobile revolution!
I doubt that me and my new communication tool will ever be separated.

So budge up and make some room for me on that bandwaggon.

Anyone want my number??

Photo taken August 2007

Girl Talk

Three harrassed mums - I am one of them - drop their gaggle of kids off at creche.
It's already too hot: the day has barely begun, and we're already tired. And hot (did I mention that it's hot? It's hot).
It doesn't seem physically possible, and yet, we are managing to be both lethargic AND rushed at the same time.

We know we're running late for work. We exchange a couple of quips about how we're always pitching up to our respective jobs late.
We exchange wry reflections on the bizarre atmosphere in offices, pre-July 14th. The emptiness, the disconcerting feeling that you've absent-mindedly wandered into work on a Sunday.
The inability to concentrate on anything other than holiday plans.
The pardox of tomorrow's public holiday (a break from work: a full day entertaining overheated kids).

Three mums laugh and empathise, leaning against the car bonnet.
They will now be much later for work than is reasonable.

But their day will be so much brighter.

Hot and Bothered

It was too hot to carry the camera around, it was too hot to take photos, it was too hot to do anything other than jump into a large expanse of cool-ish water. And drink rosé.

If you'd like a glimpse of what I did last weekend, you'll have to pop over here.

It sure was nice to swim in open water with old and new friends, though.