Nobby and Me

Life in Blighty

2011-11-09T13:15:00.005+01:00

I didn't realise how long it's been since I last blogged. Slightly different surroundings today from my last post: I'm in Pickle's old nursery which has now been transformed into a study.

Yup, we are back in Blighty and I hope one day to finally finish the unpacking.

The kids are at their new school; Pickle has his first electric guitar lesson today. He was inspired to take it up after the success of some friends of his in the school Talent Show in Budapest. I have a feeling once he's learned the chords to Seven Nation Army by White Stripes he's gonna give up. I just hope he makes it to the lesson. The school is more than double the size of his old one so no chance of the teacher coming to fetch him (which was always fun to watch when he had recorder lessons in Budapest, the lovely lady would always end up cross and frustrated in my classroom demanding to know where he was each week.) He flatly refused to let me biro it on his hand so I have written a reminder on his locker key which is on a string round his neck and I'm hoping for the best.

Poppet has given up piano now I've shelled out for one, and taken up singing instead, inspired by her obsession with the X Factor (which we can now watch!) She's already lined up Adele's 'Rolling in the Deep' for the Talent Show but she's still not sure what to sing when she enters the X Factor herself :-)

Tiggy and Lucky are back with us. It was a strange couple of months with no animals although the kids did their best to fill in. Tiggy has a new walking routine in lovely English countryside with no risk of deadly tick bites, hurrah! We drop the kids at school then pop over to Windsor Great Park to do her morning dump on the Queen's doorstep, cheers Ma'am. Tiggy loves the place, it is a regular doggy club there each morning with loads of furry butts to sniff. Failing that there is squirrel hunting, which she is rubbish at but loves to try. She just can't understand how the squirrel manages to get into the nearest tree before she reaches it, no matter how fast she runs. Personally I'm hoping she'll switch to pheasant chasing, I'm sure I can make a much more exciting stew out of that than some fluffy tailed, twitchy nosed rodent. The feathers would be handy too. (I am kidding you know.)

Anyway, today I will be mostly doing laundry, cleaning and cooking, like most other days now I am a housewife again (yawn). But I promise if anything exciting happens you'll be the first to know.

Big ones to all the peeps I left behind in Hungary and France. Miss you xx

Babemouth 2

2011-07-15T08:39:00.003+02:00

Yesterday I neglected to add Pickle's latest theory on the subject of Haribo sweets. We've had an excess supply of cola bottles since his birthday party and I have been popping a few in my handbag ever since as rewards (or 'sit down and shut up' incentives, depending on the occasion).

After happily munching through a few the other day and expressing bewilderment as to why I don't like them (yuck) he announced,
'I think Haribos are designed to teach children how to chew food. Because they take a LOT of chewing to eat them. And you need to chew your food otherwise you can get fat. So I think that's what Haribos are for. Mentos too.'

I love the way he's kind of half right and half wrong, and that he's taken on board my repeated lecturing about chewing and swallowing rather than shovelling and gulping in order to leave the table quicker. Bless.

He's clearly also picked up on some of my ongoing life goals after asking me,
'Mum, if you could have one thing thats not real come to life, what would it be?'
I ummed and erred for a bit then he said,
'I reckon you'd like it to be the dishwasher, then it could load and unload itself for you while you had a nice cup of tea.'

!!!!

He's been pontificating quite a bit this morning as well while he's played with Lucky Hamper the hamster, who is about to receive his own metal-lined, airline-approved rodent box and be transported back to the UK to live with my parents.

After a short game of Hide and Seek on the sofa - Pickle places Lucky on the sofa, closes his eyes and counts to 12 then cries 'coming ready or not!' as one fluffy rear end disappears under the cushions, technically it's more 'Hunt the Hamster' than Hide and Seek but they seemed to enjoy it - Pickle declares that Lucky is cute and adorable...

'...just like me really, Mum. Like boy, like hamster.'

Now there's no disagreeing with that.

He proceeded to weigh the little mite on my cooking scales just for interest, followed inevitably by every other object on the dining table. Lucky clocked all of 47 grams compared to a litre and a half of iced tea which weighed, funnily enough, a kilo and a half. We're learning maths already and it's not even 9am here.

He then re-wrote the song 'Hey Baby, Ooh, Ah' with the words

'Heeeeeeeeeey-ey-ey Lu-cky, Ooh, Ah,
I wanna know-ow-ow-ow, oh-oh-oh, if you'll be my hamster.'

Lucky responded with one of his Mission Impossible stunts, climbing up the side of his cage bars then swinging paw-over-paw across the top to give Pickles finger a lick.

That hamster is really going to be missed.

Out of the mouths of babes

2011-07-14T16:44:00.002+02:00

This morning Pickle grabbed hold of my ipod as we were driving to our pottery class (I have resorted to messy, touchy-feely, arty-farty stuff to try and get him off the screens and its proved quite a hit. There are other lively boys there to chat with and he's discovered a flair for crafting bees from clay.)

'Haven't you go Cover Flow on this thing?' he said.

'What on earth is Cover Flow?' I asked, but I never did find out.

Later he was discussing with his pottery buddies which Pickman is his favourite.

'What are you going on about?' I asked.

'Oh, it's just a Wii game, Mum,' he replied and carried on the discussion. I don't think I am invited into the World of Wii.

Later Poppet regaled a delightful dream she had the other night.

'I was a giant and I picked Pickle up but accidentally dropped him down the plughole. I had to take apart all the plumbing to get him out and then he stank so bad I had to bath him every day for a month. I just held him up under the tap.'

Am I the only one finding their kids' worlds a totally foreign country? Am I supposed to know what a Cover Flow is? Can't I have a favourite Pickman?

I have to say ignorance is bliss compared to hearing my own voice coming out of their mouths. Just yesterday I heard one of them lamment, very loudly,

'Oh for goodness sake!'

And when, somehow, we got onto the subject of me having more babies in McDonalds on Monday (don't ask me how) and I asked Poppet what she would say if I told her I was pregnant she replied, 'I'd probably say Holy s.*.*.t!' (She did spell it by the way but still.)

Following all his recent web surfing Pickle decided to give me the low-down on how you should never keep a deer if you have a dog. I tried to tell him that deer are not usually considered pets but he went on to tell me about how he'd watched footage of a lady feeding a baby deer, who subsequently went back to its Mummy, who then galloped over and attacked the woman's dog. Pickle takes this to mean that deer are protective of their young (probably true and very incisive) and that all baby deer are tattle-tales who like getting dogs into trouble (hmmm).

I never knew Youtube home movies were so informative.

Anyway, the big news in our house is that we are moving back to the UK next month.

Yeah, when I said big I meant BIG.

The kids are taking it really well. Poppet went atraight to her notebook to start planning her bedroom. Pickle wanted to make sure he's taking all his stuff with him, including the hamster.

As for me, I am up to my armpits in lists and plans and tidying. Poor old Nobby keeps discovering things have been put away, chucked out or sold every night. So far I've sold my car and the spare bed and I have half a basement full of other stuff we don't need to schlepp across the continent just to sit in our attic.

My folks are even in on the game. They are taking in Tiggy and Lucky Hamper early next week while the rest of us nip off on holidays (me and kids) and spangly new jobs (Nobby). They were probably looking forward to a nice relaxing summer full of dancing engagements and weekends away. Now they've got to find a hamster cage and a dog bowl and babysit instead. Big thanks to them both for helping us out.

So there you go, the expat dream is coming to an end. I am expecting plenty of bloggable episodes in the coming weeks so stay tuned.

Trolley wars

2011-07-11T23:44:00.002+02:00

What's worse than standing in a queue of ten people at your least favourite supermarket on a busy Monday night with only three tills open?(they should rename it the rubbishmarket, there is NOTHING whatsoever that is super about it)

This is the strangely named Kaiser's, which has been taken over by Spar but they are struggling to replace the Kaiser's banner above the door. I may have mentioned it before, the place where you need a sense of humour bypass before they will offer you minimum wage employment.

The place where you can have your cabbage shredded into coleslaw for free by the sheer force by which they ram the goods over the infra red.

The place where the only way to lift your spirits is to join in the unspoken game of 'beat the checkout' by trying to get all your shopping into bags before the assistant clears the conveyor belt and un-tactfully levers the accumulated pile down the ramp at you before sitting back in her chair, arms folded, to watch you catch up.

The worst thing has to be the over-zealous assistant getting so lost in the game that she throws three bottles of beer across the bleeper with such force that one of them explodes and showers you, her and all your remaining shopping with luke-warm Corona.

I had to laugh, or else I'd have cried.

Pickles joke corner

2011-07-11T08:14:00.003+02:00

Q: What do you call a sea creature who goes to the loo 8 times a day?
A: An Octopoos!

Q: What do you call a man with a cat on his head?
A: Claude!

Q: What do vampires have for lunch?
A: Just a quick bite.

The boy is on top form lately, whenever he comes up for air from one screen or another. Now that school is out for the summer he is getting up promptly at 7am and heading off into cyberspace on the computer, DS or Wii until I drag myself up at a more civilised hour and start negotiations to get him back into the real world.

The irony is that I had to drag HIM up at 7am every week day for the past year to get to school on time. Little bugger.

The end of school was a complete whirlwind and I can't believe I have completed a whole year's teaching already! I've also now completed a week teaching at summer school - an experience guaranteed to wipe out even the most energetic activities co-ordinator. We had a pirate theme for the week and most of us lost our voices from all the 'ha-haaaaaar!'-ing every day but luckily a bottle of rose on my terrace on friday night when it was all over proved effective medicine.

Today we are off to another summer camp but this time I am a participant and not trying to coerce anyone else into having a good time. We are doing pottery each day along the theme of 'Bugs, Beetles, Birds and Butterflies' so even Pickle may find something he wants to make. He could create a new breed of Pokemon Beetle or a Super Mario Butterfly.

As I type he is too tired for the Wii so he is watching a YouTube video of someone else playing Super Mario on the Wii to learn how to do the game! I can't decide if that's smart or stupid. Does it count as background research? Or should I be booking him into Gamers Anonymous? Given that he keeps giggling out loud it's clearly entertaining. Now is that because Mario is doing backflips or is the crazy American dude providing second-by-second commentary teaching him rude words? (I'd vet it myself but I think I'd rather eat my own spleen.)

I think I'll try to distract him back to reality with a spot of breakfast.

Not evading but drowzing

2011-05-24T21:17:00.003+02:00

Eek, a whole month since my last confession.. er, I mean post??

Zoiks, time flies when you're up to your armpits in work all day and falling asleep on the sofa every night. Can I even remember what I've been getting up to for a month?

Of course, first there was Rome. What a lovely trip that was, despite the fun an games getting there and back with sWizz air. Still, you gets what you pays for and, for the record, I ain't paying 4 euro for a can of coke just because we're a mile up in the sky. Call me tight but I wonder if I can get a couple of wet sponges through security?

The great thing about staying with friends abroad is you get the inside story on what the place is really like. Obviously not the juicy goss on what the Pope's been up to in his off hours but little titbits about life in another land. Over here we moan about the state of the roads and how so much business is conducted in cash. In Italy it's how Romans dump their rubbish all over the roadsides.

It's really true, I promise. Every layby, parking area and much of the main roads are adorned with binbags, a most fetching sight for any tourist. And in between there are the massive dumpster bins the local government has placed at regular intervals in a hopeful, but futile, attempt at containing the stuff.

Weird.

I'm afraid my repertoire of Italiano didn't progress much further than 'Chianti por favore' but I did become a dab hand at Guitar Hero, as did Nobby. One night we were up until the wee small hours and about 4 bottles down before we finally ran out of Bon jovi to jam along to. What a great invention I tell you. Something for everyone - Nobby on bass, me on lead and Mrs K herself on vocals, with her kids shaking their heads in bewilderment at the old folk getting busy with the big toys then putting us to shame with their high speed plucking.

Naturally we stopped into wave at the boss down at the Vatican. He's got a great front yard you know. We took the kids on an open top bus around the city, bombing through St Peter's Square, tossing coins in the Trevi Fountain and gaping in awe at the Colisseum.

Pickle was very taken with the architecture and, with help from Nobby, produced a highly informative Rough Guide documentary to the Colisseum, including facts like where to find the cheap seats and how to check if a felled gladiator was really dead(red hot poker apparently. Nice.)

Poppet discovered a love of cycling and had us exploring our friends' gated community using pedal power, dodging Ferraris and Lambourginis all the way whilst straining to glimpse the Italian football stars inside them - it seems Mrs K and family are rubbing shoulders with the well-off and well-known round their way. I wonder how many of them have Guitar Hero?

After Rome we attended The Royal Wedding via satellite link at the British Embassy, daaaarling. You can't argue with a free bar, an English snack shop, a four tier wedding cake and a good old English Street Party. You should have seen the faces of some of the local folks passing by the small car park in front of the Embassy which was adorned with red, white and blue bunting, ballons and awnings while Brits in their finery munched on sausage rolls and cucumber sandwiches.

Pickle and Poppet did well on the tombola, winning a free entry to a local spa, a water pistol and a bottle of bitters. Pickle reckons that since he pulled the winning ticket, he should get to go to the spa and he devised an intricate selection process to decide who he should take along. We're hoping a pair of tickets to the circus might prove a tempting swap so Nobby and Me can go instead.

The English Shop did well out of me, though Nobby was unimpressed by the goregeously cute Union Jack door-stop doggy I had him lugging home. Luckily a couple of cream eggs soon shut him up.

Since then, sadly it has been work, work, work. I have two new students to integrate into my class, taking me to a grand total of eighteen now (yes, I can hear you UK teachers laughing - but how many of your groups of 30 are 90% non-English speaking?!) There has been fun and games chasing the incredible disappearing new-kid, who I eventually tracked down in the upper school toilets because one needs a big loo with a lockable door for one's sit-down business.

I have also banned silly bands - the latest craze here is multi-coloured, multi-shaped elastic bands which cost about £1.50 for a big bag and require close examination and swapping at every hour of the day. I had to draw the line when one child came with only his slightly blue-toned hands visible under the masses of bands round his wrists which made his arm stick to the desk so he couldn't write.

One final confession is the great night out I had with fellow teachers, which was meant to be a civilised dinner and a few drinkies afterwards. The dinner was just perfect - we are operating our own Come Dine With Me syndicate but without the scoring just yet - then somehow we ended up on party island boogie-ing away in a packed out club, fending off a new-to-Budapest party animal who was prowling the throng for new friends. I'm not sure when the signal went up for everyone to leave but we suddenly found ourselves alone on the dancefloor.

'Where shall we go now?!!' I called to B, who was trying, and failing, to give Mr Keen the wrong mobile number.

'Er, look outside,' she said.

I went. I looked.

It was daylight.

Like I said, time flies...

Busy bees

2011-04-20T22:00:00.003+02:00

Quick straw poll - How many other working Mums, striving to do their best to keep up with juggling the dream dual lifestyle, have a husband with 15 shirts in the ironing pile??

Is it really just me? Any idea why Nobby should need more than fifteen shirts? And how he manages to get them all into the washing at the same time? Clearly I am spending far too much time enjoying my school holiday than keeping up with my chores.

The kids are being reasonably delightful. When I can drag them away from all the screens they like to glue themselves to, they have been quite creative.

Pickle produced a cute little double-bicycle for his two toy hamsters the other day. (I aim to keep him busy enough so he doesn't try to make one for the real hamster.) He showed it to us at breakfast and proudly announced, 'I've made a few improvements since the last model.'

'Really, darling?' says I, 'What did you do?'

'I've added a machine gun on the back.'

I am not sure I want to know the dangers facing these small, stuffed rodents which warrants the presence of heavy artillery so I just said 'That's nice, dear' and shut up.

Today the pair of them have produced a racing circuit round the garden which also involves jumping off the swingset, clambering up a steep embankment and leaping on the trampoline. Pickle says we are each going to have a sticker book to record our times in so I need to get my printer fixed so he can make them. Personally I am dragging my heels getting the printer fixed so I don't have to run, jump and clamber. Call Miss Lazy but I frankly, am I bovvered?

We had a welcome diversion this afternoon in the form of a free trip to watch the ice hockey world championship qualifiers at the Budapest Arena. It was my first school trip as a responsible officiating teacher and I have to say our crowd behaved themselves really well.

More than can be said for the brats in front of us, whose resulting mess will have taken the Arena staff the best part of an hour to clear up. Clearly they have not broken up from school yet, unlike us, so they'd been up at the grindstone all morning and decided to let off some steam on the school trip. Their teachers stupidly (or rather, having witnessed the chaos, very wisely) sat themselves in front of their group of fifty kids, perhaps thinking that a view of the back of their heads would be suitable warning to behave. How wrong they were.

Still, at least they all had a great time and the team I had chosen to support, the Netherlands, won the match.

Currently I am (supposed to be) wandering through that confusing and hectic world known as holiday packing ahead of our trip to Rome. I am a born procrastinator and I have to say, nothing makes me dither and dally more than the necessity to pack. So far today I have phoned the bank to tell them we are away, cleaned out my handbag, shaved my legs, tested the thermometer and dug out the suncream, but I haven't actually put any clothes in the suitcase yet.

Oh, but did iron a shirt...

School's Out!

2011-04-18T20:54:00.002+02:00

The holidays are here! Blimey I never thought we'd make it but finally I have a morning where I can switch off the alarm, wave Nobby off to work from the comfort of my bed and not worry about occupying small people.

That is until Pickle decides he wants breakfast, Poppet needs some particular item of clothing and Tiggy's begging to go outside.

Would someone please invent a cure for little boys' backwards internal clocks? Every day of term I have to drag the little bugger out of bed, usually dressing him in the process to avoid the show-down later, but on weekends and holidays he is up at sparrow's fart wanting to get on my computer. I have a perfectly good alarm, which is OFF, did I mention, so I do not want appreciate waking up to the strains of Fred ranting away on YouTube.

It has been a busy couple of weeks at school, although I did manage to snatch a couple of days off when I caught a cold to go along with my tree allergy and couldn't make it past the bedroom door let alone the school gates. Somehow my class all managed without me thanks to my fabulous Teaching Assistant and colleagues and to make up for it we've been in full-on Blue Peter mode ever since.

I'll spare you the details but my final day at the 'office' saw me and 16 tinies up to our eyeballs in plastic eggs, glue, feathers, melted chocolate, cornflakes, tissue paper... and a live rabbit.

So far the holidays have been about as relaxed as a chimpanzees tea party, with football matches, lunches, parties - all for the kids of course. Today saw me braving the 'other side of the river' to find the Laser Quest establishment. Wow that took me back a lot of years to one certain 'team building' activity at that large company I worked in when we spent a happy evening blasting holes in our colleagues in the name of improving working relationships.

The kids played for about 2 hours and had a ball. Pickle decided after a while that stealthy hiding and creeping up on people was too much like hard work and became Rambo instead, stalking through the darkenss blasting anyone who crossed his path. Poppet was slightly more controlled and surprised herself with how much she enjoyed it.

Personally I naffed off to the local shopping mall for a sneaky burger and a mooch around Mango. We are off to Rome, daaahling, for the Easter weekend, so I wanted to get something new to pack. (Women's logic, don't try and analyse it.) The shopping centre was something of a maze though so I had to suck it up and brave the Customer Service Information point.

Rather a contradiction in terms that, could just be renamed The Point, although there is little point to it either. When faced with half a mile of mall which branches off at various places, 'downstairs on the left' holds very little meaning. Took me fifteen minutes to finally discover the toy shop where I was greeted with a vapid shrug from the assistant when I asked if she had such a thing as a frisbee.

Meanwhile I was fighting off the make-up demo stalkers left and right. Seriously, did I look THAT bad? I wasn't exactly the height of chic in my brown slacks and t-shirt, a fact that was kindly rammed home by a bunch of lads who I thought were checking me out at one point only to clock the high-heeled, tight-jeaned peroxide blonde they were really staring at. Am I bovvered? Really? (OK, a little tiny bit.)

Luckily Rose was at the other end of my texts to reassure me I looked great and translate 'eff off' into passable Hungarian for use on the slap-sellers.

The cruel truth is I should have had company today in the form of Ma and Pa but sadly they had to cancel their trip. After 2 weeks in and out of hospital with nose bleeds my Dad was finally persuaded of the logic of not hurtling through the air in a pressurised tube when just sitting on the sofa can start an episode. Poor lamb is miserable as well as somewhat sore round the nasal passages after all the stuff that's been poked up there lately. Fortunately he was OK when the kids and I Skyped him tonight so Poppet didn't have to wonder if he'd been snorting mice - apparently the weapon of choice for recurrent nosebleeds such as his is a Tampax up the schnozzer. Nice.

Get better soon Dad!

The tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth

2011-04-01T19:53:00.001+02:00

It's a good sign someone's had a rough week when they pick up the intercom for the front gate and try to make a phonecall on it.

The perplexed look on Nobby's face while he tried to work out where the number pad was so he could dial was absolutely priceless.

Bless him, but I am not surprised he's disorientated with trips to both London and Paris this week on top of Vienna and Eger last week. I am expecting to find the car keys in the fridge any day now.

But I needed a bit of a giggle after my own rough week - it looks like Poppet, Pickle and I will be taking up residence at the dentist's from now on. We popped in to get a check up on the infamous capped tooth yesterday evening and ended up embarking on root canal work because the tooth has died.

That poor girl will rue the day she ever tried contortionism within splatting distance of an immovable object.

I have to say, watching her getting pumped full of anaesthetic and the dentist boring a hole all the way up into the root of her tooth then calling me over to have a closer look hurt me just as much as it shook her up. I now have the task of keeping the hole clean by squirting Listerine up it twice a day and inserting a miniscule spring to spruce it up like I was getting the gunk out of the plug hole. SO happy about that.

Luckily, now she's over the shock, there isn't any actual pain and I am continually impressed how kids just take stuff on board and carry on. Following our 2 hour stint in the chair last night it was 8pm and we'd had no dinner having gone straight from school after Poppet's pottery club (she's gonna switch to ceramics and get to work on a new tooth now, hee hee!)

We spotted a MacDos on the way home and stopped in for the easy option and somehow Poppet polished off a McNuggets McMenu and a chocolate McDoughnut still with half her face numbed and a tube sticking out of the borehole in her tooth. I had to have a Big Mac just to get over it (well, that's my excuse.)

So now Poppet is the class celebrity having worked out she can freak out all her friends by showing them her pet borehole. Though she wasn't impressed by the class who played an April Fool on her class by stealing all their clothes while they were in a swimming lesson...

The rest of us guffawed of course, a classic prank, nice one.

I managed to avoid all April Fools and instead my own little brood became April Stars by performing 'The House That Jack Built' and 'The Mouse and the Lion' in assembly. I nearly exploded with pride. We repeated the show for all the mums at the end of the day and I definitely saw some moist eyes amongst the audience (when all the camcorders moved out the way.)

Anyway, at this moment Nobby's just popped out to get beer and there's curry on the way so I think, barring any mishaps, Friday night wind-down should be good. This week can only get better.

Every Cloud

2011-03-28T22:26:00.003+02:00

There are words you don't really want to hear when your husband and 10 year old are using your precious laptop which contains all your work, studies and irreplacable family photos.

And which you haven't successfully backed up for two months.

Words like, 'Oh, no! Quick, run and get a cloth!'

Now my little Poppet had the best of intentions, letting her Nana, who was calling on Skype, admire the lovely flower arrangement Daddy brought home for Mummy. She just doesn't realise yet that you don't have to get objects within two centimetres of the camera to be able to see them AND that if you tip up a vase of flowers, water will out.

There are sounds you don't want to hear from your precious laptop after a dowsing with flower water. Sounds like 'beep beep beep beeeeeeeep.... [silence]'

To say I was angry would be a gross understatement but I channelled my passion into flipping off the keys one by one so I could wipe up all the water. I knew that sandwich year placement in technical support would come in handy one day.

Thankfully the machine still works, apart from the left mouse button which I think may still be having a lazy soak before towelling himself off and returning to work.

...and I now have a full backup.

Bookworm

2011-03-27T21:21:00.006+02:00

I came downstairs this morning to find Pickle sitting cross legged on the floor reading a dictionary. Not a kid's one either, the full house-brick-sized Oxford one, with Thesaurus, that Nobby and I use to help us with the Telegraph crossword.

'Wow!' said I, very impressed with his thirst for knowledge, 'have you been finding out what words mean?'

'Sort of,' he replied, 'I'm looking up swear words.'

'Oh. Did you find any?' I said, hoping that ours is a concise version without a full compliment of expletives.

'Not many, but did you know that 'crap' is also a game?' he said.

I suspect he meant Craps, but at least he learned something new.

Tales of the Unexpected

2011-03-22T00:23:00.003+01:00

I learned early on, after having babies, to lower my expectations considerably. I think it was about day three with Poppet when I finally realised that having a shower and getting dressed were about all I could really expect to get done in a day with a screaming newborn around.

Nobby took a while longer to adjust. I swear he uttered those immortal, marriage limiting words 'What have you been doing all day?' more than once when he came home to wall-to-wall baby toys, nappy sacks, breast pads and no dinner on the table in the early days.

But he too adjusted and soon started to try and praise his poor woolly headed wife for all the things she had done rather than the thousand and one things she hadn't. 'Thanks so much for washing my pants, don't fret, I'll eat tomorrow night, dear.'

The children have seen fit to throw us a curve ball or two over the years. Like Pickle and the 100 foot tree episode. He still likes to tell the story now of how he could only see the top of my head as I wandered beneath a fir tree looking for my four-year-old son who I could hear calling 'Mummy!' but couldn't actually see... until I looked up.

Then there was Poppet on that bouncy castle and the resulting ride in a French ambulance to fix her broken leg.

I should have seen today coming, and indeed with my history and parentage I full expected the diagnosis. I still remember the day I was told by the school to make sure and give a letter to my Mum after one of those 'routine' doctor visits when I was seven years old. Not the nit nurse this time though, a proper doctor.

I did my best for them, marrying a bloke with disgustingly perfect vision. But I was startlingly unprepared for the Hungarian Opthalmologist telling me this evening that both my kids have succumbed to my batfink gene and developed myopia. It was with a heavy heart that I walked them downstairs to the specs shop to pick out frames for their new glasses, which in their own mysterious, chummy little way will be exactly the same prescription.

They, on the other hand were chuffing delighted!! You never saw more excited parading in front of the mirror, weighing up chunky pink versus delicate lilac frames, and Cliff Richards versus John Lennon. I am insulted by the choice they get as well. That miserable day back in 1977 when I was told to pick out some NHS specs my options were pink, blue, clear plastic or tortoiseshell.

I kid you not, Pickle tried on three pairs and looked amazing in every one, the little bugger. Poppet took a while longer but ended up with some gorgeous dark red 'Chippies' with tiny puppy dogs emblazoned on the arms. We are collecting them on Wednesday and they absolutely cannot wait.

I really didn't expect that at all.

Going round in circles

2011-03-20T15:41:00.003+01:00

Spring has sprung... off.

To be precise, Spring sprung into Budapest, hit our trampoline, performed a triple salco and a double backflip and sprang back out again. The tulips haven't noticed, there are shoots a-sprouting all around but it's chuffing chilly again since Boy-Next-Door took an optimistic dip in their swimming pool on Bank Holiday Tuesday last week.

Poppet has been moaning that the house is cold - er, that'll be because I confidently turned the heating right down when the sun came out - but it could also be because she will wander round the house dressed in summer tops and cropped trousers. Not because it was sunny on Tuesday; she's been doing it all winter long. I sometimes wonder if she thinks she may be in the Big Brother house, treating every day like a fashion parade.

But the happy mood has remained and I heard some fantastic Yankee-bashing banter at the kids football practice yesterday which I feel the need to share.

Another kids Dad was asking me about the Cricket Club that just started up - and which my kids LOVE. An American friend standing with us started giggling, claiming he can't take the sport seriously.

We thought at first maybe the word 'cricket' must make him think of what is known in proper English as a 'grasshopper' and he was picturing chaps in white leap-frogging all over a grassy field. But no. He went on to say, 'All those grown men running backwards and forwards between two posts in their pyjamas just creases me up.'

Oh dear.

English Dad retorted, 'Well, at least our 'pyjamas' don't look like our Mums shrunk them in the washing so they're skin tight, unlike your beloved baseball gear. And we know how to put our hats on the right way round.'

That got him on the back foot, and he confessed he didn't really know enough about the game to argue further. Which was a red rag to a bull of course.

'See, with cricket we don't need gloves to catch the ball, we use our bare hands like real men.'

'The bloke behind the stumps isn't wrapped up in a duvet and a Hannibal Lecter mask either.'

'And there are no funny hand signals looking like you're scratching away at your nuts on live television.'

(Actually at this point I thought, 'yes, but they do rub the ball on their crotch before everyone goes round handling it with their bare hands...' but I didn't say anything.)

All in all I reckon it was England 3 : USA 0 by the end of the last over. But it still doesn't explain why you can buy baseball bats, balls and gloves a-go-go here in Budapest but after trawling the three biggest sports stores we find there's not a single cricket bat in sight. Maybe Hungarians prefer running in circles as well.

I found out last week that they like to dance in circles, though...

Nobby and I had one of our rare nights out having secured the kids a double sleepover (hurrah!). First we did a wee spot of shopping without the lilting sounds of 'Can we GO now?' 'Do we HAVE to go in here?' and 'I'm HUNGRY!' while we browsed.

Then we popped out to the theatre to watch 'Cats' at the Andrew Lloyd-Webber-obsessed establishment in town. So far we've seen 'Phantom', 'Jesus Christ Superstar' and 'Joseph' so we're working our way up to a full set. I'd never seen Cats before but thanks to the subtitles not working on the night I've now seen it twice because we had to borrow the DVD starring Elaine Paige afterwards to find out what the hell was going on.

In order to recover from the obligatory Community Clapping (I guess that counts as applauding in a circle, no?) we hit Time Warp Central, the bar in town I normally go to with girlie friends and end up leaving in the wee small hours not having noticed the night slipping away. There was a band setting up in the main dancing room so we took a turn around the rest of the place while we waited for them to finish.

Nobby and I love a bit of people watching. This bar has a balcony from where you can watch all kinds of goings on, such as the Stag Party approaching the Hen Party for a bit of joint revellry. Oh deary dear. Miss Blondie McTits-on-Show soon had Mr Speccie McGeek leaning in way too close for comfort - the music wasn't that loud, I reckon he was just trying to get a better view down her top. Her companion Ms Feisty McBallsy clearly didn't appreciate the attention, despite pulling the chief stag and was soon showing him how she could use a rolled up magazine as a lethal weapon.

Anyway, we eventually headed back up to see this band and could not quite understand what had been going on while we'd been absent. The entire room had turned into a long chain of people holding hands, doing some River Dance thing with their feet before swinging their arms up and down and moving on to the strains of some gypsy-cum-Turkish-cum-Greek style music.

Perhaps it was the Hungarian version of the Locomotion?? No idea, but there was definitely not enough rum in my coke to persuade me to join in. And after Nobby got stepped on for the third time and we were gradually being boxed into a corner by the dance we decided to scarper.

Gimme cricket pitches and square dancing any day.

Next day when I went to collect the kids to find they were staying in a circular house...
I am expecting meet myself coming the other way at any moment. I'll let you know.

Boys Behaving Badly

2011-03-15T22:34:00.003+01:00

I had a glimpse into the future today.

Nobby somehow persuaded Pickle to accompany him on a long dog walk 'up to the flagpole' this morning. I suspect a bundle of bribery was involved but anything to get the little screen-hopper out into the fresh air. Especially considering today was one of those strange mid-week public holidays which we always reckon we'll use as an opportunity to get in the car and get out of the city but then we always sleep in late while the kids hit the electronics and can't be torn away from them.

And the air has been LOVELY today! Hopefully, touch wood, I can stop moaning about sodding snow and cold weather and finally pack the thermal socks away for a few months. Spring would appear to have sprung over here. I even saw a snowdrop at the weekend. So I did not mind at all shelving the three hours in the car to go visit a castle (which would probably be shut when we arrived anyway from past experience) and instead I got busy with the home-made compost and some long-overdue gardening.

I also collected all the dog poop off the lawn now it's not buried in snow, but that may be over-sharing. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'what a bag of shite.'

So at lunchtime Nobby invited Pickle tell us girls about the lovely chat they had enjoyed during their walk (having previously informed me that Pickle had almost talked his ears off for forty minutes).

'Oh yeah,' says Pickle, 'we were talking about how Tiggy wags her tail when she's happy.'

'That's nice dear,' says I, 'she wags her tail a lot doesn't she.'

'Yes, well, I told Daddy I was wondering if a boy dog could wag his willy when he was happy instead of his tail!' he continued, gleefully.

'Oh really?' says I.

'Yeah! And then when a girl dog was happy she would waggle her boobies!' he guffawed and then proceeded to model what waggling boobies might look like... ON ME.

What a charming child. Meanwhile Nobby is sitting there grinning away and high-fiving the creative genius.

So now I know what is to come once Pickle reaches beer drinking age. It'll be like having Gary and Tony Behaving Badly on my very own sofa, trying to decide whether they prefer breasts or bottoms.

Can't wait.

My son

2011-03-13T23:02:00.002+01:00

We were sitting in TGI Fridays the other day, doodling on the back of the paper place mats while we waited for the servers to finish flirting with each other and come and take our order. Poppet loves a game of Hangman while she waits but she clearly swallowed the thesaurus as an appetiser this time, giving me words like 'jacuzzi' and 'bizarre' to guess instead of her customary 'mummy' and 'rosie'. The cunning cow.

Pickle, on the other hand, got to work on drawing an adventure maze, oddly reminiscent of a Super Mario game, (no idea where he gets his ideas from). He then tore off a corner of the paper and drew a little figure to try his luck in the maze. He moved it all over to me so I could admire his work.

'Lovely!' I exclaimed,' what a cute little teddy bear you've drawn there! Cute little ears and a sweet face. He's got very large claws though, hasn't he?'

'No Mum, those aren't his claws,' says Pickle.

'What are they then, darling?'

'Those are his guns.'

That Friday Feeling

2011-03-05T00:52:00.003+01:00

I was going to try for the sympathy vote: 'Oh poor me, Nobby's away for the night leaving me all alone,' but of course I am never really alone with my two little people in tow.

Especially when they interpret 'Time for bed!' as 'Time for a disco in Pickle's room.'

Whose idea was it to buy the Crazy Frog album anyway? I used to love the tune 'Popcorn'; I remember my parents had the original Hot Butter version on vinyl when I was little myself. It's not quite the same with the 'brrrrrrrrrring, bing!'s thrown in by Monsieur Frog.

Though I have to say 'Who Let The Frogs Out?' did raise a titter at the end of a long week at school.

It's been a strange week with almost half the class out with a bug. You'd think that such drastically reduced numbers would be a doddle to teach. Er, WRONG. They reckon since hardly anyone is there then they can just play, otherwise it's 'not fair!' to expect them to work while their contemporaries are at home. 'But all the others are going to miss this; we should wait for them to get better and work next week instead.' (under their breaths saying 'Yeah, we may be 5 but we ain't stupid.') What they don't appreciate is that the others are at home in bed, coughing up a lung and they should count their ruddy blessings.

One boy got so bored he asked his Mummy to turn off the TV, put away the DS and ask his teacher to send him some work from school...

I had the pleasure of teaching my oldest offspring today as her teacher was off sick too. I was not sure how to get her classmates to take me seriously with her wrapped round my leg like a friendly ferret sniping 'Don't be rude to my Mother!' at anyone who shouted out.

Pickle has had an amazing week. He finally sorted out his desk and actually did all his homework. I could speculate as to how long his teacher sat on him to achieve this result but his just reward came this afternoon when he won a competition to invent a blend of tea. Who would have thought he'd take on a challenge like that? we'll make a Jamie Oliver of him yet.

Nobby has asked me not to diss him in my Blog after he hit a rather slippery slope earlier in the week. I just want to record for posterity that I forgive him. But I still think he was a twit.

Now for some staff notices.

- Would the person who has kidnapped Spring please return it as soon as possible because we have all had enough of the chuffing snow. Lovely to see the flowery sentiments and appreciation of how beautiful Budapest looks under a glistening layer of crisp whiteness on Facebook statuses, but these people clearly didn't have to get up at 6am, dig out the ski gloves and shovel the stuff off a steeply sloping driveway.

- Winner of Star of the Week goes to my landlord for a) fixing my kitchen tap without spraying the entire room like I would have done and b) finding me a cleaner who not only makes the house smell clean but actually cleans it as well. In the words of my favourite saying at the moment, Top Banana.

- Please be on the lookout for Tiggy's appetite. She seems to have lost it recently, judging by the barely tickled bowls of biscuits every evening. We've been to the vet; Poppet accompanied me, concerned as she was about the poor mutt, who strangely isn't losing any weight and will accept treats until the cows come home.

This is the same dog who developed bladder trouble when she sussed we were moving house then became perfectly normal once we moved in... Only I could have picked the psycho doggy.

Poppet became less gushing when the vet decided to run a test for microbes and approached Tiggy's rear end wielding a cotton bud and a petri dish... she's decided against vetinary medicine as a career path I think.

The result was negative though, so why-oh-why is the this dog avoiding biscuits yet will pick them up one by one and drop them on the floor to get at any gravy or meat I hide underneath as a crafty reward? And why did it all start on the day I fed some of her food to a mangy stray who'd been hanging round the gate tugging on my heart strings for 3 days?

Well, please think of me tomorrow trying to turn Saturdays into Sports Days for the Nobby household. I remember when I was their age there was only 'boring' Grandstand (sports) on the telly all afternoon but it never occured to me to go outside and run about. Well, my kids are getting the treatment now - wake-up call at 8h30, football at 10 and cricket at 12h30.

Yeah, ok, and McDonalds at 12.

Bribery and corruption before we even start? - I may be 41 but I ain't stupid.

All dressed up and snow-where to go

2011-02-21T21:45:00.003+01:00

So, we made it through another skiing holiday without breaking anything, other than the bank. Oh. My. God. How expensive is it to buy a benign-looking lift pass which enables you to be dragged up a hill perched on a t-shaped sliver of plastic, trying to chat casually to your loved one whilst hanging on for grim death, before the inevitable Tom and Jerry style wipeout when you both try to get off at the top and tangle your skis?

200 smackers that's how much.

If you fancy a sit down you can also brave the eight-man chair lifts which either try to take you out at the knees as they whip round and under your butt at the bottom of the ride or narrowly miss decapitation of the entire group if you're too slow off the mark jumping off at the top.

At the resort we went to there was also a wonderful 'scenic train' where you can bundle on with 100 or so of your most distant acquaintances, skis in one hand, poles in the other, elbows in your back and fluffy hats in your face, and all rock in unison up the mountain for the most claustrophobic three minutes of your life, ears popping all the way.

Pickle really didn't like that one but managed to amuse himself by head-butting his sister in the face with his ski helmet to pass the time whilst I entertained the entire passenger list with a loud rendition of 'how many times do you need to be told...'

Anyway, I am painting a grim picture but in actual fact, ski lifts and extortionate prices aside, it was the best ski break we've had yet. The kids enjoyed their ski-school so much they started staying for lunch so Nobby and Me got a whole FIVE HOURS to ourselves!! Of course we used the time wisely, fitting in at least one morning hot chocolate break and an afternoon gluhwein stopover in addition to lunch.

Well, it gets chilly up there zooming down mountain trying to keep up with Speedy Gonzales on skis. I think Nobby forgets I do very little exercise apart from bending over and kneeling down to five-year-old height all day long while he still goes crazy on the footie field once a week.

The hotel was one we've been to before - look back about two years ago and you'll find my Catherine Tate style lamentations about the 'peas in aspic' incident and the fluorescent sour cream debacle. I have a sneaky feeling they've taken on a new chef since then as there was mercifully no jellied veg in sight this time. There was a questionable 'strawberry-pepper sorbet' at one point - literally a strawberry sorbet containing whole peppercorns, served in a whisky tumbler filled with something vaguely alcoholic. ???

On the very first night Pickle had a falling out with the spotty teen running the 'kids club'. We had soooo been looking forward to packing the brats off to a babysitter who promised in the paperwork to feed and entertain them for two hours while we adults relaxed over a candlelit, wine soaked dinner. Especially since the day we arrived, after six hours festering in the car together, was my birthday. (I quite like this new found tradition of travelling to celebrate my advancing years - last year currying it up in Reading, this year whizzing off to the Alps... though I think I might aim for a flight to Tuscany next year if its all the same to Nobby.)

Yet we hadn't even made it past apperitifs in the bar before Pickle came running in wailing loudly and declaring 'I am NOT going back to that club EVER AGAIN!!!' By all accounts it all seemed to come down to a misfire during a pillow fight which resulted in Pickle's head ricocheting off a nearby wall, I'm not sure we'll ever know who really started it, though I did send the hotel manager in for a quiet word with Mr Spotty to remind him which one was supposed to be the responsible adult in the room and to suggest taking a deep breathe when the coca-cola powered eight year olds get a little busy with the furniture instead of returning fire.

Poppet made quite a few friends, particularly several little girls who spent the entire evenings hero-worshipping her. During the day her skiing came on a treat and she has abandoned the 'pizza' position for parallel skiing like a true pro. 17.5 seconds coming down the ski-school slalom race secured her 5th place and a cool medal. We are very proud parents.

So we all came back down to earth with a bump on Saturday after another 6 hour drive back to the laundry and homework. I have washed just about everything we own since then whilst learning some fascinating facts about the Thames for Poppet's river project. Nobby and Pickle decided to raid the cupboards for Pickle's tea project and had a great time sellotaping samples to a piece of A4.

Meanwhile Tiggy and Lucky returned from their pet-sitters, well fed and well exercised. Lucky managed to instigate a full maintenance check of the entire heating system at his sitter's house. No, he didn't escape, thank goodness. He just arrived while the man of the house was out of town then made some very loud noise on his wheel when he came back and was relaxing in front of the TV. Poor bloke thought the boiler was coming apart and spent a good half an hour examining its inner workings in the basement before discovering Lucky and his pneumatic drill-sounding wheel in the laundry room when he popped upstairs for a spanner. The spanner.

Today we were all back to school and work after the lovely break, refreshed and ready to get on with the next eight weeks of term until Easter. I've bundled all the thermals, ski socks and salopettes away in the basement and rounded up all my Easter Bunny and cute little chick stencils and stickers in preparation for this term's arts and crafts frenzies...

... and this morning it snowed.

Ranting and Randoming

2011-02-10T18:52:00.005+01:00

I have a few ponderings on this fine, Thursday evening.

Is a bad cleaner really better than nothing when you've a new job and a mucky pair of kids and a big hairy dog?
Until the other week I was happy to answer 'yes.' However I am now ready to remove the word 'MUG' from my forehead after two years of my crap cleaner and say emphatically 'NO.' I fired her on Monday and I can honestly say, no cleaning this week has left my house just as clean as her tickling it with a tissue twice a week and charging me 5 quid an hour for the privelage.

I haven't left it entirely untouched of course; Anthea would never stand for it and she'd be straight round to snaffle my golden loo-brush. And as a result of my efforts I have found places in my house which have spent so long without seeing the business end of a vacuum cleaner, duster or mop they visibly flinched when I came at them with the Dyson. My ornaments and furniture are acclimatising to the new sensation of being lifted, dusted and replaced onto a freshly wiped surface rather than the usual frustration of the duster whizzing past faster than light speed.

I'm still undecided about getting a replacement cleaner in. I actually quite like the break from frantic tidying two nights a week so that there are no obstacles that might impede progress or lead to another shitty note either asking me to tidy up or requesting more money for the inconvenience of having to dodge a stray piece of Lego.

Pickle has offered to help me out for a couple of hours every weekend, having expertly hoovered up a year's worth of dust bunnies and dog hair from underneath the sofa this evening. He's clearly heard me ranting because although he did demand payment, he offered 'not to be greedy and only ask for half what the cleaner got.'

Oooh, can you detect some bitterness coming off me?! Let it go, girl. Nasty text messages accusing me of treating her 'like a criminal' notwithstanding (how on earth can giving her two weeks money as a pay-off be construed as bad treatment?) the deed is done and I can sigh with relief, leaving my possessions wherever I ruddy well choose.

Moving on, how did I come to have such amazing neighbours?
I must have done something good once because the family next door to us are such diamonds. We were all invited to tea on Sunday where they served up Earl Grey and freshly baked scones and a huge chocolate cake. It was like a scene out of the Famous Five, only without the lashings of lettuce and buckets of ginger beer.

One other neighbour rang at our gate the other evening to tell me 'I've rescued your bicycle.' It took me a second or two to work out what she was on about. She was referring to the old, clapped out BMX bicycle I found in the shed last weekend and had left out on the road to be 'recycled'. I don't mean by the recycling lorry, I mean by someone walking past, seeing an abandoned, saleable item and nicking it. It's worked several times before with old shoes, another old bike, piles of wood etc. I thought it was understood that whatever was left unattended in the road was ripe for a swipe.

But I didn't factor in my generous neighbour who walked me down the road to her house to retrieve my precious pile of junk telling me 'it's a miracle it wasn't stolen,' and I didn't have the heart to tell that was exactly why I left it in the road in the first place. That really wouldn't have done after all her trouble but I do wonder where all the thieves have gone to.

So, tell me. When you're knackered after five weeks solid teaching and you've a week-long holiday from your class of little darlings, will six days of throwing yourself down mountains with long planks strapped to your feet really help you unwind?
Yes, we are off skiing. And I am wondering if we shouldn't have traded in the snazzy ski-suits and crazy bobble hats for a bikini and a kiddy club at Center Parcs instead. I know, we'll have a great time; after all I won't have to cook or clean for seven days and the hotel has a pool, jacuzzi and sauna. It's just the packing blues talking.

Despite a very thorough Holiday Packing List which we've used for many years now, removing the kids' obsolete items (nappies, potties, pushchairs) and adding new essentials (i-pods, Nintendos, hair straighteners) as we go, I always manage to forget something and I am a total bear for the first ten minutes of any holiday journey while I run through a mental checklist trying to work out what the hell it is this time. I'll let you know in a couple of weeks, I just hope it's not the hamster.

Also this week: could my kid BE and cooler as Prince Charming in the school production of Cinderella?
His entrance was to saunter on stage in a leather jacket and sunglasses, flick his collar up a la Eric Cantona, pause in front of a girl in the audience and give her a quick 'Hey!' before grabbing Cinders for a tango. What a heart-breaker! He even sang a solo - 'The Smelly Feet Blues' - during the search for the owner of the glass slipper and I swear I heard a wee sniff from Nobby who was watching proudly beside me.

Poppet also had a part to play. Small but essential - she was a door. When Princey-boy goes banging doors across town, rounding up all the totty to try on the shoe, several helpers held up cardboard doors for the full effect. Every so often a little face peeked out from behind door number one - that's my girl. I did a tiny bit: making-up the ugly sisters. Poor lads. I don't think they really knew what they were signing up for when they agreed to play a part in the show. One nearly bolted when he realised he had to wear a dress and seeing me coming at him with a rack of face-paints, lipstick and mascara did not help the stage fright. But I think I made a decent pair of horrors out of them and they totally stole the show.

Finally, are there any better bands out there than The Australian Pink Floyd Show?
Because I think not. Lovely Nobby earned himself a pasting on my Facebook page last week by calling me at 4pm on Thursday telling me to get a babysitter for Friday night. Yeah... OK. Does he not know by now, if it was that simple we'd be out every Friday night.

The babysitter was busy of course, but free on Saturday. 'No, it has to be tomorrow night,' was Nobby's reply.

Luckily I managed to flog the children to friends for a rare 'double sleepover' instead, though it didn't stop me dissing my man big style on my FB profile and getting a lot of agreement from my friends that men always book the romantic night out first and childcare second (or not at all). A whole Blog entry could have been devoted to exploring that one, had he not thrust two tickets to see TAPFS, as they are tongue-twistingly known, at me when he arrived home.

I never made it to a Pink Floyd concert when they were still going strong. My brother was treated to The Wall back when we were younger but I am quite pleased to be able to report I was too young to go too. (There aren't many things I am too young for so I take my kicks where I can, so there.)

I can only imagine it was something like the total frontal assault on the eyes and ears that we experienced at the Budapest Arena on Friday night. What an AMAZING show!! Despite Nobby's heavily barbed comments on the age and dress sense of the crowds pouring through the doors with us when we arrived, he also had a great time. And it wasn't just because they blew up a giant inflatable teacher for 'Another Brick In The Wall' or a giant inflatable red-eyed Pig for 'Run Like Hell'.

It was probably the giant inflatable kangaroo that did it...

In the words of my ten-year-old, whatever. They were totally awesome. Nuff said.
Thanks Nobby x

Wobble

2011-01-29T20:40:00.004+01:00

My neighbour just popped round and asked me if the earth moved for me.

Now, although we're pretty friendly I wouldn't say we're close enough for that kind of question actually. Besides, Nobby was nursing a hangover whilst watching Manchester United trying to get a goal back against Southampton so the only thing likely to move from his direction was his hand to his forehead.

Then I remembered the gaggle of girlies enjoying Poppet's 10th birthday party upstairs. I am still struggling to come to terms with having a ten a year old, no wonder I'm going so grey, especially coupled with the 17 five year olds I am looking after all week as well, but that's another story.

I'm pleased to report that birthday parties get less labour intensive as time goes by. I didn't have to fork out a fortune to spend three hours of my life slowly going deaf in the local play centre while hyped up kids perform death defying feats on various inflatable animals. Nor did I have to trawl the shops for party favours, pass-the-parcel prizes, balloons and sweeties then rearrange my house to accomodate a class-load of kiddies.

Poppet was offered a sleepover for three friends, which somehow evolved into a sleepover for six friends, but she took on all the organising and entertaining herself. I just had to provide the pizza and cake, make-up and nail polish, set a nice dinner table and make some 'truth or dare' cards. Just before my neighbour came round Poppet was leading them in a merry game of Murder In The Dark with a LOT of screaming. They proceeded onto a recreation of the X Factor later on, no quieter really.

But no, it was none of this. Pickle couldn't have done anything as he is away on a sleepover himself, the second one this weekend. Seriously he has a better social life than me.

It turns out there was an earthquake measuring 4.2 on the Richter Scale - and whilst the neighbours felt the earth move and watched all the beach balls wobble into the swimming pool from the vibration, Nobby and me missed it.

Clearly too chilled over here. We'll catch the next one.

You don't have to be mad to live here, but it helps

2011-01-11T10:07:00.003+01:00

My final comments from my last post were bound to set me up for a fall, weren't they? I am the master of shooting my mouth off and regretting it soon after. I wonder how Nobby lets me out on my own. He must have to brace himself every evening before he walks through the front door, never knowing what acts of madness are waiting for him on the other side.

Actually, thinking back to our Christmas trip home, I can't be left alone for even five minutes. Let me tell you the story.

Our flight to Gatwick was delayed on Boxing Day, but we still had to turn up and check in at the original time - nice logic there slEasyjet, thanks for that. This left us needing to occupy two excited monkeys for three hours without the aid of a play area, Nintendo Wii or DVD player.

At first we set up camp in the cafe by the Arrivals gate as the hour-long queue to get through passport control and security didn't really appeal. We played a few rounds of Uno as a family, a touching scene if ever there was one, until Pickle decided to change all the rules, Poppet got miffed because she didn't win and Nobby and me wondered once more where their competitive streak comes from. (It's definitely him!)

So I took Pickle off to calm down and whoever coined the phrase 'Necessity is the mother of invention' may well, I suspect, have spent time trying to amuse an eight-year-old at an airport. Armed with just a couple of Mars bar wrappers and a smeggy tissue we invented the game of 'Bin Basketball.' The airport kindly provided a back-board by having the bins up against the wall and a convenient oche/ockey line from which to throw. Pickle was as happy as larry having a brand new game to dictate rules for. I persuaded him that requiring Mums to shoot blindfolded was a little unfair but I conceded to having to kneel down, to the amusement of several onlookers.

Nobby was probably quite happy left alone with Poppet, knowing that the 'divide and conquer' method works pretty well with our two. But he didn't count on the 'Missus Factor' and you should have seen his face when I returned from the bins five minutes later carrying a large, sleeping baby.

No, I don't mean Pickle had stopped for a catnap, chance would be a fine thing. In just five minutes unsupervised by a responsible adult I had acquired a stranger's baby. A lady had just arrived from the UK travelling alone with said infant and she needed to put him somewhere while she dug in her bags for her phone charger so she could call her mother. Well, she couldn't very well pop him on the floor so she asked me to help. Then it turned out her phone charger didn't fit the socket she'd found so I offered to let her use my mobile. Which is why we ended up back at the table to fetch it from my handbag.

Nobby relaxed a little when I introduced the Mum but then, after her call, she said she needed to get a taxi, if I wouldn't mind holding the baby a little longer, and she hurried off out of the airport exit. This is the moment when Nobby went white as a sheet and demanded what I was going to do with my new acquisition if she never came back. He had a point I suppose. Total stranger asks you to hold a baby then buggers off out the door... if you're an eternal sceptic that one could send you into overdrive.

Anyway, she DID come back and take her baby but Nobby decided standing in the passport control queue would be good way to keep a better eye on me so sadly we'll never know who won the inaugural game of Bin Basketball. (Think I'll let Pickle have it.)

Well, I've been pretty good since that episode, right up until I decided two guinea pigs were better than one, despite Nobby insisting one was more than enough. I think meeting the little fella softened him up though, and he even managed to satisfy his football fanaticism by changing 'Gary' to 'Gazza.'

But I am sorry to report that little Peppermint didn't make it through his first week with us. I found him acting listless and unhappy on Sunday morning and sadly he died a couple of hours later. Poor Poppet was distraught and given that she was ill all weekend herself and has since been diagnosed with bronchitis and signed off school for the week she's really on a very low ebb.

So since Sunday afternoon I have been back and forth to the vet several times, first taking poor Peppermint for an autopsy, which showed he died from a parastic infection which he already had when we bought him, unbeknown to us. Then Gazza had to go to be checked out and I experienced the fun game of 'Hunt the Poo' - searching for stool samples in his carry box so the vet could check whether he was also infected. Then we did some complex maths trying to work out the proportions of medicine to give him when it's 10ml medicine per 30kg of animal and this one only weighs 250 grams. And finally a quick round of 'Squirt the Medicine in the Guinea-Pig', which went surprisingly well.

Lucky Hamper the hamster has also been in for a checkup and a game of Hunt the Poo and tonight Tiggy needs to get a blood test to confirm her rabies jab was effective.

... I'm not sure Nobby ever wanted to live in a zoo. If I was him I'd install Mummy-cams and revoke my financial priveleges before he gets any more 'surprises'. Poor bloke.

He's probably bitten his nails down to the quick by now, knowing that I am staying home alone with Poppet for the next two days while she guzzles the jungle juice and recouperates. He had no choice but to leave me my computer as I have vowed to use this windfall of time wisely and work on my teaching plans. What he doesn't know is that the vet agrees that guinea pigs should be kept in pairs but that we should buy them from private breeders rather than local pet shops.

Here, let me Google that. What's Hungarian for 'guinea-pig'...

Happy New year

2011-01-05T14:51:00.003+01:00

There's nothing like a New Year to set you pondering the big mysteries of the universe. Like, 'how many Hungarian dentists does it take to change a 9-year-old's tooth crown?'

At least I can answer that one, thanks to Poppet and the ongoing tooth saga. You may have read that she snapped off most of one of her front teeth during an acrobatic stunt in December. The first temporary crown lasted a week before it fell off into her hot chocolate. The second one made it all the way to England for our post-Christmas Progress through the Realm... until she spotted something interesting on the floor of the rental car, bent forward to try and reach it and bashed her mouth on her knee.

She had to manage with only one front tooth for the rest of the trip, which wasn't easy when she didn't want people to know how she knocked the other one out yet they could hardly miss the strange hole in her smile. Oh well.

And to answer the original question, it's about four. One to build a new tooth, one to hold her gob out of the way, one to pass the instruments and one to translate to Mummy that they are worried all the wincing from Her Ladyship during the process means that the tooth is dying. It's not a great prospect that she's going to need root canal surgery but I'll keep you posted.

Another deep mystery: Is Gary a good name for a guinea pig?

Nobby thinks that George, Eric or Wayne would be more appropriate since the guinea pig is supposed to be his and he is determined at least one of our pets' names should reflect his football fanaticism. But let me back up a minute, what on earth is Nobby doing with a guinea pig?

Back in August I found a single sheet of A4 on my desk with a simple message:

'Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is a guinea pig. Love from Poppet.'

Being a total softie when it comes to small furry creatures, and recalling the hilarity of watching my own guinea pigs from my childhood, Whisky and Soda, play follow-the-leader round and round the lounge, depositing a trail of 'chocolate drops' behind them as they went, I duly ensured Santa delivered a guinea pig voucher to Poppet on Christmas Day. She was delighted and as soon as we returned to Hungary we hot-footed it down to the pet shop to choose the perfect animal and all the associated paraphernalia.

And thus Peppermint, a tiny brown and white bundle of fur, joined our happy home. Only, in my softie opinion, he didn't seem very happy, spending his first 24 hours sitting perfectly still under a pile of hay in the corner of his cage. Of course it could have been nerves but I decided it was loneliness, given that until we turned up he was quite happy living with a friend in the pet shop.

Which is why we rushed back to the pet shop and bought his friend as well, passing it off as a New Years present for Nobby to try and soften the blow of finding out his wife had finally gone nuts. Still, the internet is on my side, several sites say these are social animals and ought to be kept in twos. And it has to be said that Peppermint greeted Gary like an old friend with a lot of squeaking and snuffling, which I translated as total delight of course, in my new found role of Dr Doolittle, and they were soon snuggled up together under the hay. Point proved, Nobby.

Okay, here is a real humdinger:
What is the worst place for an over-playful, maniac Vizsla pup to cut himself?

Whilst we were away, Boy-Next-Door and family went home to Portugal and we both left our doggies in the same kennels. Since we came home first we bravely volunteered to take on their mad mutt along with ours for one night only to save the guy from the kennels making two trips.

Ike is permanently happy and wags his tail so hard and fast that if it catches your legs the whip welts can take a couple of days to go down. However, it wasn't until he'd been here about 12 hours and engaged in some very enthusiastic wagging whilst trying to bite Tiggy's face off, that I noticed red splatters all over my kitchen and hall cupboards, doors, walls and floors. With much wrestling I managed to ascertain that he has a little cut on the very tip of his tail and had been blithely spray-painting my house while he mucked about. Bugger.

Luckily the neighbours came and got him soon afterwards and with a bit of spit and polish my house is more spick and span, and less abattoir. I do fear for their white three piece suite though...

More musings next time, very likely about the joys of returning to school after a three week break. I have INSET training tomorrow and Friday, with the kids in tow due to lack of babysitting; I'm sure there'll be loads to tell.

Meanwhile, Happy New Year and here's to an interesting 2011! At least I won't be a) studying, or b) turning 40 this year.

The roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd

2010-12-19T20:41:00.005+01:00

Ladies and gentlemen, it's Blind Date!!
And here is your host, Miss Nobby's Missus!!

Oh yes, that was me last Wednesday night, sporting a lovely pencil skirt, tight jacket and an extremely dodgy Liverpool accent, bringing the joys of London Weekend Television to the parents and students of our school in Budapest. It was a Tudor version of the popular show, where Henry VIII, aka the Headmaster, had to choose between his six wives, played by various other teachers, much to the delight of all the students who weren't expecting it.

I confess to a lorra ad-libbing, chuck, and I really did enjoy myself, mincing around the stage. I'm not sure how much of the sarcastic humour scanned to the Hungarian audience, who so don't do irony:

'Contestant number 6, Kate, has been married twice so surviving fellas is Parr for the course for her...'

but we did get a lorra laffs.

Poppet and me did not laugh at a different show yesterday, we just stared open mouthed in awe at the amazing Budapest Opera House and a stunning performance of The Nutcracker. It was a wonderful Christmas treat from our lovely neighbour who risked life and limb in driving snow to come with us and sit amongst the ridiculously dressed up and outrageously behaved little darlings and their mothers.

Given that it was about minus 7 degrees and eleven o'clock in the morning I confess I passed over the floor length taffeta, sparkly shoes and diamond tiara, opting instead for tights, woolly trousers, vest, t-shirt, jumper, cardie and my comfy snow boots. However I was in the huge minority, why on earth would you pass up on the bling just because you might freeze your bits off on the journey? You never saw anything like it and I am proud that my little girl whispered to me,

'You'd never buy me clothes like that would you Mummy?' as another satin and lace froo-froo puff-ball flounced past us.

The only other two children who were dressed almost normally were Little Miss Loudmouth and her sister Miss Kick-That-Seat who were unfortunately sitting directly behind us in the stalls. Their parents weren't only ignorant of the unspoken dress-code, they also hadn't got a clue about keeping their kids under control or whispering during a live ballet performance such that I turned round to them at the end of the second act and told them they were unbelievable.

Cripes, I'm such an old stick in the mud now that school's out! I am supposed to have three weeks away from small people climbing up my legs, calling my name over and over again, spilling drinks and bodily fluids all over me, but I think I've taken it to heart a little too much expecting all kids to be seen and not heard. Jeez, maybe that stint in France is starting to kick in?

Anyway, I'm still partially on duty as I am interviewing a five-year old tomorrow morning before dashing off to the dentist with Poppet, whose temporary crown just fell off. She was amazingly calm about it, I'm immensely proud. I can't wait to show Pickle round the surgery, he's going to love looking at all the machines.

He bought himself a Robot yesterday which 'walks' along the floor avoiding objects as it goes and he has gone all Blue Peter on us creating mazes and rat runs for putting it through its paces. He reckons he's going to invent robots that will bring him snacks to the sofa so he never has to get up from the TV or Wii ever again. And he still hasn't given up on building a 'shelter' under the hill in our back garden, if the landlord will agree. I can just see him bombarding this dentist with questions tomorrow as he rebuilds this tooth again.

Second thought, better pack a DS.

Finally tonight I would like to annouce that Tiggy, our wonderful woofer, can count. Nobby discovered this amazing talent and I am just so sorry That's Life isn't still on the air so we could show our mutt off to Esther Rantzen.

Every night before we go up to bed Nobby lets the dog outside for a weesht then heads off to the cupboard to get her a bedtime treat. I think I've mentioned before that she only has to sense him walking towards the hallway and she makes for her bed like a cork out of a bottle.

Well it seems, ever the numbers man, he always gets her three biscuits and hands them over one at a time. And this smart pooch now takes the first one and puts it down in front of her and looks up for another one. She takes the second one and puts it down and waits for another. Only when she has two in front of her and the third one in her gob does she start eating. Amazing.

At this rate we just need the kids to come up with a double act and we'll shortly be performing at a theatre near you.

My Boys

2010-12-17T17:45:00.003+01:00

I forgot to include a Lesson for Nobby last time.

It was such a lovely romantic evening, watching TV with a bottle of wine and a few candles. Until one candle burned too low and set fire to the plastic Christmas decorations round its base. I was shutting down my computer at the time, luckily Nobby noticed it and called me in that slightly higher-pitched than normal voice with an edge of panic to it. Actually all he said was 'Aaaargh!' or words to that effect so it took me a second to clock the belching smoke and growing flames in the corner of the room. As I sprang into action to fetch a wet tea towel, Nobby attempted to move it away from the surrounding ornaments and decs which were all in imminent danger.

Not as much danger, however, as poor Nobby's finger, which caught a big drip of molten Christmas decoration - how on earth he managed to set the candles down safely, run to the kitchen, shove my tea towel aside and thrust his hand under the tap I'll never know, his finger's quite a mess. So Lesson 4 (Nobby): leave your burning ornaments where they are and fetch a bucket of water.

Thank goodness for my recent First Aid course. I opted to leave out the recommended introduction:

'Hello. My name is Your Missus and I'm a trained Emergency Responder. Can I help you?'

and went straight for 'Sit down, shut up and put your hand in this bowl of water.'

He's now sporting a fetching bandage, he's exempt from washing up but he has to shower with a plastic bag on his hand. Well, it's something to talk about in the office.

My other boy made an interesting pronouncement the other morning. Apparently they were going to do some cooking in school. Pickle declared he definitely wanted to learn how to cook because,

'When I'm grown up, I'll do all the cooking so my wife won't have to.'

He said this as he finished his morning weesht in the upstairs toilet - without lifting the seat and without flushing -before dropping his PJs on the floor and heading down for brekkie. Mmm, yes, I muttered, your wife won't have time to cook while she's picking up your clothes, flushing the loo and cleaning the bathroom so if you don't want to starve, yeah go for it!

Lessons of the week

2010-12-15T23:25:00.003+01:00

Lesson 1 (for Poppet): When messing about in front of the mirror instead of going to bed when Mummy has told you to, always wear a gumshield. Especially when performing contortionist tricks which involve trying to wrap your legs round your arms whilst standing on your hands. You never know, you may fall over and you're either going to land on your arse... or your face. And if your face makes contact with the drawer handles in front of you, you may chip a tooth.

Yup, we've had another 'oh shit' moment from the her ladyship. I always thought the boy would be the one to have us rushing to emergency rooms late at night, but actually Poppet is the one who breaks pieces of herself and last night it was two thirds of her front tooth.

You never heard screaming like it.

I got straight onto the phone to my Uncle in Cornwall - I think I only phone him for denstistry questions lately. Long story short, much wailing and gnashing of severly shortened teeth later, Poppet and I made an 11pm visit to a dentist recommended by a friend and he was able reassure us that the tooth was probably salvagable without root canal work at this stage and, with the help of a beautiful assistant otherwise known as Nobby's missus (all the nurses had sensibly gone home to bed) he proceeded to apply a temporary crown so poor Poppet wouldn't look a total Fang the next day.

I have to say, if you're going to wreck your teeth, do it in Budapest. Amazing.

Lesson 2 (for Pickle): When Mummy has been up until one in the morning with a traumatised daughter, she won't be firing on all cylinders getting all your ducks in a row for you next morning. Therefore, it might be better to think about picking up a coat for the minus six degrees snowy weather BEFORE you arrive on the school premises.

My son looks very fetching in my car travel blanket, though I swear the coat would have been much trendier, after all the dosh we paid for it. This is the same boy who made it all the way to a birthday party climbing trees in the Buda hills before realising he wasn't wearing any shoes. You'd have thought the ritual humiliation of having to wear his sister's spare PINK trainers for the entire party would have rammed the message home that one ought to check one's footwear and out garments before entering the car, but no.

It'll take a lot more than a sledgehammer to get that message installed.

Lesson 3 (for Nobby): and I have said this before - NO YOU CAN'T WIN.
You married a woman, there is no such thing as 'winning', be it choosing the right gift for a birthday or examining the decisions taken in an attempt to fix your daughter's broken tooth.

Deal with it.

So ends the sermon for this evening.
I'll tell you about my thespian performance some other time.

Just say a quiet 'yippee!!' for me at 14h GMT+1 tomorrow when school ends for three weeks!!!!!

Feeling all white

2010-11-29T06:21:00.002+01:00

My back aches, my arms ache, my legs ache. My Winter workouts have begun.

No, I haven't had an aberration and joined a gym, or given in to temptation, dug my PJs out and joined in with the kids' judo class (that's next week).

It snowed.

And at our house, before we can get all excited about sledging and stuffing snowballs all over Boy-Next-Door, snow can only mean one thing - clearing the driveway. Ouch-a-rooney. Just staying upright is hard enough on the crazy slopes, let alone shovelling 15cm of snow out of the way. It's not so bad if the snow is fresh, but Tiggy and Dog-Next-Door like to come and dance around on it while we're working, compacting it down nicely and making it much harder to shift.

Is that doggy irony? Even though half the drive is snow-free they have to play on the bit we're still trying to clear?

Anyway, its a much quicker job with many hands and the neighbours, despite spending most of their lives in Lisbon and rarely seeing white fluffy stuff except on the head of their beer, are quite the dab hand at snow-ploughing. Nobby, however, was no help, but he did have a sick note.

Earlier in the week he had an invite from that British Father's Group to go out for a bevvie or two and a curry Friday night.
'I'm not sure I'll go this time,' he says, 'not with that football tournament the next day.'
'You could always go for the meal and then clock off and come home early,' says I in all innocence. 'You could do with a night out. Treat yourself!'
'Yeah, I suppose,' he said. So off he went.

I had a call at 10pm asking for the phone number of the taxi firm, which I took as a good sign after the last time (see previous posts) and he called in person at 11pm in reply to my text telling him it was snowing to discuss whether he should make a run for it before the stuff got too deep.
'We're just leaving the curry house and we're off to a bar. I'll just go and have one...'

That was the last I heard until he crept loudly through the front door sometime later and woke me up. I have a rule never to look at the time if I wake up in the night so it wasn't until Saturday morning that he confessed it was 3.30am when he finally rolled in.

Well, I thought, good for him. Bad for the football tournament but at least he had a good time. Why is there a green wristband on his arm? What does it say on it?... Mar___.co.uk??

I approached him with a pair of scissors.
'Let me cut that thing off your wrist,' I said.
He let me, but then snatched it off me and screwed it up in his hand!
'You don't need to know,' he said.
'I've already worked out you must have been clubbing,' says I, 'which one was it? I might like to go there myself.'
'Er, no you wouldn't.'
'Why not?'
'Forget it'
'Come on, what does it say? What's 'Marilyns'?'
'Well, what sort of club do I like the least and where I would definitely not take my wife?'
'I dunno, a rave?'

Yeah, I am dumb first thing on a Saturday morning.

It took me a while but I got there in the end. He meant one of those very warm places where the ladies don't wear very much and they'll let you watch them dance... for the benefit of my more innocent readers it was a flower arranging club.

So off he went to football with a bit of a hangover, and no sympathy from me. And I cleared the way for him to get his car out. Which one of us is the bigger mug?

Little Boys

2010-11-22T20:47:00.002+01:00

Our windows have been leaking. Not all the time, I might add, mostly during rainstorms of the horizontal variety to which we are frequently treated up here in the Buda Hills. I may have mentioned one such storm that caught us all unawares last year, with me and Pickle in the my brand new (to me) Ford Focus trying to get through the flood waters that collect in a matter of minutes at the big dip in our road. Yikes that was a doozy. We had to drive up-river to our place and thanked our stars for the automatic gates and garage door.

Until we got inside the house and found the pools of water under the windows and eaves. Some of my least favourite towels have been perched in strategic places ever since.

Then the landlord called on Thursday to say that he was sending the boys round to replace the leakiest windows in the upstairs glass-area between the childrens rooms and could we please clear all the toys out of the way ahead of time?

Yeah, er, OK. Two years of accumulated toys and debris to be cleared in one evening - that particular area has been used mostly for dumping toys the kids don't play with all that often such as the baby-cots, prams and pushcairs, plastic Princess dressing table, 4 million soft animals, that sort of thing.

The quick option was to transfer it all willy-nilly into one of the bedrooms, using prior knowledge and good judgement to choose which child would make the least fuss.

Yup, we bunged it in Pickle's room.

Given Poppet's penchant for drama and anally retentive organising of her earrings and stationery, (despite the fact that she stores her clothes in a heap on the floor,) we figured that what with all the Lego strewn across the floor of Pickle's room, the half completed cardboard villages in the corners, the carpet of Beano comics and the recently re-acquired and reconstructed marble tower he was unlikely to even notice.

But notice he did and he protested as only a little boy can.

He built a camp.

There are blankets pegged to a strategically poised doll cradle, the plastic Princess dressing table and a wooden castle on top of a baby-bath. He's borrowed Poppet's sheepskin rug for carpet and furnished the den with 4 million soft-toy friends and a torch hanging from the blanket ceiling.

Tonight he announced he's sleeping in there. Oh to be a boy.

By the way, the new windows look great and it's raining cats and dogs tonight just to christen them properly. My towels are optimistically still in the cupboard.

Rant alert

2010-11-21T00:25:00.008+01:00

It was one of those days when we had to divide and conquer to keep both the kids happy. Pickle had been selected to play in a football tournament a little way out of town and last time we tried to make such an event a family affair all we got was grief and aggro from Her Highness about how boring it was and 'Can we go now?' every 5 minutes.

So instead Nobby took the boy and we girlies settled on the sofa for some Dr Who and a bite to eat, which was great until Tiggy decided she was a girly too and planted her big arse on Poppet's lap and her head in my armpit.

Now, last weekend I ordered some new glasses so I was very excited about going to collect them and Poppet was very excited about going to a shopping centre with Mummy, who doesn't yet have Nobby's gifted mastery of the word 'No' when it comes to all things pretty that she sets her heart on.

Besides, this week we've abandoned sticker charts as bribery tools for good behaviour given that they don't get as excited about colourful bits of gummed paper these days as they do about shiny coins and paper with large numbers on them. I've been getting a lot of coffee made for me this week and I haven't had to nag about homewok as much but it really hit my wallet when I totted it all up this morning; I don't remember them being that good.

Well, I was very disappointed in Vision Express when my gorgeous new glasses, which were supposed to make me look like a proper intellectual teacher at last, had a fault on the lenses and had to be sent back. The bl**dy ridiculous thing is that they called me to tell me they were ready - hello? ever heard of quality control?? Sheesh. Of course I had to sit and wait while the bouncy blonde who bounded over to serve me when I walked in had to go off in search of someone who spoke English, though why she thought I couldn't work out on my own that the glasses had to go back when I couldn't see through them I'm really not sure.

Still a trip to the cobblers with Nobby's shoes pepped me up; the guy spoke wonderful English and did the job nice and quick. I would seriously like to clone that man and have one in every establishment at that particular shopping centre.

Because then, we stupidly went to the supermarket to get some milk and beer (an odd combination but both essential in our house.) I have never seen people more miserable in their work than the women on the checkouts in Match. Perhaps they offer a free sense-of-humour-bypass with every successful application. They certainly train them in customer contempt and utter rudeness.

As if it wasn't bad enough that Poppet announced in the cereal aisle that she's crossed another brand off her list of acceptable foods.

Her: 'Mummy, we need some chocolate Krispies because I was served (!) Cookie Crisp this morning and I don't like it any more.'
Me: 'I see. Well I'm sorry but they don't sell Krispies here. Whatever happened to your daily dose of Weetabix?' (she ate at least three faithfully every morning for YEARS until she discovered how much she liked to turn the milk chocolatey.)
Her: 'OK, fine. (sigh) I'll have Weetabix then.'
Me: '(swearing inwardly) They don't sell Weetabix here either!!'
Her: 'Right, well I'll have Cookie Crisp then.'
Me: 'But you just said you don't eat Cookie Crisp any more!'
Her: 'Can we go now?'
ARRRRRGH!

Once the checkout hag had swiped my purchases across the infra red and chucked them in my general direction, I dared to ask in my broken Hungarian if I could have a ticket for the free parking. Oh My God if she didn't just start swiping the next person's shopping through and spit out a rapid fire reply in monotone Hungarian without even looking at me. Now I know I look younger than I really am (I fool myself!!) but no need to treat me like a pesky child. It's not like I expect anyone to have to speak English in their own country, hence me scraping my vocabulary barrel to address them in their own tongue, but whatever happened to manners in this country?

On top of that, she had watched me take one of the Lego promotional leaflets from the top of the till, she saw me with a child, but she didn't give me the 6 stickers I had earned until I asked for them. And with much sighing and gnashing of teeth thrown in. Gordon Bennet we've come a long way from me getting irate at all the 'Books For Schools' tokens I used to get thrust upon me in Sainsbury's when I didn't have any kids and I never went near a school!

I don't go round with the word 'foreigner' stamped on my forehead; if I didn't have a child in tow that I'm kind of obliged to talk to then no-one would ever know I wasn't local. The crunch came today when we had been queing for ten minutes in a single line in C&A for the two tills that were open, a third one opened up and offered to serve me as I was next in line and some total cow from behind me literally RAN to get there first.

How I wish I'd kept up the Hungarian lessons and taken a crash course in swearing and insults. I would have earned a shiny diploma today with all the things I wanted to say at this point. I was always rather good at ranting in checkout queues in France. The rule there, if the queue jumper refuses to back down, is to keep up a persistant tirade of sarcastic comments peppered with the odd 'insupportable' and a couple of 'mal elever' (badly brought up).

Sadly all I managed here was a very loud, 'What do you think you're doing?' ... and she never even turned and looked at me. Neither did the checkout woman. Shame on both of you.

Innit great to be so welcomed in a different culture? Days like today, to quote the great Mr Billy Connolly, I feel about as welcome as a fart in a space suit.

More Magic

2010-11-20T00:06:00.003+01:00

I am trying to work out if Tiggy is the dumbest or the smartest dog in the universe. You be the judge.

Every night, at bedtime, Nobby gets her a biscuit from the cupboard, which is her cue to go and get into her bed so we can shut her in the conservatory for the night. She knows which cupboard it is and no matter where she's flaked out on the floor or how asleep she seems, once that door is opened she'll be in her bed quick as lightning.

On Monday the cleaner did a major wash and polish in the conservatory and decided to pop Tiggy's bed on the coffee table so she could get the mop round. That night Nobby returned from the biscuit cupboard and sure enough the dog had disappeared from the sofa (!) but neither she nor her bed were immediately visible in the conservatory... until we switched on the light and looked at coffee table, on top of which was the dog bed, with the dog in it, ears up and waiting for her treat.

I'm thinking perhaps she's slightly over-trained, if there's such a thing?

Anyway, from disappearing dogs to disappearing Pokewalkers, when the thing hadn't turned up by Thursday night, I decided to step up the search a notch or two. I had the headmaster announce it in assembly on Friday morning and Pickle published his poster in every classroom, featuring a picture of the Pokewalker and a reward of 1500huf (£5) for its safe return. His original offer was 150huf (50p) but I upped it, never really thinking any amount would work.

Halfway through Maths, whilst I was simultaneously fashioning fish out of playdough, wrapping small people in painting aprons, tripping over plastic counting teddies and comforting a distraught little chick-pea with the tiniest paper cut you ever saw, Pickle burst into my classroom and demanded 1500 huf... before proudly producing the Pokewalker from behind his back.

Someone in Poppet's class gave it to her shortly after the posters went up. I promised not to ask any questions but as you can imagine I was dying to know where the thing had been all week until I resorted to bribery to get people to help us look for it. Especially when Pickle told me that all his settings had been changed; someone had clearly played with it.

So a valuable lesson has been learned by both Pickle and me. Don't bring electronic devices to school if you want to hang on to your eardrums should you happen to lose it. And when it comes to rewards and Primary kids, 50p will probably do.

Meanwhile, we all visited a Mamma and Baby exhibition last weekend. No, I don't have anything to announce before you go all squeaky, this thing catered for 'babies' up to the age of twelve. My stock answer for anyone who asks me if I'd consider 'going for Number 3' is 'You first.'

Besides, between you and me and the internet, now I am done with all that, I found the sea of baby bumps being variously patted, stroked or cuddled everywhere I turned actually quite nauseating. Though tinged with a hint of sympathy for the dizzying array of pushchairs, prams, cots, car-seats, cribs, moses baskets, bouncers, hammocks, swings, walkers, slings, nappies, bottles, pacifiers, changing tables, dou-dous and other crap they were trying to get their heads and their wallets round, knowing myself that you don't need half of it and what you do buy will be too small or broken within 6 months and you'll wish you'd borrowed it all off your sister-in-law after all.

Not that my lack of interest in all things baby put off any of the stall holders who happily thrust leaflets on all kinds of essential new-mother devices into my hands at every opportunity. All in Hungarian of course but more importantly, do I look bl**dy pregnant???!**$£%??!!

I still managed to get through every forint in my wallet though; these wily people really know what they're doing. They had table upon table of toys and games and puzzles laid out for the kids to try, which Poppet and Pickle made a bee-line for, once they'd tried the jungle gym and the dry ski-slope. Suddenly I was hit with the realisation that the Big C is only 6 weeks away, though mercifully none of the stalls were draped in tinsel or baubles, so that had me standing out of eye-shot gesturing to the stall holders to wrap up and tot up whatever games they were hooked on. So I came home rather laden.

This week Nobby and I took in another show, this time Joseph and His Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat. All in Hungarian again of course but this time the subtitles were actually working. Strangely though they seemed to have translated the English score into Hungarian for the cast then translated it back into English for the subtitles as opposedto just using the original, such was the quality of the spelling and grammar. Apparently Jacob thought his son Joseph was 'dayed' rather than 'dead'.

Well, it gave us Brits something to titter about considering we couldn't understand all the ad- libbing that Pharoah was doing; he thoroughly enjoyed playing Elvis and hammed it up big time. In all it was a great show, better than Jesus Christ Superstar even. But once again we were floored by the community clapping. We thought we'd get away with it because they unfolded a huge technicolour flag across the ceiling so they couldn't bring down the Fire Curtain with the 'hidden' encore door in it. Hmm, no such luck, they made their own door out of the set and walked down and bowed about a dozen times while the audience all clapped in time with each other! It is truly weird.

Still, it's only fifteen minutes of my life and we're considering going to see Spamalot - note to self, get seats on the end of the row for a quick getaway.

Magical Holidays

2010-11-08T18:55:00.004+01:00

Pickle announced on the way home from school today,

'I'm going to cross my fingers and stick them together with sellotape. My handwriting won't be great but at least I'll have lots of luck.'

Bless his little cotton ones. In case you're wondering why he needs lots of luck, he made the genius decision to take his 'Pokewalker' to school today... and lost it. Naturally I am furious but it's hard to roar at a small boy who's crying his heart out one minute for his rotten luck then determinedly planning how he'll put up posters round the school to try to get everyone to look for it and discussing with his sister how much reward he should offer.

'I think 150 forints will be a good award for anyone who brings it back.' (That's roughly 50p in real money.)

I'll let you know how that one pans out. I am not looking forward to watching him tell Nobby.

So, it was our first day back at school today after the half term break. I went easy on my little ones, at least two of whom were distraught to find out that they had to come back, having thought that the previous nine weeks was all they were expected to do school-wise. Poor lambs. Several piles of playdough and a home-made cave later and they seemed a lot happier though; personally I'll be picking flecks of sticky stuff out from under my fingernails for weeks but whatever keeps them keen.

And thirteen children crammed into a sweaty tent to demonstrate the concept of needing light to see went down a storm. Not sure I should have set them searching for tiddlywinks in the dark to demonstrate how their other senses come into play when they can't see, it was a bit of a scramble. I'm kinda glad we were missing a few regulars.

Anyway, the half term break was nice. We were bitten by the travelling bug for some reason and decided to explore a little - I think Nobby secretly decided 'anything to keep her away from the computer' when he whisked us off to the lake on the first Sunday then booked us three nights in Bratislava. For the record it was a great decision to get away from it all, and I discovered that Pickle and I both have strange, magical powers.

We were looking for a lunch spot at Siofok (pronounced 'She-oh-ferk' - should I be worried that Poppet found the word 'extremely rude'??) an hour's drive away beside lake Balaton, having wandered along by the lake a little way, spotting crabs and snakes (yes, really) and trying to keep Tiggy away from the fishermen. The place was pretty quiet, having closed up most of its businesses for the Winter already. There were a couple of 'gyros' (kebab) and pizza stalls still pumping the alluring smell of hot oil into the atmosphere but Pickle had other ideas.

'I'd like sushi for lunch today please.'

Ha! we all thought, fat blummin' chance even in the summer round here. Somehow sushi just doesn't seem to fit with the Hungarian idea of acceptable cuisine, on account of its lack of stodge factor. Here's a for instance. The last Friday of school we decided to celebrate making it through the first two months of my return to work with (most of) our sanity still intact and we went to a Mongolian Barbecue. We've been to several in the UK, long, long ago of course in the Before-Children years and we thought the idea of creating their own dishes to be cooked on the griddle would really appeal.

However, we found the process has been somewhat localised to fit with the local fare and instead of picking your meat, veg, sauce and spices, they only barbecue your choice of meat - be it marinated veal, paprika chicken, or a spot of goat or horse for the more adventurous - then you can choose your veg from cauliflower cheese, dumplings, chips or pickled cabbage. Yum.

So the chances of finding a sushi bar in the prime holiday location during the off season were super-slim to positively anorexic. We drove along the shoreline with our eyes peeled for signs of life and lo and behold, there was a sushi bar, open and raring for business. Right on Pickle.

It was several days later on the way home from Bratislava, a cute, quaint and rather gorgeous city where we visited the zoo, a children's art gallery and the national museum, where there was a brilliant Maths exhibition that had me reaching for my notepad to scribble down teaching ideas, that I discovered some magical powers of my own. Prepare for another road-rant.

Oh. My. God. Those of us who grew up with 70mph speed limits on the motorways find driving in Europe a very naughty thrill where the limit is 130kmh, equivalent to 80mph. But there's always one who needs to go even faster isn't there. Or in the case of the M7 between Bratislava and Budapest there were dozens. One Mercedes was literally weaving all over the road behind me trying to persuade me to move into some non-existant space to let them past, I've honestly never seen anything like it. Then there was the Renault who came so close up my bumper I couldn't see his headlights but he could probably read the Horrid Henry book Pickle was perusing in the back seat.

I am not normally a malicious person but I really did wish these idiots... ill-will shall we say, for the sake of diplomacy. What I really wanted was an unmarked police car to shoot out of the bushes and chase the buggers down; I found myself trying to keep them in my sights in case my luck was in, right up until the shout went up from the back seat 'I need a wee!!' and I had to turn off.

After a brief pit-stop we were back on the road and you'll never guess what hove into view at a layby further on; one silver Mercedes, one ruby Renault and one lovely shiny police car. Did something mysterious happen to us at Halloween? We'll see - I'm setting Poppet on the job of finding this Pokewalker, maybe she'll levitate it out of its hiding place or something. After last week, anything's possible.

Circus anyone?

2010-10-30T21:05:00.003+02:00

Five-Year-Old's Mummy took Poppet, Pickle and me to the circus today as a reward for our sterling efforts in caring for her adorable child after school hours. It isn't much effort really, not when crawling around the classroom looking cute and saying the occasional 'miaow' will keep her amused for hours.

I asked Nobby if he'd like to come along to the circus, having never experienced a Hungarian one before. He thought about it for roughly two nanoseconds before saying 'no thanks.' This may be due to he fact that the last circus he endured was a travelling one which came to our village in France during our last few months there and that time I was already booked elsewhere and was in the priveleged position of being able to say 'no.' Thirty euros, two manky lions and a couple of pathetic clowns later Nobby was deep into circus-humbug mode from which he has never recovered.

However, now I've been to this one in Budapest I'm kinda glad.

Not because he missed out on a great show, I'm not that nasty, just because he missed all the drooling from Five-Year-Old's Mum and me.

See, it was the Colombian circus - a troupe of muscular, semi-clad Colombian chaps in their early twenties, throwing themselves high in the air from various swings, trapezes and see-saws, with a side order of dancing, wiggling and rapping and the occasional clown and sealion to make the kids laugh while we Mummies mopped our mouths.

A top quality afternoon all round I think.

Actually, I reckon Nobby was quite happy to stay home today after rolling in at 2am this morning following his debut at the British Dad's Club last night. He claims it wasn't a heavy night and he didn't feel hungover this morning. They were in the Scottish bar at 7pm, followed by a good British beer and curry-fest and rounding off the night in some huge bar where the antics on the dance-floor are beamed in to the drinking areas to encourage others to 'get on down'. Nobby told me about some unwitting girl with apparently 'huge knockers' whose girating was featured at length in nauseating close-up on the big screens...

So just a quiet night then? Hmm, I think not, and here's the deal-breaker.

Later on he told me the story of how he tried to dial a taxi at the end of the night - him being a 'numbers man' by the way, the one who always looks at the clock when the kids wake him up in the night so he can calculate how much sleep he's got left, the one who never forgets a wedding anniversary (as opposed to my annual 'oh crap' moments)... You can take the man out of accountancy but you can never take accountancy out of the man.

Now I know that Hungarian codes are tricky but I thought he'd have mastered them by now. For mobiles prefix the number with 061, for landlines just 01. Our regular taxi company is 061-seven-sevens. Nobby, in his 'sober state', forgot the number and dialled 107-seven-sevens.

Trouble is 107 is the Hungarian equivalent of 999.

Nobby: Beszelsz Angolul? (do you speak English)
Bloke on phone: Yes
Nobby: Can I have a taxi please? I am on the corner of This Street and That Street.
Bloke on phone: This Street?
Nobby: Yes
Bloke on phone: And That Street?
Nobby: Yes.
Bloke on phone: And you want a taxi?
Nobby: Yes, please!
Bloke on phone: Then why did you call the police?
Nobby: .....???!!!&*($&"£$£*£$**£(^$*!!!

Ok, dear, just a couple of beers with the lads, I believe you.

Excuses 101 by Pickle

2010-10-28T16:03:00.001+02:00

Overheard in the classroom after school. Pickle is waiting for me to finish my prep and there is a five year old still waiting for her Mummy.

Five year old wants entertaining, Pickle wants Mummy to vacate the computer so he can surf.

Five Year Old: 'Can we play cats?'

Pickle: 'Well, I'd love to the only problem is I'm allergic to cats. So, no thanks.'

Hum

2010-10-23T20:45:00.003+02:00

I hum.

(.. there fore I am...?)

So does the hamster.

Are we starting a new reality show for ITV? Don't worry, you're safe, I'm talking strictly ponging.

We had a two hour window today while the small people were at a birthday party and since the lazy good-for-nothing sun actually made it out of it's festering pit for the first time in ages, we took to the garden in an effort to tidy it all up a bit. Nobby was on weed duty but I headed straight for the bonfire area to play the pyromaniac, reminiscent of autumn days at my Grandad's house where he burned pretty much anything in his purpose built firepits at the end of the garden.

Perhaps it's Pickle's influence with his new found love of The Prodigy ever since I started letting the kids choose the tunes on my i-pod on the way to school. They were getting somewhat frustrated with my Depeche Mode fetish and my excuse when they asked me to change the tune of 'I'm currently a taxi driver, not a DJ' led to them grabbing the gadget and doing it themselves.

So now I'm a Firestarter, twisted firestarter. Well, I should use the term carefully today as I didn't exactly produce a roaring blaze because things were a bit damp. But I do hum of essence of bonfire smoke.

And that's not all.

Tiggy, the little darling, thought Christmas had come early when she spotted, and successfully cornered a tiny ginger ball of fluff under the hedge. Obviously I am a total softie when it comes to furry creatures - ask Nobby; I always have little cuddle with Lucky the hamster before bedtime, however 'musical' his cage is since Pickle can't find it in himself to clean it out - so I also hum of essence of privet hedge and helpless kitten after I dived on to rescue it and take it home.

Lastly I have a subtle whiff about me of car maintenance after getting busy with the T-Cut on my motor when Nobby pointed out the horrific scratch on my rear wing, the result of being forced into a hedge by an urban tractor who needed the whole bl**dy road the other day.

Thankfully no-one at the birthday party commented on my new perfume when I went for the pickup. Either they are too polite or they didn't notice over the heady aroma of sweaty child since it had been a football party and they were all rather glowing by the end of it.

Before I clock off to watch a movie with Nobby - it's Saturday Darby and Joan on the sofa night - let me leave you with a classic from the Pickle-meister.

We went to a Mongolian Barbecue last evening to avoid cooking. I should warn to the connoisseur that this was Mongolian with a Hungarian twist - they only cooked marinated meat on the griddle, all veggies were on the side either au gratin, deep fried or boiled to death. But still it was a nice evening, and there was a wide range of meat to choose from, including goat and horse for the adventurous.

As an addition there was some small speckled eggs on the counter by the griddle. Whilst watching his choice of meats sizzle away, Pickle asks Nobby,

'What are those Daddy?'

'Those are quail eggs, Pickle,' replies Nobby.

'Oh. Well, they look really small for a whale.'

How to write off a Saturday by Nobby's Missus

2010-10-02T13:07:00.002+02:00

... go to the karaoke / cocktail bar with your daughter's class teacher the night before.

It was a great night. Feel a little sorry for the sober guy we took with us, not to mention the other people in there who had to endure me wailing into a microphone.

Now it's almost 2pm, my head is just about back on my shoulders and Nobby, the absolute darling, has taken the kids shopping without me.

It's very quiet, just what I need.
All I want to hear now is 'plink, plink, fizz.'

Happy in my job

2010-09-28T23:12:00.003+02:00

So one day I'm mopping up shite, the next I'm washing gravel for the school fish. One moment I'm giving out stickers and cuddles for learning how to count to ten, the next I'm marching sixth formers to the Principal after catching them smoking.

It's all in a day's work.

And they pay me too!

One month down

2010-09-24T16:30:00.003+02:00

So we're only four weeks in to the school year and already the primary teacher's worst nightmare has dropped in to haunt me.

And I'm not talking about my hijacked lunch break because that happens all too often actually. This time it was a visit from a new addition to the class whose parents just decided he was ready to switch from Kindergarten (4 weeks into term? Takes all sorts I suppose) who I eventually dispatched to tour the building so I could go grab some lunch - fish fingers today, not to be missed. Only to be confronted with a sobbing class member who'd been caught fighting and needed calming down and debriefing. By the time I'd got past the indignant declarations of 'He started it!' and 'It wasn't me!' the rest of the class was heading my way and I had to manage on leftover morning snacks again.

Not long afterwards we had just completed a listening exercise on the carpet and several of the little darlings were showing signs of 'inattention' - lying on the floor, turning their backs to chat with the person behind, sighing, yawning, trying to fit all their limbs at once inside their t-shirt, singing... I eventually got the subtle hints. I reckoned a quick round of 'Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes' would pep them up a bit, and sneakily reinforce the body parts curriculum unit (that'll show 'em; if you can't be arsed to listen I'll educate you on the sly while you think you're playing, [evil laugh].)

As we headed to the cd player somebody piped up with 'Someone's made a smell'. Sure enough there was a nasty odour pervading the air but I assumed it was a whiffy fart and carried on with the game. But I did notice a little boy right at the back who wasn't joining in. And by the end of the song the smell was worse than ever.

Oh yes, someone had pooped in their pants. Shit.

At least I found out why he was off school yesterday and I can put the right code in the register. However, a little heads up would have been nice.

But I got his mum back - by calling her away from work to collect her sick child and a particularly pungent bag of clothes. I like to share the joy.

Sod's Law wins

2010-09-18T01:11:00.002+02:00

On the day my housekeeper told me off for not washing the floor cloths and then asked for more hours (roughly translated as a demand for a £5 per week pay rise) my new allergy has been diagnosed...

I am (mildly) allergic to house dust.

Love : fifteen to Sod's Law. But at least it wasn't the hamster making me sneeze.

I'll get you back.

Late Night

2010-09-16T02:00:00.004+02:00

It is nearly 3am and I am blogging. This is not a good sign. It was less than a great day and I have had real trouble switching off, even to the relaxing strains of my Zen CD. I've actually been blogging for half an hour already but the computer just decided to invoke Sod's Law and erase everything I had already written in the line of therapeutic ranting all my issues off my chest and out of my brain so I can sleep.

Sodding computers. I hate 'em.

I hate Post Offices too; the world over, it seems, they are dens of frustration and bureaucracy and they could all do with short visit from a short range missile. I was mid-rant about my trip to my local PO when the computer spat its dummy out and erased it all and now I'm all wound up again. Grrr. I'll have to be brief this time.

Long day at the office (ha!), urgent bills to pay, urgent tax return to post, where you gonna go? I first went to the local shopping centre which is open till 8pm. This is at 6.15pm. The PO shut at 6pm. I then found a place open until 7pm, thanked my stars, left the kids in the car while I popped in and promptly fell into a bureacratic twilight zone.

There were six people ahead of me in the queue. Four wanted to pay bills, in cash. One had three parcels to send. One wanted a lottery ticket. Now, children, how long to you reckon that should take to process? I'll tell you: 25 minutes. Holy crap on a cracker what a chuffing palaver. I would have walked out but the security guard locked the doors at quarter to seven as the two queues were both 7 people deep and he must have known that it would take a long time to clear them. Oh. My. Goodness. The woman with the parcels was still wrapping them in the queue, clearly she knew she'd have time, I wish I'd taken in a copy of War and Peace, I could have made a good start on it.

When it was finally my turn, however, that's when the real nightmare began - I was the last customer anyway but a non-Hungarian speaker was the last person the lady at the window ever wanted to see at any time of day, least of all when her dinner is beckoning. I'd written down in Hungarian that I needed to send my envelope 'Registered Mail'. She refused to understand. She sent for the security guard. He ran over with a Serbian dictionary. I wondered how many ways there are of sending an envelope that it was so hard to understand what I was getting at. Surely she's seen stuff for the tax office before?

My bills had mounted up somewhat, given that I have forgotten the password for my online banking otherwise I would have paid them from the comfort of this very armchair. They added up, with the registered mail envelope, to about 80p over my bank card limit. So, you guessed it, my card was refused. She gestured for cash. Hmmm, let me see if I have £350 here in my bag. Yes, I know I did have the other day after payday but that is now safely stashed somewhere safe. I just don't carry that kind of cash, but clearly everyone else does because she got up and stomped away in frustration as I waved my English bank card at her and tried to think of the translation for 'don't give up now, try this one!' (actually it was something much ruder than that but this is a family blog.)

By the time I got back to the car - remember I'd left the kids there? - Poppet was crying thinking I had been kidnapped and they were both chewing on the seats with hunger having completed both judo and cricket lessons after school, hence why we were so late in the first place. When we got in I automatically kicked into food mode and it was almost 8pm before I realised why I was tripping over the dog every time I turned round. Lying across most of the kitchen was her subtle way of telling me she hadn't been fed herself yet and by the way where've you been all day Mummy? Oops.

Yes, well, you couldn't wedge a cigarette paper into my schedule at the moment let alone a wee or a cup of coffee. The epic adventure in the post office was the last thing I needed after an hour and a half at the end of a teaching day talking to a prospective parent with separation anxiety. (She told me it's her daughter that has the anxiety... after an hour and a half going through my agenda with a toothpick and still thinking she should wait until after Christmas to sign up I think I know better.)

Nobby didn't have a blinder himself so we had a cheeky vod over dinner. And that may also help explain my current insomnia as I promptly fell asleep in Pickle's bed when I went to say goodnight: no lunch + crazy day + vodka = crash out. It's basic maths, I should have known better.

Anyway, I am off to try again, listening to Lucky the hamster trying to make it to Australia on his little wheel has worn me out. At least now I've taken my allergy meds my nose is less stuffed up and having ranted a bit on here my head is a bit clearer. Cheers for listening, cyberspace.

Fifteen again

2010-09-08T23:37:00.003+02:00

Twenty-odd years ago I took on my first 'proper' after-school job working a till at Safeways. And not one of these fancy bar code scanners either, this was a find-the-price-tag, punch in the right number, allocate the right department code minefield of potential problems.

But I enjoyed it, having never had a toy cash register when I was little and having to make do with the chord keys on my Casio organ to ring through purchases for my teddy bears. Not so nice was the ritual humiliation at the hands ofmy co-workers who all went to the same local school and rather objected to the private school b*tch daring to come onto their turf, despite blending in so nicely with the regulation orange uniform.

At least there was no initiation ceremony, such as the one I fell right into at the DIY store later on on my youth, when I eagerly ran to the stock room to ask for a skirting-board ladder to help out. Ha, at least I didn't get the tartan paint ruse, I was prepared for that one.

Pay day was the great day though. We all marched up to the cash office to collect a jingling envelope of coinage for the £1.29 per hour wages we had accumulated playing 'let's see if I can ring this all through quicker than you can pack it' with the customers and announcing 'price check checkout three' in a sing-song voice over the tannoy.

Well today was my first pay day for my new teaching job. In a weird twist of fate I did not get my bank details to the Business Manager by the deadline and, this being Eastern Europe, where cheque books are a work of fiction, I was handed over £1000 in cash.

If only I had a piggy bank to store it all in, my journey to through the time warp would be complete.

Lows and highs

2010-09-07T21:15:00.004+02:00

The kids have been on the hot chocolate, Nobby and me are on the vodka again... that's a fair sign it's pelting with rain outside and we're all feeling the strain of the demise of summer. Even Tiggy is whining and restless; she's currently chasing an errant flea across her backside with her teeth, quite a trick if you can do it.

And not to be outdone, Lucky the Hamster has today taken it upon himself to chew up an entire loo roll innard, the same one he's been happily hiding inside and running through for a fortnight. Now it's just a pile of cardboard all over his wheel and he has nowhere to run to when Tiggy comes around, licking her lips.

Well, this has been coming on a little while I think, all the signs were there. Ever since the illegal Romanian satellite we've been tuned into for free pay-to-view TV was switched off last month, Nobby and me have borrowed the neighbour's box set of 'Boston Legal' for want of something to wind down with in the evenings. I have to say I am loving it; William Shatner still does it for me and he's clearly had an effect on Nobby who can be heard muttering 'Denny Crane' every time he walks past.

However, just last week we took to watching our daily fix *in bed on the laptop* rather than in the lounge. We've not watched TV in bed since we left the UK and it was really weird. But it did help me get to sleep after the crazy days at school; it's nice not to have to face the washing up or trudge the dog round the block once the titles appear. Just close the lid and close your eyes and try not to dream about Key Stage assessments or Curriculum conferences.

Today at school felt a little like drowning. Stupid me trying to teach Maths to the whole class and putting small plastic teddy bears in front of them to help the process. They enjoyed counting them out so much when I asked them to that they counted them out even when I didn't ask them to and you can imagine the rest. As a very wise someone once said, directing a bunch of small children is like herding cats.

I am not sure what they make of me really, giving out stickers one minute and making them practice walking in a line up and down the corridor 5 times the next (well, how many times to they need telling not run down the corridors? Perhaps I was supposed to be grateful they were running in from their break heading towards the classroom and not running screaming away from it...)

I do know one student and her mother was happy with the way last week went. In the flurry of attempting to release the right child to the right parent with all the right baggage and pictures etc on Friday evening one lady made her way through the throng to me and said,

'Thank you for making my little one's first week in big school go so well. You could probably use some of this...'

... and she thrust a large bar of Lindt caramel-laced chocolate into my hand.

See, I said this was the best job in the world.

Cocktails and confessions

2010-09-06T23:00:00.003+02:00

It's Monday night and I am already one vodka and tonic and a bar of chocolate down. Who said kids can drive you to drink? Ha! Still, you should have seen me and a fellow teacher bonding on Friday night whilst we celebrated making it through our first week of school by working our way through the cocktail menu at Fat Mo's... it was quite a sight to behold. Apparently we didn't look too bad after the first Mojito and a wee Sex On The Beach because we found ourselves attracting the attentions of some Swedish businessmen who had also heard Fat Mo's was the happening place in town.

Actually, it might have been the pull of the Hungary vs Sweden football match being shown on several TV sets round the bar... but still, they could have walked on past without a glance once the final whistle blew. But instead we found ourselves bombarded with questions: 'Where are you from?', 'What are you drinking?', 'What brings you in here tonight?'

Considering we were in there until 2 in the morning doing some serious girlie bonding, we've decided Las Vegas rules apply and what happens in Fat Mo's, stays in Fat Mo's. But I will tell you this as future reference for any girlies wanting to get shot of inebriated tourists who like to pull out a Cuban cigar and ask 'Have you ever seen one like this before?' (Incidentally, standard answer: 'I've seen bigger.' You'll be falling off your bar stool at your wit, he'll be wondering what the hell you just said.)

Anyway, 'What brings me here tonight?' Grab the other girl's knee, lean in close and say, 'Actually, we're on our first date. We met over the internet.'

If you want confirmation of effectiveness, pop into Fat Mo's any time; I swear there are skid marks by the exit.

Primary power

2010-09-02T22:31:00.003+02:00

My back is aching, my head is throbbing and I'm losing my voice. Unseasonal case of flu perhaps? Oh, no. My first week as a full-time Primary School Teacher has done this to me. But, you know, I'm not really bovvered. I'm having a bit of a laugh.

I have 14 five-year-olds now and they are all quite adorable in their own little ways. From the one who keeps trying to climb me like a tree to get a cuddle any time I stand near her, to the one who throws a screaming tantrum every time his Mum leaves the classroom. Welcome to the world of separation anxiety, uninhibited hugging, half hourly toilet breaks and 'let's see how much of the classroom we have to wreck before she loses her temper'.

Not to mention the regular snacks and the dreaded lunch-hour which resemble a chimpanzees tea party at the best of times and makes me feel like I've presided over a birthday party for 14, three times a day.

I am pleased to say that my tree is still standing despite the best efforts of a couple of them to knock it down today. My display boards are finally full of art work, having covered 'What I Did In the Holidays', self-portraits and finger painting already this week. Together they have almost mastered the correct responses to 'One, Two, Three: Eyes On Me!' which I blatantly stole from one of my role models during training. The expectation is that they stop what they are doing and look round at the teacher (me!)

One slight spanner is the five children who speak no English whatsoever who usually gaily continue with their activity instead. The proper response from me is to wait silently for them to realise what the rest of the class is doing. Unfortunately the rest of the class is much quicker at realising that those five are having a lot more fun than they are standing still doing nothing, and hence resume their colouring, reading or seeing how far they can chuck Barnaby the class Teddy Bear while I am left looking a bit of a spoon.

They are VERY good at '5..4..3..2..1..0' meaning they have to run to the carpet and sit cross legged, oh I am loving that power (evil laugh) though some of the boys are now making like Poppet and Pickle and leaving it until the 'z' of 'zero' to shift their arses. Clever little buggers.

Speaking of which, Poppet and Pickle are settling in to their new classes very well by all accounts, each having made a new friend on day one, thank the maker. And they look fantastic in their new M&S uniforms, courtesy of Nanna P who made the mercy dash for us back in the UK then kindly flew over here to babysit the small people while Mummy went out to work. I bet she's needing a proper holiday now.

This school uniform lark is a great invention though. It shaves at least ten minutes off the morning routine because gone are the cries of 'I haven't got a thing to wear!' from Poppet and 'Where are my clothes?' from Pickle. There are NO EXCUSES. Ha! And they arrive half an hour before the rest of the school because I go in early to set up my classroom so they have no excuses for not doing homework either. They are getting real homework every night now and they HATE it! although the tasks so far have actually been very stimulating once they get stuck in - Pickle had some very interesting insights into the lives of the Aztecs and the fabled Moctezuma though he wasn't impressed with my attempt at drawing an Aztec pyramid. 'No, Mummy, it's not Egyptian, it has a flat top with a temple on it, silly.'

I'm sure there'll be some corkers to report from my class in the coming weeks but in the meantime here is one from my beloved little girl. Whilst walking through a shopping centre last week I stupidly allowed myself to be collared by one of those beauty product demonstration stands. The girl was very persuasive and did something magical to my fingernails which captured my attention, along with the 'buy one got one free' offer on the gizmo she was wielding. Ten seconds later she's rubbing some gel onto my crows feet and asking Poppet to be the judge as to whether it's made any difference to my complexion. 'Oh yes Mummy! It's really working!' she piped up (I reckon the woman got to her while I was browsing in Zara.) But you mustn't settle for just the eye gel; next she's massaging other wrinkly bits with some night cream and other magic products to Poppet's increasing delight and, I confess, having just endured a week of classroom prep, I succumbed to the Retail Therapy Fairy and 'invested' in a couple of pots.

Three days later Poppet asks me: 'Mummy, when are you going to start using that new cream from that lady for the lines on your face?'

'Um, I've been using them twice a day for three days, darling.'

'Oh.'

And, suddenly the little girl with an answer for everything and the diplomacy skills of a breadknife couldn't think of a thing to say.

Getting creative

2010-08-26T22:17:00.004+02:00

Sign me up for my Blue Peter badge right now. By gum I've earned it this week. Its Teacher's Weeks at my new school, where we all go in to prepare our classrooms for the invasion on Monday. My class is now up to 13 five-year-olds... and I can't wait to meet them all!

Did I really say that? Hmm, there are several signs of madness coming through at the moment. 'Can't wait to take on the educational and social development of 13 potentially exhausting five year olds' and, wait for it, 'this is just the BEST job in the world - last night I got to cut out massive numbers from coloured card and today I'm up on a chair firing a staple gun at the wall like a demon.' I think my journey to the Funny Farm is complete.

But needs must you know, I have been forced into this flurry of creativity. The new school has just moved premises, my year group is brand new AND the resources delivery was very late so there were no art materials or display board coverings available to decorate my rather clinical classroom. Even if I had materials, the furniture delivery is also very late and I have nowhere to put anything. Welcome once again to far flung Eastern Europe; anyone would think we're on the moon with the trouble involved in getting anything done.

So I clicked into Lesley Judd mode (oops, showing my age there) and went about raiding bits of sticky backed plastic and empty boxes from around the building and managed to construct a ten foot tree, complete with leaves and branches which stretch into the room, a 'clocking-in' style registration system, an alphabet display, and a multicoloured 'Welcome' board from, basically, rubbish I found lying about and the odd bit of paint and staples I nicked while other teachers weren't looking.

It's been a lot of fun, especially the look on my Teaching Assistant's face each time I come up with another wacky creative idea. 'Let's have an owl-hole in the tree to keep soft toys in!' (She managed to talk me out of that one and we have a mouse-hole in the bottom instead, hopefully too small for any students to crawl into. )

Then the resources delivery arrived this morning and I realised it isn't just me as the other Primary Teachers ran like greyhounds to greet the white van and started rooting around in the humungous boxes of paper, staples, pencils, toys and books that were dumped in the front driveway. Like bees round honey it was, or rather bargain hunters at the Boxing Day sales; I swear I felt an elbow as I reached for the pack of gold card.

Pickle happened to be with me too and get this: he abandoned his DS and the Club Penguin website in favour of helping unload all the stuff. Amazing. It's just like him to get a name for himself amongst the staff but this time it's for climbing into boxes and handing reams of paper over to he adults who couldn't bend that far over the side. Mummy is so proud.

You can tell the holidays are drawing to a close; I think both the kids are looking forward to getting back into a school routine, and goodness knows they could use a break from each other. It has been all out war between them on occasion this last week, they are thoroughly fed up with each other now that the camps are all over. Pickle survived a whole week of football camp and Poppet came back from hers unscathed, enjoying a few Mummy dates while the boy was out kicking leather. But since Sunday they've put on an impressive display of crabby behaviour for Nana, who kindly flew all the way out here to babysit them while Nobby and I are both at work. It's the first time in almost ten years that we've both been employed and certainly the first time with two children to juggle. Ten gold stars to Nana for stepping into the breach. And twenty to Nobby for coping with the tables turning where his Missus works late and rocks up just in time to miss all the cooking and washing up.

Luckily Nana has a good sense of humour - she's sitting downstairs watching Little Miss Sunshine at the moment if any further proof was needed. However my offer to take one brat away with me to school to help me set up my room has proved very popular with all involved, though they are now fighting to be the chosen one on my final Teacher's Day tomorrow. Poppet is now good friends with the music teacher after taking the Brasso to all the cymbals in the music room. He let her try out the new Baby Grand as a treat. They've also been very excited about the uniform, which arrived in the post this week and which Poppet insisted on wearing for her morning at the school. Pity poor Mummy having to sew on two dozen name labels, sheesh.

So back to school we go. Think of me on Monday morning when I get to meet my brood. Who know what horrors and treats lie ahead. Thank goodness for my Blog to blow off some steam.
I promise to change all names to protect the little monsters...

Noisy

2010-08-18T08:26:00.005+02:00

There have been some strange noises round the house since we arrived home from holiday, and not just the poor washing machine groaning under the strain of all the laundry.

Lately each night is punctuated by a persistant rattling, whirring sound coming from Pickle's bedside table. It started on Saturday night after the new hamster, Lucky Hamper, suddenly discovered his hamster wheel and decided to get busy with his own nightly hamster marathon. Yes, we got the hamster. No sooner had the plane landed in Hungary than the 'when are we going to the Pet Shop?' mantra started, so Lucky joined our family the very next day.

So far he has been very lucky to avoid becoming Tiggy's morning snack. The poor dog is overcome with interest in the little creature and sits shivering and licking her chops whenever Lucky is dragged out of his cage for a cuddle. And he's dragged out quite often, considering all he wants to do is kip all day long after his nightly runs. But Pickle has other ideas, keen as he is to stimulate the animal with interesting sights and activities. Lucky has variously been seen exploring a sprawling, custom-built Lego fortress, the inside of Pickle's trouser leg and the underside of his wardrobe. When tired he is perambulated about the bedroom in a miniature shopping trolley by Action Man and Barbie. It's really very sweet.

Poppet's room, on the other hand, has been emitting an eerie silence for almost a week. She's been at Kangaroo Kamp by the lake with a dozen friends from school. It's been really weird without her, though we've talked a LOT on the phone after I decided to get a new simcard for the spare mobile and let her borrow it. I think that was almost as big a treat as being staying away from home for five nights and she's getting through £10-worth of credit pretty rapidly. She's also convinced I gave it to her for keeps... Hmmm.

She arrived home yesterday laden down with armfuls of arts and crafts -shortly afterwards I was sporting four necklaces, three bracelets and a couple of woolly plaits in the my hair. I then had to undergo a masterclass in plait-making and then try to untangle the additional twenty or so necklaces she produced from her pockets. By all accounts she's had a wonderful time; the teachers presented a slide show of photos from the week including shots of Poppet digging in the mud in her bikini, Poppet collecting baby frogs and Poppet's team of snails.

At the weekend while all was relatively quiet in the house, I heard music coming from the basement. That's where we keep the Wii and I happened to know that Pickle was in his room exercising his hamster at the time so I tiptoed down the stairs to see what was going on. There was Nobby, Nun-chucks in hand, drumming along to Britney Spear's 'Toxic' while whacky 'Raving Rabids' rabbits cavorted across the screen.

He was pretty good actually.

One sound we haven't heard much while Poppet's been away is the TV. Though we've lost all our 'free' channels via the dodgy Digibox over the summer as the rogue Romanian satellite has finally been switched off. We're going to have to go legit. Personally I have had a new toy or two to play with. Firstly my midnight blue Ford Focus, bought for a song from Nobby's company's ex-salesman stock. We finally tired of playing musical cars whenever Nobby has to visit the out-of-town site or drive out to meetings and I know Nobby will prefer driving from garage to garage in the Volvo during the winter than trudging through the snow to the tram.

We've also all played with the 'bong' / hookah pipe that Rose bought for me years ago, after picking up some apple-flavoured, nictotine-free bong-tobacco during our Turkish holiday. It really works! You never saw anything so funny as Nobby, Pickle and me sitting round the dining room, playing cards and passing round the hookah pipe. We also bought some Turkish coffee which works quite well in the percolator. Nobby even dug out a very old tape of Turkish music which we had blaring out of the stereo at the weekend to relive our fortnight in the sun.

Actually, Turkey was so hot we could have really been holidaying on the sun. That's what you get for not doing your homework when you book a holiday. We knew that Hungary would sweltering during July and we'd need to get away. But we didn't check that Turkey would be 15 degrees HOTTER. One afternoon there I left a bottle of water in the sun beside my pool-lounger. By the time I retrieved it the water was hot enough to make a cup of tea. Still, we all came back with super suntans, despite using factor 50 and staying in the shade as much as possible. And I learned how to belly dance (nuff said).

This week I am setting up my new classroom, which finally has desks and chairs in it but very little else. Poppet is going to help me decorate a bit to make it more colourful while Pickle is at football camp all week. You know, on Monday both camps overlapped for one magical day. I had NO kids all day long.

It was very quiet.

Children and Animals

2010-07-23T09:16:00.004+02:00

Actors say 'Never work with children or animals.'
Here is a newsflash: children are animals.
I should know, I have become the zookeeper at my own private wild beast reserve and the inmates are pretty savage.

No sooner did I boast on Facebook that my adorable offspring had mastered the idea of letting Mummy and Daddy sleep in on a Sunday morning - possibly something to do with Mummy growing horns and a tail if she is rowsed before 9am on an official 'day off' - than Small Person number two takes it upon himself to get up at 5.30am on a Friday morning and require the rest of the household to do the same.

Little bugger.

He also decided to whisper in my ear for permission to play on the DS, knowing full well he was banned from it yesterday. When I answered in the negative he decided to ask again, in case the previous answer was some aberration, possibly due to the fact that I had been deeply asleep the second before he opened his mouth. It's understandable logic, I should think: small brat demanding attention at some ungodly hour or delightful dreamworld most probably featuring a fit bloke serving me margueritas under a palm tree beside a sun drenched ocean? Hmm.

I mumbled the second 'No!' a little clearer and louder, yet still he persisted. A third 'NO!' prompted a slightly longer 'Pleeeeease' out of him for the next round until I was compelled to sit up and order him back to bed and to sleep for at least another hour, to which he gave me his own 'NO!' Aaaargh! By this point Nobby was grinding his teeth in frustration as the time remaining for us to shake off the savage beast, relax enough to drop back off and get in some reasonable sleep before the alarm sounded at 7am got shorter and shorter.

Eventually, as Pickle decided that shouting and throwing a pillow across the room might help me change my mind and relent, I dragged myself out of my pit to chase him back to his room. As I pursued him out onto the landing what did I see? A vision in pink PJs standing sleepily outside her room with a big frown on her face, and then asking 'Can we go swimming now?'

You know, I blame whoever's clever idea it was to keep Hungary in a time-zone such that the sun comes up at 5am and sets at 8pm. Clearly whoever it was did not have much of a social life and could not appreciate the beauty of sitting on your (or someone else's) terrace until ten o'clock at night without having to resort to floodlighting to see your glass of wine or fifteen litres of mosquito repellent to retain the ability pick up your glass of wine without needing to promptly drop it to slap fruitlessly at your arms and legs. Jeez I wish I could spend five minutes with that person... wielding a wet kipper.

In case you think I have been having any better luck with animals, Ha! think again. The dog is perpetually on the boil at the moment, fairly inevitable really when you're covered in black fur in 95 degree temperatures. She does love a good swim though, so since the nearest body of dog-swimming water is a good drive away I invested in a plastic paddling pool for her. But do you think I can persuade her to take a dip in it? She's deigned to dip her paws in, drink some of, then exit across the barren, dusty lawn to accumulate a good amount of mud on her feet then leave a trail of prints into the house before flopping in her favourite cool place - the downstairs loo. I've tried getting in with her, dragging, pushing, persuading, ordering her in but no. For now we are stuck with a hot dog.

And the children are after MORE pets when we get back from our holiday. We did agree that Pickle could have a hamster for his birthday but of course that didn't sit well with Poppet's Fairness Gauge and she now wants a rabbit. Not just any rabbit: a dwarf ginger-coloured rabbit. Because all pet stores have them don't they? Well, let me tell you about rabbits. Whilst we were in France we visited some friends who own rabbits and I generously rescued one of them from the clutches of my daughter and her friend after watching them push it round the garden in a pram, bounce it on the trampoline and dress it up in ribbons all afternoon. Coming over all Mother Earth I popped the poor creature on my lap for some respite and let it curl up for a nap while I chatted to my friend.

Half an hour went by before I decided we ought to be making tracks and I finally allowed Poppet to take the rabbit back. As she picked it up off my lap I felt a kind of damp sensation on my knees, then a trickling down my leg. Meanwhile Poppet shrieked with surprise as she realised there was something trickling down her leg too - and coming from the rabbit - so she quickly dropped it. Back into my lap. I had not realised until that moment just how much a rabbit can pee.

One other revelation, whilst at the same house, was that Nobby's lament that dogs only ever do 'silent-but-violent' farts is not entirely true. As I was reaching for a cloth to wipe up the rabbit pee, a very rude trumping noise echoed round the kitchen. The only other person in the room was a golden labrador called Nelson, who looked at me with that dumb expression that only dogs can muster which said 'So?' It's the same look I get from Tiggy each evening when she's let out a huge belch after wolfing down her dinner.

Yup, I am definitely gonna need a zoo license before long. Either that or become an actor.

Holidays, ha!

2010-07-21T11:30:00.003+02:00

So you think teachers get the whole of the summer holidays on the beach with hot and cold running waiters bringing them margueritas all day long? Well, I can tell you its not true. I had to 'go into work' yesterday - now there's a phrase I haven't used in, oh, nearly ten years.

I had to drag the poor skunks along of course but they were reasonably well behaved once I stuck a screen in front of each of them - DS for him, Garfield 2 on DVD for her. I could have let them run around the school letting them sort out strategies for delaying getting to lessons and where to hide other people's stuff but the place is still a bit of a building site. Actually, it's a lot of a building site given that all the furniture and materials from the old site are arriving at the weekend and term starts in five weeks.

*My* classroom (hee hee!) is still empty, although Pickle was very impressed that there is a little room to the side with a sink in it, 'You've got a sink, Mummy!' The toilets are still being renovated to replace the full sized bogs with little ones for the pint-sized pupils on my corridor but they're 'waiting for parts' so there's a lovely line-up of porcelain in the hallway and some nasty looking holes in the floor in the bathrooms.

They're 'waiting for parts' to finish the reception area as well so when the prospective family I was meeting with arrived they were greeted with a masterclass in breeze-block walling and a crash course in building-materials dodging. No, it wasn't really that bad, I am just very cynical in my old age after years of run-ins with teeth-sucking workmen either shaking their heads in defeat at the size of the task or faithfully assuring me it would all be done in a week then disappearing for a couple of months.

Still, the family were really nice and very understanding about the enormous undertaking of simultaneously moving a school and adding three year groups and I was introduced to the cutest little girl, bright as a button but too shy to utter a word to me. We made a jigsaw and read some books while all the adults discussed the grown-up business and then I decided to throw her in the deep end with the ultimate test - I took her to meet my kids.

And an extraordinary thing happened. My children were even more shy with her! I couldn't drag more than a mumbled 'hello' out of them. I wonder if she knows the power she has, or how much I'd like to borrow her to get an occasional break in the noise round at my place? Later, Pickle told me 'She was really, really cute Mummy, but I didn't fancy her.' Hmm, I am the tiniest bit suspicious about that.

Once she'd gone normal service resumed, of course; fighting, arguing, wrestling, pinching etc. All taking place, I might add, in the Prinicpal's make-shift office. It also included some particulalry lairy behaviour from my boy who decided to demonstrate to my new boss, his new headmaster, his turbo-powered super-speed running, which consists of sticking out his little bottom, farting loudly then sprinting away.

Class.

I have never been more ready for a holiday in my life. Luckily we leave on Saturday for two weeks of all-inclusive fun at a resort hotel in Turkey, with hot and cold running kids clubs and hopefully a good line in margueritas.

Bring it on.

Road rage

2010-07-15T11:52:00.006+02:00

Argh, I need a traffic rant!!

It has just taken an hour to deliver the children to their day-camp and finally get back home again. And that does not include stopping to chat, having decided I can't take any more of Pickle jumping up and down yelling, 'Come on! stop chatting! I'll give you twenty kisses to stop chatting, Mummy!' (They don't realise how rarely Mummy gets opportunities to talk grown-up instead of pondering which Pokemon I'd rather be.)

No, this was strictly a drive-by drop-off but it still took an hour thanks to a massive traffic jam going past our house - again. I thought while school's out the traffic would be better but something obviously threw a spanner in the works where the traffic lights at the end of the road are concerned. Because that's all it was, no accidents, no arse-cleavage wielding road diggers, just dodgy traffic lights which seemed to have re-sequenced themselves to only let one road out at a time.

I swear one of these days I'm going to take matters into my own hands and make those lights mysteriously disappear overnight. The times when they've been completely kaput the traffic has flowed with ease, with most drivers being surprisingly generous and considerate. I reckon those red lights get to us when we're behind the wheel; the idea of being controlled and forced to pause our journey by some glowing three-eyed lollipop disturbs our psyche somehow and we all develop rebellious streaks, seeing how many amber lights we can jump and leaping on the horn when the chap in front won't join in the game. I swear I've developed a new condition - 'Traffic Tourettes'. When driving round Hungarian roads I just can't seem to help blurting out obseneties, 'a***hole!', 'f***wit!', 's*** for brains!', and the occasional 'You could get a b***** TANK through there!'.

No wonder the children are so well versed in rude words.

Though, thinking about it, I have an inkling that the traffic chaos might have something to do with last night. There we were, ten-thirty at night, Nobby catching up on emails, kids catching up on seeing-how-far-we-can-push-mum-and-dad-with-this-bedtime-plan-before-one-of-them-explodes, and me catching up on red wine and a good book trying to ignore the shrieking from my adorable offspring.

Then suddenly the whole house went dark. And pretty damned quiet for a change!

Pickle deduced the obvious - 'Power Cut! everyone into my room!', he announced and I dutifully bounded up the stairs, less to obey him and more to ward off the impending melt-down from the ever-dramatic Poppet who was already saying 'Ohmygod!, Ohmygod!' despite the fact that the streetlights outside her room hadn't even gone off so she could see perfectly well and the fact that if she'd gone to sleep already like we'd told them to she'd never have known about the stupid power cut!!!

Luckily I had a torch handy so I could get the candles out without too much trouble and we spent the next two hours melting our bits off (the air-con was down of course, so we had to resort to the old-fashioned method of opening a window, shock horror) and trying to settle the kids back down in one bedroom. Ha ha. Not a chance.

Pickle came over all authoritative and broke out the glow-sticks left over from Halloween. How on earth he found them when he doesn't even know which drawer his pants are kept in I'll never fathom. He proceeded to create a double-ended nest on his bed so he and Poppet could sleep together, placing glow-sticks all round the edge to light the way to the emergency exits. Cute.

Nobby and I had fun trying to remember which lights were on when the power went out and diligently unplugged the TV and computer, reminiscing about the 70's and those heady pre-marriage-and-babies days when we spent many an evening by candlelight. Around half past midnight, just as we were dropping off slathered in mosquite repellent by the open window, we found out that we'd both forgotten to check the overhead light in our bedroom, as the place suddenly lit up like Blackpool illuminations and a swarm of mossies headed our way.

So, I can only imagine that the traffic lights had a similar experience - being up half the night to the excited children and getting woken up when someone finally got the elastic bands at the power station wound back up tight enough and hit the magic button - which explained their sluggish behaviour and the 2 mile tailback this morning.

I decided to come home from the drop-off via 'the back streets' to see if it was any quicker. It involves going over rather than round the hills, which means risking the car suspension and all my tooth fillings on the patchwork, potholed roads, not to mention my paintwork from mad drivers whipping past out of nowhere. Note to self: next time you're tempted to use the back roads, wear a sports bra and take some clean undies.

Anyway, by the time I got back to the traffic lights in question, an unavoidable bottle-neck to get to my house due the presence of yet another hill with no way over it, I was definitely shaken, not stirred and cursing my luck since I would need to leave again to pick them up in only two hours. Then, oh! Someone had switched off the traffic lights. And guess what?

There was no queue!

I rest my case. Now, where did I put my blow-torch...?

Ten weeks and counting

2010-06-19T21:33:00.003+02:00

Oh crap. The summer holidays are only two days old and I am already knackered.

For starters, my ears and my brain are aching from the constant stream of questions from Mr Pickle. Today's corker:

'If you had to invent a human, what would it be like?'

'Hmm,' Mummy says, 'I think humans are already fairly well designed so I'd probably just get rid of stupid things like tonsils which serve no purpose other than introducing young mothers to the joys of handing their offspring over to blokes with masks and very sharp knives.'

Pickle, on the other hand, has several improvements in mind, including an extra pair of eyes which sleep during the day... I can actually see the value of it, as long as they were in the back of my head for small boy monitoring duties. He's two weeks shy of eight years old and STILL wanders off in crowded shopping centres. The bugger.

Anyway, my body is aching like I've run a marathon after football training this morning, where I joined in the game with both my kids and all their team-mates for the end-of-year party match. At first I just hung around the goal 'defending' and let the little ones go after the ball but I have to say after a short while all those Friday evenings when I used to play 5-a-side at work fifteen or more years ago came flooding back to me. And I got stuck right in and scored two goals! Nobby will be very pleased. Pickle was ecstatic and treated me to the full 'jumping on top of the goal scorer' celebration style. He scored two himself while Poppet scored her penalty after the match, it was great. I probably did run a marathon during the hour we played; I am gonna pay for it tomorrow believe me.

Nobby, incidentally, is in Cardiff playing golf with his mates. He deserved the trip after a couple of pooey weeks at work, but it would have been nice if England had been able to perform as well as his wife and kids against Algeria last night. Sounds as though there was some serious sorrow-drowning going on afterwards, judging from the croaky phonecall from him at midday.

Speaking of drowning, we had a freak rain storm here just before the game started last night. Pickle and I were driving home from a friend's house and nearly had to swim to get here. I have never seen anything like it. Of course when we got in the satellite signal was down and we couldn't get the game on, though we soon found out that was the least of our worries when Pickle spotted the water dripping through the spare room ceiling. We had a wonderful game of 'Spot The Puddle' roaming the house with a pile of old towels to throw in front of leaking windows and walls. Only four others thankfully, then we nipped next door to watch the game on their Portugese satellite and sent a text to the landlord to get his arse round here with a bucket at his earliest convenience.

So I am getting through my list of fun activities to keep the children amused rather rapidly. We've been the cinema twice already - Nanny McPhee and Toy Story - we've been shopping in Budapest for clothes and presents to take with us to France, and we've been to a barbecue.

Now what?

Poppet helped with today's choices by remembering that she left her (correction: my) handbag in a changing room in H&M on Thursday so we had to schlepp back to the Hungarian equivalent of Oxford Street to retrieve it. Thankfully some nice person had handed it in, probably because there was no money in it. Still the shop assistant grilled me about the appearance and contents before she would go and get it.
'It's small and black with a long strap and contains bubble gum, Tictacs, a compact mirror with Hannah Montana lipstick, a notebook and a pair of Barbie shades.'

On the way back we bumped into some sort of parade made up of different groups in traditional costumes either dancing or singing their way through town. It seemed to be a celebration of mostly Eastern European groups with lots of big skirts and headscarves, frankly we didn't have a scooby-doo what it was all about but we stopped to watch anyway. There was some very loud drumming further along from us which didn't sound very Hungarian. Sure enough a group of dancers from Martinique pranced and wiggled past, sandwiched between Slovenian Folk dancers and a small Croatian choir. Oh well, it kept the little darlings amused for ten minutes.

In an effort to be a good teacher Mummy now I'm qualified (got the final assignment mark on Tuesday, I PASSED!!) I've started a daily diary of 'What Have We Learned Today' to make sure we don't just sit in front of the TV or Wii or DS all summer long. So far we've had quite a detailed First Aid session, concentrating on choking and bleeding, though touching on CPR and how to avoid catastrophes that require it after Poppet fired up the hair dryer in the bathroom while Pickle was in the bath... If I thought I was moving fast at footie today, that night I left skid marks as I raced in to yank the cable out. We now also know for future reference that water and electricity do not mix.

We've touched on cookery with a discussion on how crepes are made, with a little side-bar on religion with the origins of Shrove Tuesday. We've examined christenings too as we are going to one in a couple of weeks.

And today we all learned something new together after looking up the word 'Degu' on the internet after seeing it written on a cageful of admittedly large-looking gerbils that Pickle has his heart set on as his birthday present. This has been a source of much discussion for some time now between Nobby and me. He's not too keen on having little pets although I am sold on the idea having owned ten gerbils when I was little myself. My Mum will probably have something to say about that when she comes next week since I remember it as a joyful experience, not at all smelly and with no nocturnal disturbance... hmmm. We not sure if the fact they only last a couple of years is a good or a bad thing given we may move again in twelve months.

Anyway, I was expecting to find Degu is the Hungarian translation for gerbil and that they just grow bigger here. But no. A Degu is more closely related to the Chinchilla and the Guinea Pig, a social, diurnal rodent (sleeps at night, hurrah!) with a penchant for chewing, burrowing, chewing, running about and chewing. They have a bubbly personality and an expected life span of 5-7 years, although some live as many as ten.

Well there's something new I learned today. I can't wait to see Nobby's face when I tell him...

Innit tho'

2010-06-15T14:14:00.002+02:00

It's rapidly becoming like an episode of Men Behaving Badly round here. Pickle has developed a habit for asking those searching questions you'd often see Gary and Tony contemplating over beers on the sofa. Luckily he's not yet asked,

'Which do you prefer, bottoms or breasts?'

but he's certainly gaining in imagination.

On Saturday he asked his Dad,

'If you could go into the television and be part of what's showing on the programme, would you go in there?'

As it happens Dad had a ready answer since we were watching England's opening game of the World Cup so he said, 'Definitely, and the first thing I'd do is go and shake that goal keeper till his teeth rattled.'

Yes, we are also gripped with World Cup fever. The wall chart sits in pride of place on the kitchen door and the boys are diligently filling in all the scores as we go along. I've memorised the teams in our group so I can join in the banter because its all everyone's talking about at the moment. When the new headmaster of the school came up to me on Monday asking if my new favourite player was Green I was sufficiently clued in to be able to tell him to bugger off.

Schools out tomorrow. Holy shit that means I have ten weeks to occupy my little darlings without going totally stir crazy. There is some light in the middle of the tunnel with our trip to Turkey - we're going all-inclusive this year, somewhere with hot and cold running childcare as well as buffets, so we both get a proper rest. Also the kids and I are off to Paris for a week, my folks are coming here for a week, then Poppet has her first trip to camp.

Meanwhile everyone with a birthday during the holidays has been trying to squeeze in a party before everone sods off to sunny climes. This weekend there were three parties, mercifully both children were invited to all of them so Nobby and me did get some free babysitting so we could wander the shops without all the 'Are we going home yet? I'm hungry! I need a wee!' following us around. But still we ask ourselves, why is it our kids have better social lives than us? Having said that, now all parties have dried up for ten weeks, as I was saying, WTF do we do all day long?!

You'll be interested to know Poppet asked me, in one of her whimsical, nostalgic moods ealier as we were leaving school for the penultimate time.

'Mummy, will you teach me during the holidays? I'm going to miss having lessons.'

Yeah, I'll let you know how that one pans out.

One thing to avoid is any stress. Doctor's orders. I have tried several times to write a post to describe what happened to me a few weeks ago (and led to this huge blogging gap), but I wasn't able to get my tongue in my cheek yet to make light of it. But now I'll have a go.

One Sunday at the end of May I found myself flat on my back at the bottom of the garden with a young man tearing off my t-shirt and bra and manhandling my chest. No, Nobby and I were not engaging in some al fresco friskiness, more's the pity. The young man was a paramedic and the clothes tearing to get the ECG electrodes stuck on me. Believe me there was nothing romantic about having to have my post-children boobs moved to the side to make way for the wires.

They say you can measure the pertness of your rack by trying to hold a pencil underneath them. Trust me, I could probably manage a small branch of WHSmiths these days.

Anyway, it was one way to survey the Hungarian emergency services and in my husband's humble opinion they are crap. I collapsed in a heap at the end of the garden after a spot of lawn mowing and weed strimming; my windpipe was closing up so I thought I was in some sort of anaphylactic reaction to the plants I'd been chopping down. Nobby and the neighbours were trying to keep me awake and calm the children down - well, trying to calm Poppet down who was in hysterics, Pickle was more fascinated about what could have caused it and how to treat me. He's got a bright, analytical future ahead of him that one.

Apparently it took a good ten minutes to get through to an ambulance then another thirty for one to show up, though this one was only a car containing paramedics to assess me, who seriously enraged a panic-stricken Nobby by strolling through the garden as if they were attending a picnic not a prostrate and barely conscious woman. Still, they called for back-up pretty sharpish when they couldn't get a reading on my blood pressure and I was whisked away with a blues-and-twos escort all the way to the hospital. And NOT the one that butchered Pickle's head I am pleased to say.

Especially because I wasn't allowed to leave for three days. Yup, apparently, although there was no single cause for my turn, it was sufficiently impressive to keep me under observation for twenty-four hours followed by bucket loads of tests. Probably nothing to do with the fact that Monday was a bank holiday and all the doctors must have been at the lake, considering I was left in my admittedly posh but still desperately boring private VIP suite for eight hours straight the next day. Not sure what they observed through the closed door. (Do you get the feeling I was climbing the walls in there? Because I was. The TV was all in German, the nurses didn't speak a word of English and I couldn't even get a coffee because I'd been bussed in wearing my gardening clothes carrying no money.) Nobby was a saint. He brought me books and mags and even my laptop and a few DVDs. The best thing was definitely the flask of PG Tips, which was extra special considering the water was off at our house that day and he used everything he could cobble together for a cuppa for me. Now that's love.

So from Tuesday I saw a cardiologist, an audiologist, a neurologist, a gynaecologist and several generalists - it was like a Maureen Lipman BT advert 'You've got an ology?' I was poked and probed and xrayed and scanned. I even had to wear a heart monitor for 24 hours to check the ol' ticker.

But thankfully there is nothing seriously wrong with me, some anaemia, some exhaustion, possibly some release of anxiety from handing in my final assignment AND being offered a full time job the previous week (!! more about that next time).

Also my potassium was low so I was prescribed bananas - I'm on at least three a day now and hope to be swinging through the forest canopy pretty soon. If I can just stop searching the children's hair for nits long enough.

Dog for Sale - free kid included in the price

2010-05-09T22:52:00.002+02:00

I was just getting over a touch of the Mummy-taxi blues, having driven Poppet, Pickle and Nobby to their separate play-dates on Saturday morning - parties for the kids, football tournament for Nobby; Pickle pipes up with 'what are you going to do for the next four hours Mummy?' as I handed him the birthday present I had chosen, bought and wrapped for his little friend, GRRRR....

Today was going relatively smoothly by comparison and Mummy went on her own play-date with some of her favourite shops, dragging the rest of them along for the ride. Retail therapy has been on the cards since my first trip to the vet with Tiggy on Wednesday evening where I found out she has a heart problem. It's pretty worrying actually. She'd been acting like a little old lady for a while, not so much running about with other dogs, happy to sit in her kennel all day and panting a lot. I thought at first it was all the extra weight she's packed on recently but apparently not. The vet treated her every day for the rest of the week, including 8am Saturday morning (highly anti-social in my book but needs must) when he took a few vials of blood to test for Lyme Disease, eek. Meanwhile she's not to exercise for fear of exacerbating the heart problem.

So now we are operating something of a shift system in the garden with her mate Ike from next door. We do have a fence and we do have a couple of gates but so determined are these dogs to wrestle the living daylights out of each other the fence is looking like a swiss cheese so the gates are pretty much useless too. It also turns out that Tiggy has been sneaking next door in the mornings after I leave for school and eating Ike's breakfast. He's still a pup so he has two meals a day and our wiley old dog has devised various decoy strategies to lure him away from his bowl so she can help herself. No wonder she's been getting podgy. That's another part of her treatment - diet.

Oh, and carrot.

Plus the odd espresso.

Yup, I'm sure the man knows what he's doing. The carrot is for fibre to help the weight loss although she really doesn't like it. First night I diced the carrot and mixed it in the biscuits but she proceeded to spit out all the carrot and just eat the biscuits. I had carrot all over the floor - that told me didn't it. So tonight I grated it up really small so it would stick all over the biscuits... somehow there was still about half a carrot left in the bowl afterwards. This dog has skill.

The espresso is to try and raise her heart rate because it is permanently slower than normal, it doesn't increase even after a good run about with Ike. So the vet suggested trying caffeine. So I made her and me a little coffee the other day; would she go near it? Nope. I reported back to the vet that she didn't want her Lavazza; he gave me a 12ml syringe. Oh the joy. Picture if you will a 25kg dog wedged between my legs and me trying to squirt warm coffee down her throat. And then please tell me how you get coffee stains out of white cotton... note to self, wear overalls when medicating the doggy.

So it has been fun this week, not. And then Poppet comes in crying this evening after a trampolining fight with her brother holding her wrist and swearing blind he jumped on it and 'it feels broken'.

Crap.

See, last time she did this (told me her wrist felt broken after a fall on the spiral staircase) mummy didn't believe her and just rubbed in some Arnica. 24 hours later she was still complaining so I sent her off with her Dad for an x-ray, telling her not to be such a drama queen and lo and behold: a fractured wrist.

This time I wasn't sure though. Little girls get very attention seeky at nine years old and frankly I couldn't tell the difference between the fuss she was making for this allegedly broken wrist and the high pitched ballyhoo when her brother was squirting her with the plant sprayer. What do you do?

So we went to the hospital, with me quizzing her all the way about how it happened; somehow the story kept changing. In the waiting room she decided it probably wasn't broken after all and we should go home. Well, nasty Mummy made her go through with the examination and x-ray just to see if she was willing to stick with her story. You'll be pleased to know there was no fracture, the doc reckoned she saw a 'contusion' and wrote her a note to be let off PE for two weeks... me, I'm not sure how you see a bruise on an x-ray but I thanked her anyway.

So please cross everything that Pickle and Nobby can stay fit and healthy for the coming week or I will have to take out more adverts to move 'em all on. I have my final essay deadline looming next Saturday night. I have to choose 4000 words about formative assessment and put them in a meaningful order and then I am FINISHED!! But I can't see my getting it all done if all I'm doing is taxiing family members to various medical appointments. I've already been hijacked to stand in for Rose at a lunch with her Mum tomorrow since she couldn't get over when the ash cloud hit.

So send happy thoughts... and if you're interested in taking on a slightly used dog and an over-acting pre-teen do let me know.

What a weekend

2010-04-19T14:38:00.003+02:00

Surreal and weird weekend.

It all started with sleep deprivation when my mother's mobile decided to deliver a text message to my phone at 1am. (I am implying that the technology was the blame rather than admit that my Mum might have forgotten about the time difference and texted me at midnight on a Friday night...)

Then Pickle had first a bad dream and then a bad case of missing Mummy. I don't mind him cuddling up in my bed so much now he's over the 'let's see if i can stick my toe in Mummy's ear' stage... but now he snores. Loudly. Nobby caved before I did though and more or less threw the little blighter back into his own room.

Next day Poppet ate curry. Yes, curry. Mrs Fussy Knickers herself had some home-made Jalfrezi in a piece of pitta bread and stunned Nobby and me into silence for once. She proceeded to Chinese noodles later on plus she's been eating banana muffins like they're going out of fashion. I'm trying her on chili tonight, watch this space.

Meanwhile Tiggy is in disgrace having been 'caught short' two nights running. Now, imagine you're a dog, you can't get out of the house for a poo, you scratch at the back door and whine a bit but Mummy and Daddy have already been up half the night with their own pups and ignore you. Where are you going to lay that turd? In the basement obviously because you don't want the smell anywhere near your bed. So, on the nice easy-to-clean tiled floor or the tiny solitary piece of carpet that Pickle uses as his 'spot' for playing on the Wii.

The carpet of course. Twice. She's definitely in the doghouse that one.

Never mind, things pepped up when Nobby's team won their game on Saturday - you never heard celebrations like it; trust Man Utd to leave it till the 92nd minute so my husband can take the roof off with his cheering.

Me, I went to town on the garden with a lawnmower, a set of shears and a strimmer. Then I had a bonfire. It was great! Brought back memories of weekends at my Grandad's house playing pyro-maniacs with the weeks collection of cartons and papers in the days before recycling.

During all of this we received several phone calls from Nobby's Dad who stayed with us last week with his wife; they were working their way back home via Vienna and Prague. They only made it as far as Prague before the volcano's ash cloud closed the UK airports and they've been stuck there ever since. Only trouble is that they 'did' Prague in the three days they were expecting to stay and now they're a wee bit bored. And the hotel decided to up its prices to cash in on the stranded holidaymakers so they had to move as well. Nasty.

Could be worse though - my brother-in-law got stuck in Lisbon with a group of people from work after a team building event. After four days of waiting for the ash to fall they decided to try and make it home over-land. On a bus. He's giving us regular updates of their progress on Twitter and Facebook. They've about 1340 miles to go...

... and someone just broke the 'no farting' rule. I think he'd rather be in Prague.

What the..?

2010-04-11T20:28:00.003+02:00

Here's an interesting one. Swollen eyeballs.

No, I don't mean puffy eyes like having just woken up after a hard night on the lash (never happened to me of course, I read about that in a magazine), I mean the actual white of my eyeball is swollen. I had to whip out my contact lenses before they pinged out and hurt somebody (you could take someone's eye out with that...!)

Hayfever, innit. As Rose just said, 'somehow we've gone from snow to pollen without even time to pop an antihistamine in between'. Wot's that all about?

Anyway, I only popped in to prove I've not eloped with the Easter Bunny for a lifetime of Cadbury's Cream Eggs, tempting though it might be. I've been up to my (floppy) ears in coursework and campaigning, with a bit of cookery on the side. It's the school holidays and we've had guests over plus I am trying to gather all my evidence to prove I'm certifiable (as a teacher I mean, everyone already knows I'm nuts).

The campaigning has been trying to find a way to prevent our school from going under. It's crisis central round here with little hope of crawling out of the mire which is threatening to suck our adorable little international school down the drain. I won't go into details, but let's just say some people have no business being in business when they got their business degree with 6 Tiger tokens and a couple of quid.

So it looks like Poppet and Pickle will be moving to a new school for all of one year (the time left on Nobby's contract in Hungary) and I'll have to fork out for a uniform for this one. Yikes. No telling what will happen to the piano lessons and chess club and football training, that's all gonna have to change too. BUT... they have interactive whiteboards - as far as Pickle is concerned that's a very large computer screen / TV in every classroom - so I reckon they'll have some fun with those.

That's all for now, apart from a Happy Sapphire Wedding anniversary to my folks.
Forty Five years, cor blimey. Congrats you two.

Sunday Morning

2010-03-28T10:47:00.002+02:00

Last night I dreamt that I had a huge spot on my chin.
Then I woke up this morning and found a huge spot on my chin.
Weird. And a little bit spooky.

And frankly, what the hell is going on? getting spots at 40?

Nobby came into the bedroom this morning and said,
'Do you want the good news or the bad news?'
Uh-oh.

'The good news is it's 9.15 so we haven't laid-in half the morning.
The bad news is the clocks when forward last night so it's really 10.15am and we've laid in half the morning.''

Isn't that just slap-you-in-the-face fantastic?!

Kids eh?!

2010-03-23T21:05:00.002+01:00

Well, Pickle didn't get the answer to his question but I imagine his teacher may be asking a similar question with a twist, as I had cause to do earlier today:

'why can't the kids do what I like during Science class?'

It was a Biology lesson about life cycles but it contained more tangents than a geometry masterclass. Sheesh. I remember doing it myself at school and I suppose I should just be grateful I'm not teaching them sex education: I recall very clearly the lesson when my friends and I decided to side-track Miss Nervous McBlush with the classic 'what's an orgasm?' Poor woman could have guided planes in to land with the glow on her face.

So I suppose the jump from talking about growing mustard seeds on damp cotton wool to carnivorous triffids stalking the earth and eating entire year groups was not so surprising after all. I must remember that it's not only me testing them. I am a mere trainee after all and putting me through my paces goes with the turf of performing as my second batch of guinea pigs.

Judging how well I control my own kids lately I think the Easter holidays can't come quick enough at the moment. Pickle wondered aloud this evening why I can't be like 'better mummies' who buy their boys i-phones and i-pods and other assorted gadgets without insisting that their offspring save their pocket money and contribute. He's been smarting for weeks after I refused to get him a hamster unless he contributed half the money. Then I pointed out the cost of a cage and estimated he'll need about a year to save up, in the hope that he would forget all about it and move on to the next fad. How wrong I was. Now I am dubbed substandard and I have to avoid my favourite shopping centre because he makes a bee-line for the pet store to check if 'his' hamster is still there.

Not so clever now am I?

ugh

2010-03-20T01:27:00.002+01:00

What a week. Hectic and crazy with curve-balls galore. AND we have to go to school tomorrow - Saturday - to make up for the National Holiday on Monday. Where is the logic, please? You can have a week-day off but you have to work a Saturday in return? In my book that ain't a holiday.

Anyway, moaning aside here's a classic from Pickle. I found a write-up of a science experiment in his school bag. They were doing something with magnetism and experimenting with using a magnet to fly a plane. In a beautifully laid out record of the experiment several questions were posed - what do you already know? what so you want to find out? etc.

In reply to the latter Pickle had filled in:

'I want to know why I can't do what I like during Art classes'.

Well, they did ask.

Happy Mother's Day

2010-03-14T10:50:00.003+01:00

Happy Mother's Day to all British Mums around the world! I hope your kids have given you special treats like mine have.

Pickle managed to let everyone sleep until 8h30, which really is kind of him given his usual weekend waking time of 7am or earlier. He's been pretty ill this week too so a couple of nights he's been inserting his feverish little body into my bed somewhere between 2 and 3am and burning me on the butt to wake me up and reach for the Calpol. But last night he slept through and so he was wide awake this morning to deliver his Mother's Day present of a tour round his latest Littlest Pet Shop village. It was terribly sweet, there is a even an ice cream stand in the bathroom in case you fancy a cornet while you're in the shower.

Poppet has also been ill but her main complaint has been that she can't taste anything. Given she's an incredibly fussy eater I proclaimed that this meant I can feed her whatever I like and she has no excuses to leave it any more! She has taken a different tack and has been taking chewing gum every hour to test whether her sense of taste has come back. With a little help from Daddy she made me a lovely necklace and a gorgeous card and she let me watch an hour of Scooby Doo with her - what more could I wish for?!

Nobby has promised me the lunch of my choosing, although I know it will have to be pizza or TGI Fridays to keep the monkeys happy. I have to say TGI's is located in a nicer shopping centre... I am erring towards burger and fries with a Zara and Esprit chaser...

So I have a few weeks to catch you up on since my last confessional. The ski trip for starters. It was a surprisingly good 6 hour drive to the Austrian mountains; we only took one wrong turn, although it happened to be in the mountains - which meant a 12km detour to turn round. Luckily Nobby seemed to be getting over the dodgy tummy that had kept him off work the previous week so we made very good time.

When we arrived at the resort we headed to the ski shop to rent the equipment only to be told that they had run out of children's skis and we would need to drive 11km to the nearest alternative ski shop... which had just closed for the day. So we went to the bank to take out some Euros to pay for our ski passes that our group leader was providing, only to find that we couldn't get in to use the cash machine until the next morning.

So we headed into the hotel dining room for our first holiday meal. I was carrying Pickle because he'd been racing round the hotel games room like a loony with all his school mates to make up for being cooped up in the car for so long. Suddenly he announced, 'I feel a bit sick'. As I put him down to lead him to the little boys room he promptly puked all over the floor.

And that was that: Pickle vommed just about every hour throughout the night, during which Nobby had a relapse, and during the week about ten other ski-trippers went down with it. Boy, did we feel guilty! So on our first ski day it was only Poppet and me who raced to the next village to get skis and spent a girly day on the slopes while the boys took it in turns to run to the bathroom and later tried to explain to a non-English speaking pharmacist what type of symptoms they were experiencing. Apparently despite Nobby doing a very good mime of puking and pooing the nice lady didn't get it until he added a soundtrack... Poor chap will be haunted by that for a while I think.

Luckily my boys rallied well and a steady diet of Gluwein and Palinka worked as a preventative treatment for me so we did actually enjoy ourselves too. Particularly in the evenings when everyone gathered in the dining room for games. Nobby and I were challenged to Poker by the Year 8 kids, one of whom had brought along an impressive suitcase of chips. Have you ever watched a thirteen year old try to bluff? It's very entertaining. And either Nobby or I managed to clean them out every night which was even funnier.

Since we came home its been laundry, lesson plans and lumming.
I've been flat out at school teaching Maths and Science to a Year 5 class, trying to make it come alive with some cool experiments which have so far involved playing very loud pop music, filling plastic bags with water and making tin-can-and -string telephones. I think I'm doing OK because one of my students has declared my lessons are 'much better than our other teacher's.' I've just heard that I need to send in a film of one of my lessons so I just need him to say that again while the camera's rolling ... maybe I'll take in cookies - if there's one thing I've learned from my own kids it's that a bit of bribery and corruption goes a long way.

Well, time for a Mother's Day soak in a hot bath while Nobby tackles the kitchen and the kids for me. And the really great new is that there'll be a Hungarian Mother's Day soon too! Hurrah for Mums!

2010-02-19T17:52:00.004+01:00

Eeek, time flies when you're having fun. It's been bedlam round here lately hence the lack of blogging updates.

First of all there was the small matter of those 5000 words I had to carefully choose and submit to the University in four well-written Masters standard essays for part four of my PGCE course. Wasn't that a bundle of laughs. Not. It's very interesting stuff, don't get me wrong. But I was never the speedy student and each essay takes me a good five hours or more to bash out. A colleague told me she compares it to labour - I have to say I'd rather she'd been pushing out those particular quadruplets than me!!

But finish them I did, with only two late nighters, and I handed them in three days early so I could relax and enjoy my Fortieth birthday! Gawd, I can't believe it came upon me so quickly. What a shock. I had another shock once we'd flown to England for a wee dinner party with my family - it was a surprise party! We took over a whole room in the local curry house and some dear friends travelled from far and wide to share popadums and watch me get decidedly squiffy on Bangla beer. Oh, and a very dodgy cocktail, the waiter's own concoction resembling a B52 with extra layers. Let's just say he could set it on fire in the glass and drinking it set me on fire, but only in a nice way!

I received a Big Red Book from my family, stuffed full of every possible foul photo they could dredge up of me - my brother made some into place mats for my unsuspecting guests so they could eat their korma off 'I'm 40 and I'll go to Specsavers if I want to' the Deidre Barlow spectacles years, or 'I'm 40 and I'll dress up if I want to' the fancy dress costumes (and, actually, pretty much any of the tat I wore in the Eighties, what was I thinking?) All in all it was an amazing night and I was spoilt rotten on the pressie front; we had to borrow another suitcase to get it all home.

While we were there Poppet went through with her appointment to have her ears pierced. I swear it hurt me more than her watching some be-smocked beautician French manicured and coiffed to the max, thrusting a pink-crystal stud through my baby's lobes. But she's very happy with the result and I have to admit they look quite cute.

Poor lamb just had another experience with a needle though, and not a good way. She's been complaining of toothache on and off for a week or so and I was never convinced that all of her last tooth actually came out, it was suspiciously small, so said the Tooth Fairy at least. Well our dentist happened to be closed tonight so I shopped around the internet for another and made a mercy dash down to the river-side to get her sorted before we leave for our ski trip on Sunday. The chap was lovely, not sure what Csongor translates to in English but he had a lovely manner with Poppet. He took a look then told her to shut her eyes while he 'cleaned it'. Ah. But she opened them. Saw the needle heading for her gums.... And panicked. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth (!) later and a little chat with Mummy in the waiting room she finally agreed to treatment, this time she did keep her eyes closed so it was only me who saw the nurse handing over a fresh, sparkly scalpel so he could cut out the huge fragment of tooth her gums had started to grow over. Yuck. Still, what she doesn't know won't put the willies up her and cause a scene, and all that.

Talking of scenes, we saw Phantom of the Opera last night, daaaaahling. Oh, it was gorgeous! For a tiny little theatre they must keep a Tardis backstage because they rolled on set after set after set, really amazing. Although it was all sung in Hungarian... Apparently someone spent about 4 months translating it all. But for the benefit of us Brits there were English 'subtitles' on a display over the stage. Afterwards we were treated to a Hungarian foible I had never known about before. Community Clapping. I can't think of any other way to sum it up. The applause starts, all random, punctuated by 'hurrahs' and a whistle or two, then everyone synchronises into a steady beat and they go on for ages. I couldn't work it out at all. The players were doing their walk-down to this weird applause then came back for three encores. You see, to a Brit what they were doing is highly insulting, effectively a slightly faster than normal slow hand-clap, which would have any English luvvie wailing in the flats. But it was all perfectly normal to our Hungarian neighbours. You know, I would have expected standardised clapping to have come from the French...

So all-in-all we've been rather busy as you can see. This week I have resumed working full time at the school as part five of my course. I have to come up with 99 pieces of written evidence that I can meet the standards of teaching demanded by the British system within the next six weeks. I shan't count next week because, despite being with a bunch of students, I will be zooming down the ski slopes on the school ski-trip and I'm not sure pelting your pupils with snowballs counts as good practice. Perhaps I could incorporate it into my final assignment as a new form of classroom management.

Early morning machinations of a seven year old

2010-02-04T09:46:00.004+01:00

Sit down before you read this:
Pickle got himself out of bed and downstairs to breakfast this morning. On a school day.

Shocking isn't it? But he had something very important to ask me:

'What if the house caught on fire? Wouldn't it be good if every house had a giant water pistol in the back garden that when it saw smoke it would fire water at the house and put out the fire?'

And he went on:

'I've been thinking about Thomas the Tank Engine and its a shame I don't have the DVDs any more [he gave them away, very bravely] but I've decided its not babyish after all; the name is nice, he's a good train, very helpful... I think I'll make a huge track later and wouldn't it be great to have a bridge with a junction on it? And the train could go under the bridge then curl round and round and go over the top of it...'

He then proceeded to demonstrate how it might look - using the dog as the bridge.

His final words before disappearing into his bowl of cornflakes were:

'I really can't go to school today Mum, I've got SO much to do.'

You are never too old for a snow ball fight

2010-01-30T16:09:00.002+01:00

It wasn't snowing when we went to bed last night but oh boy! did it make up for it while we were sleeping. And it continued to snow all day long so we not only had to dig our way out to take the kids to football training but we had to dig our way home again. Poor Sharan, the Mum-mobile we drive around in, is seriously not up to the job of getting us safely from A to B if conditions are less than perfect. I think she was manufactured by British Rail: the wrong kind of leaves, the wrong kind of rain or any kind of snow and you may as well walk. We've ordered a 4X4 as our next car but, this being Hungary and my life being governed by Sod, it will probably arrive just as everything thaws. I may yet have to work out how the hell these snow-chains fit.

So what can you do in the face of a half metre of snow outside your door? Go play in it of course. Pickle has made snow angels up and down the road, Nobby used the snow shovel to make a piste for the toboggans and Boy-Next-Door and I had a superb snowball fight; actually after a while there weren't so many actual balls of snow involved after Nobby showed him the advantages of using the shovel to fling maximum snow at one time and completely cover the opposition (me). I got him back pretty good though. And he was the first one of us to head inside, the wimp. Pickle and I made a snowman on the side of the road (I would say on the path but there is so much snow there is no way to tell where the road ends and the path begins, we were literally wading through it) and we've taught Boy-Next-Door's dog to catch snowballs when you throw them at him. Tiggy had a wonderful time getting thoroughly dug into the drifts and dragging Ike through them with her.

Poppet, on the other hand, has decided that she does not like snow and stayed indoors making bracelets. She has recently developed an allergy to fresh air and exercise in general; it's amazing how many stomach aches she's been having when the bell rings for break or lunchtime at school. Lucky for her the school secretary is as soft a touch as me and lets her read a book on the sick bed while all the other children play outside until her miraculous recovery when lessons resume. I did offer to take her to the doctor but apparently it's not bad enough to bother a doctor about. Hmmm.

I am not sure what this means for our skiing holiday - Poppet told Nobby today that 'Mummy said I can go in the club on the ski holiday, I hate skiing and I'm not doing it.' Of course I said no such thing. But I have a secret weapon up my sleeve - we are going on the school-organised trip so a lot of her friends and peers will be there and I reckon the desire not to lose face might spur her into her snow-trousers and out onto the piste. Fingers crossed anyway.

Anyway, now I reckon its time to complete the ski-trip rehearsal with a nice cup of Vin Chaud and a chocolate crepe. Oh yeah.

Pickling

2010-01-26T18:36:00.002+01:00

When Pickle is busy at something - Super Mario Brothers on the DS, reading the Beano, watching Kid versus Cat - it can be difficult to get a response out of him. So Mummy frequently resorts to humour giving it:

'Earth calling Pickle! Come in Pickle!'

Sometimes you get a mutter in reply, more often than not you might as well bash your head against a wall.

However tonight I got a reply I wasn't expecting, proving his nickname is entirely perfect:

'I'm afraid Pickle is busy right now, please leave a message.'

Nine

2010-01-25T19:17:00.003+01:00

It's bedlam here. I nipped upstairs to print off some lecture notes and sneak a quick face-pack while the kids were noshing their tea. You know it was a recipe for disaster.

First Poppet decided that her pasta would taste better to the dulcet tones of Charlie's Angels Full Throttle. At full surround sound volume.

And now, while my visage gradually solidifies under a mound of clay, Poppet is bashing out a tune on the piano, apparently having forgotten how to plug in the headphones (I knew it was worth paying all the extra for an electric model...) Pickle-meister is smacking marble chess pieces around the marble chess board, the dog is barking and the phone is ringing...

Well, at least my blackheads are finally getting zapped.

But, you know, I got through another birthday party yesterday so I am surprisingly Zen about the whole Picadilly Circus routine. If I can survive sixteen sugar-loaded hyped-up crazies zooming round my house and swinging off the decorations then I can cope with just my two doing their normal thang.

Although to be honest I am pleased to announce that parties get slightly easier the older they get. I only had to lay on a moderately complex Treasure Hunt - which the girl's team breezed through whilst the boys were still trying to work out 'You go here to wash up if you don't have a dishwasher': silly me thinking they'd have a scooby doo about where anything to do with washing is located. I also made a fishing game having finally said 'Nuts' to the party bag idea; they get to 'fish' for a parcel instead. It's the French take on the old Bran Tub we had when I was little and only slightly more hazardous if the boys decide the rods can double up as light sabers and start hooking chunks off their fellow guests.

Poppet was more than happy with a bag-load of make-up and hair-colouring to entertain all her girly friends in her room. Pickle went feral as usual once he got a few lads under his cabin bed but the ensuing girl-bashing was mercifully short this time. Boy-Next-Door was quite happy to come and play referee with our much younger ones... until he heard a familiar voice in the hallway and realised his class teacher was also here (his son is in the same class as Poppet) and we didn't see much of him after that. Nobby presided over the Wii games in the basement so I just had to see to the death-by-chocolate cake her Ladyship had insisted on and the rest was all tea and biscuits.

Somehow I don't think Pickle's will be as sedate; I reckon I'm searching for a 'bring a cake and a wallet' venue come July.

The bank melted my ice cream

2010-01-23T12:08:00.003+01:00

One quickly learns the places to avoid when one moves into a new country. In Hungary the list is threefold - the Post Office, the bank and public hospitals.

Sadly in my case I can only avoid the first one thanks to the power of modern technology and the wonderful services of Moonpig.com. And hopefully the hospital trips may tail off now we have a decent contract with a clinic that will actually treat children on days other than Thursdays.

The bank, however, is turning out to be a necessary evil given that cash is still the normal way of paying for most items here. You can get a debit card with a chip and pin and many stores have the keypad at the till. But don't be fooled - you'll only get to use the 'OK' button to confirm they typed in the right amount, you still have to sign the receipt by hand. And there's no guarantee that your particular bank card will be accepted. The Post Office, where utility bills are paid, only accepts its own debit card, which is why the queue is always full of people with huge wadges of cash to pay for their gas and electric.

Which is why I found myself at the bank yesterday on my way back from Tesco in order to withdraw 620 euro to part-pay for our ski trip, 11,200 forints (about 35 euro) to pay for accident insurance and 19,600 forints (almost 80 euro) for piano lessons. Given that the cashpoints only dispense in multiples of 5000 forints searching for the correct change is a national past-time. But I thought I'd enlist the help of the cashier at my bank to make the process simpler.

Oh what a bad idea.

You know when you're standing in front of a glass screen and the other person is click, click, clicking away on their computer, ostensibly dealing with you request while you gradually lose the feeling in your legs and your face switches to screen saver during the wait... I am convinced this guy yesterday was either playing Solitaire or harvesting his crops in Farmville. Yes, I'm judging him by my own standards but seriously, how many boxes did he have to tick over the space of five minutes to then turn round to me and say 'computer says 'no''??

Here's how it went.

'Can I have 620 euros from my account please?'
'Sure, do you know your account number?'
'No, but here is my bank card.'
'Please fill out this form. Can I see your ID?'
'Here is my passport, here is your form.'

Click, click, click, 'A lonely brown cow has turned up on your farm, would you like to help him?' click, click, click, 'Your neighbours have fertilised your crops, would you like to return the favour?' click click click.

'I can't find your passport number in the computer.'
'Oh. Is that a problem? I have withdrawn money like this before.'
'Yes, I can't find your passport number in the computer.'
'Oh. Maybe I gave my driving license as ID last time. But I don't have it with me.'
'I can't give you money if I can't find your passport number in the computer.'
'So what shall we do?'
'Go to my colleague over there and she will put your passport number into the computer. Then come back and I will be able to find your passport number in the computer and give you the money.'

So I found myself at another glass screen with another bank worker clicking away at their computer, possibly even a farming neighbour of the first one and volunteering to adopt the stray cow...? Who knows. But after much clicking I was finally told the passport was now in the system.

Back I go to the first window and.... he's called another customer, who appears to be withdrawing the Gross National Product of Luxembourg - in cash. It is seriously unbelievable that people are expected to wander around with hundreds of euros worth of banknotes stuffed in their pockets in order to pay for their electric or buy a sofa. Yes, a sofa: I once went to a furniture shop to buy a lamp, handed over my debit card to be told 'Oh no, Madam. We only deal in cash. You're in Hungary.' We were surrounded by expensive leather couches for which they would only accept cash??!!

Anyway, I eventually made it back to the front of the queue, waited while he finished the paperwork for the previous customer, waited while he fished out the form I had already filled in, waited while he planted a few potatoes and bought a new fence on his Farmville and finally received 620 euros.

Next I asked for the 11,200 forints for the insurance bill, assuming it would be a mighty sight quicker now all the right numbers were in the right boxes.
But I was wrong.
Apparently to withdraw the money from the cashier would incur a charge. But if I went to the cashpoint and withdrew an appropriate amount the cashier could change it to different denominations for free.

So I trotted round to the cashpoint, trotted back, mercifully no-one else had taken up my place in front of the cashier window, and started the whole waiting game once more as he tried to work out how to convert two 10,000 forint notes into 11,200 in change.

All in all I think I was in the bank for forty minutes whilst my shopping languished in plastic bags in the boot of my car.

And that is how my bank melted by ice cream.

DM

2010-01-13T21:21:00.004+01:00

You know they say bad things come in threes...
Well, three bad things happened on Monday with distinctly suspicious timing given it was the night we were off to see Depeche Mode -indoors this time, our little treat to ourselves to make up for getting drowned at the stadium gig last July (yes, *July*, just our luck to get the one rainy day all summer).

Well whoever Sod may be with his sodding Laws of Sod was having a right laugh on Monday. In fact he was probably doubled over clutching his belly and turning purple after what he dished out.

First, I couldn't find the tickets. You know how it is: you buy them six months ahead of time, you're going to put them somewhere safe. Now, although I would tell you I am an organised person, when it comes to paperwork that organisation consists of lots of piles round the house, some complete with plastic wallets with hopeful titles such as 'To-Do' or 'For Filing' on them. Yet still the filing cabinets I purchased at great expense some time ago lie pretty much empty, apart from all the tax forms which are diligently hidden away because Nobby's in charge of taxes.

Well, I searched high and low, getting more and more depressed at the amount of crap that I will have to file one day and more and more worried about how I was going to break the news to Nobby that I'd lost the tickets. I sent him a hopeful text in case he'd spirited them away having been through this routine with passports and driving licenses once or twice before. But no, he hadn't a Scooby Doo where to look. My system is a mystery to him (and me it seems).

The last place I looked was a file in the filing cabinet marked 'Pending'. And there they were. Doh.

Then I gaily drove off to attend a training meeting at school and collect the children afterwards, leaving Tiggy in the garden with her bedding all cosy inside the kennel so she could snuggle up if she was cold. I was sure everything would be fine for a couple of hours.
To quote David Gahan sometime later that evening: 'Wrong'.
I came back to an empty kennel - completely empty, not just lacking a dog - and there was Boy-Next-Door's puppy ripping the dog-bed foam innards to shreds all over the lawn.

I have to say I had a slight rant at that point. OK, I blew my lid, telling Boy Next Door just what I think of his hole-digging, bed-chewing, dirty-paws-on-white-walls, over-excited, out-of-control, bouncy puppy. A month's worth of frustration in a few short minutes, poor lad, he got both barrels.

Then I had to tone it down a little remembering that my kids were due to be staying at their house while we went to the concert... oops. Just like me to open my mouth and fit both feet in.

Anyway, all was well in the end, although Nobby got stuck at work so had to be picked up on the way and change into his jeans in the Budapest traffic giving all the other motorists a cheap thrill (and me) and we made it to the Arena and hung about with a drink and a snack before heading to our seats...

...then the phone rang.

It wasn't the babysitter. It was the car alarm company - wanting to inform us that the car alarm had been tripped and could we tell them if the car was OK. Now, this alarm can be the bane of my life some days. It has a mind of its own and we've had about fifty instances where its gone off even if we've opened it, got in and started it up, which should in theory deactivate the alarm, right?
Again: Wrong.

But given we had left the car parked by the roadside thirty minutes previously we were a little worried that someone had decided to have a root around and had broken into it. I'm not sure there's much dosh to be made from second-hand child seats, chewed up tennis balls, old sweet wrappers and a pile of Pickle's snotty tissues but it was dark and perhaps someone reckoned a VW Sharan Mum-Mobile was fair game for some decent loot.

Trouble was, the alarm company operator didn't speak very good English and kept insisting I had to input some pin code or insert the keys and try as I might I could not get her to understand that we were nowhere near the car and it wasn't another false alarm on our part. Argh! Then of course the girl at the turnstile couldn't let us out to go check because our bar-coded tickets had already been waved over the infra-red so we had to call out Security for permission to leave the building and potentially go and confront some car-jackers. Nobby bravely volunteered to jog over there, my hero.

And when he arrived there was nothing wrong with the car. It had just decided that now was the time to spit its dummy out and have a honk for no better reason than it didn't like being parked at the side of a busy road in the dark. Or maybe a speedy passing lorry gave it a wobble and it decided to have a tantrum, who knows.

Finally Nobby returned, puffing and panting and hot as hell in the ski-wear we'd worn for the stroll from the car park, we raced to our seats and one second later Depeche Mode appeared. We made it.

Wrong no longer, I Just Can't Get Enough of that amazing band; it was just A Question of Time before we jumped up and danced, thank goodness they weren't Walking in my Shoes.

(Yes, I'm a geek, and an eighties one at that).

And OMG it was worth it.

Wet

2010-01-08T12:48:00.002+01:00

We got the snow-plough. And I was about to put out the call for a bin-lorry after having to haul Tiggy away from all the smelly bags that have been sitting banked up in the snow since Wednesday when one suddenly appeared in a Mr Benn stylee.

Now it's raining.

But... I'VE FINISHED MY ESSAY!! and submitted it two days early. Actually only about 36 hours early but who cares, I am smug as anything. This marks the halfway point in the course as well so double reasons to celebrate.

Rose has invited me to sushi and coffee in our fave shopping centre over her way so I am just off to break out the private helicopter; better make it the one with the mini-bar.

Cheers xx

White

2010-01-07T10:03:00.002+01:00

A snow-plough! A snow-plough! My kingdom for a snow-plough!

Yeah, dream on missus, the chances of getting a plough out here are slim to anorexic at the moment given the depth of white stuff around the city. But I am very smug in the knowledge that Hungary is at lot better prepared for the arctic conditions than some countries I could mention, where nannas and grandpas are digging in for the long haul. At least I know at some point there will be a snow-plough steaming up the ski-slope which is the road to our house at the moment and I won't have to risk permanent back injury extending my shovelling activities further down the hill. Oh, and we have LOADS of salt. Nyer.

Still its all very pretty innit. I am planning another sledging extravaganza later, if I can get this essay in the bag before school turfs out. Yes, I am on another deadline and no, I haven't done enough work for it so I am sweating a bit. I am only on my Blog so people will see that I didn't run off with the man in red over the festive period and to practice my typing (at least that's my story, I am definitely not procrastinating or avoiding...).

By the way, Happy New Year! We had a quiet one as usual in this house, well as quiet as it gets with excited children and a nutcase puppy under your feet. We bravely took on Boy-Next-Door's bundle of energy while the family went back to Portugal for Christmas and oh boy will I never ever volunteer for that again. A lovely dog, when he's sleeping. He's like a coiled spring and has been re-christened The Destoyer after chewing his way through three dog beds, three garden chair cushions, copious amounts of cardboard, a plastic ball, a doormat and a pair of shoes. Still, Tiggy was very chuffed with the replacement bed his embarassed Mummy presented us with when she came back and The Destroyer now has to sleep on the floor. The dummy.

Santa was very generous in our house and Nobby now has a new passion in life - Wii-fit. It has been such a hit with the whole family - best scene of the holidays was Pickle finding the box on Xmas morning, his face lighting up and him running round the room yelling 'Santa got me a Wii!! He got me a Wii!!' before running upstairs to write a thank you letter before he'd even switched it on. Now that's precious (and I am so glad he has it in him). I think both my siblings and my parents each have one as well now. Even if we can't meet up more than once or twice a year we can still challenge each other to unlock new yoga moves or get professional status on the hoop-twirl. Nobby now has no qualms about my studying into the evening as he can easily go and work out or enjoy a leisurely round of golf all in the comfort of his own basement. And Pickle thinks creating ugly effigies (avatars) of his enemies on the Mii function is super sport.

Well, I think my typing has had enough practice now, back to the slog, the end is in sight, I think. And if I need motivation I can just look out the window at all the cars stuck in the snow and be grateful how much I need to stay by the laptop.

Why?

2009-12-15T23:01:00.002+01:00

So many questions, so few answers.

Why am I writing lovely lesson plans for a class of six-year-olds who can only think about Santa Claus at the moment and don't give a flying toss that I'd like them to learn about spelling?

Why are my own children so nuts at bedtime lately that I need to come upstairs six or seven times to hound them back into bed?

Why are BA staff choosing such a crap time of year to strike when some of us haven't seen our Mums and Dads in six months and will cry buckets if their plane is cancelled?

Why are there no bayonet light bulbs in Hungary? And why has this bizarre phenomenon only just come to light (!!) in the Nobby household? I didn't realise we'd had so many spares that we'd never actually shopped for replacements in the last 18months, only now to find that the bayonet bulb does not exist this end of Europe.

Why am I drivelling on on my Blog when I am so tired I could fall asleep over my keyboard, and in fact I was in my PJs by seven o'clock this evening?

Gotta go. Answers on a postcard please. x

What a day

2009-12-08T18:43:00.002+01:00

I just overheard Poppet and Pickle engaged in some game or other, during which Pickle piped up with some wild statement and Poppet replied 'That's an opinion.'

'What's an opinion?' asks Pickle.

And Poppet proceeded to tell him, in full teacher stylee. She was absolutely spot-on as well.
'It's like me saying that January is the best month. We don't know if January really is the best month [it has her birthday in it so I guess it probably is for her!] but it's what I think so it's my opinion.'

I am so proud, maybe my new career is rubbing off on her.

How I wish I could be so succinct in the classroom, faced with the fresh-faced little darlings who inevitably have more opinions on the brand new material I am trying to teach them than I have grey hairs on my head.

Some days teaching is like trying to put toothpaste back into the tube.

... such as my beautifully planned Social Studies lesson earlier. We have been looking at Christianity as a lead up to explaining more about Christmas without too much reference to Toys R Us and I have just got round to introducing the Bible. Yesterday we went over how it is a book in two parts, the old and the new testaments, and how Jesus' friends wrote books about his life called the Gospels. Today we started by going back over yesterday's learning.

Me: So how many parts are there to the bible?
Little Boy: [staring at the little girl next to him] Hmmm?
Little Girl: Two!
Me: Well done! And what are they called? Old and ...
Little Boy: [staring out the window] Errrrr...?
Little Girl: New!
Me: Very good! And who wrote the stories about Jesus?
Little Boy: [finally noticing he is still in school] Two!
Little Girl: The Three Wise Men?

Oh dear.
We then proceeded to 'study' the meanings in the parables and how they are like the moralistic stories, such as The Boy Who Cried Wolf, we mothers have been ramming down their throats ever since they were old enough to realise that if you scream like your leg's been chopped off then Mummy will come running and may even fetch you a biscuit if you act suitably cute when she sees there's nothing wrong.

We started with The Prodigal Son, all about forgiveness and saying sorry, which turned out to be pretty relevent given what two of these kids were involved in during playtime which left one of them in tears and the other one in front of the Principal. However, we somehow got bogged down in wondering why the younger son was so hungry when he had spent all his money and was working as a pig farmer.

Little Girl: Why didn't he just eat a pig?
Little Boy: Maybe he didn't eat pork.
Me: The pigs didn't belong to him.
Little Girl: Why didn't he eat the pig food?
Me: The pig food didn't belong to him.
Little Boy: He could wait until the pig owner went away and then eat one.
Me: The pigs didn't belong to him.
Little Girl: Did he die?
Me: No, he decided to go home and say sorry to his father.
Little Boy: Did he take the pigs with him?
Me: The pigs didn't belong to him.
Little Girl: Was his father dead?

Seriously, when someone says to you 'Never work with children and animals' they are NOT talking about showbiz. Trust me.

I rounded off my day with a Science lesson which was observed and evaluated by the school Principal as evidence to help me pass the practical part of my teaching course. It was all going swimmingly, they were all excited about the idea of creating a pop-up Christmas card as an example of forces in action, and I whipped out the lovely prototype I had knocked up during my lunch break so they had something to work towards. Then I made the mistake of mentioning the jingle bells I had drawn on the inside, at which most of the class burst into a rendition of Jingle Bells at full volume. Curse school Christmas production rehearsals! You can't so much as mention 'the jolly fat man in red' without getting three verses of 'Santa Claus Is Coming To Town' and all currency lessons are off the agenda since 'Money, Money', Money' made it into the school play about Scrooge.

It all ended well though, and the Principal seemed suitably convinced that I am doing a good job; luckily the bell went before we got into the sticky backed plastic and glitter as Science met Blue Peter. I'm saving that one for the continuation on Friday.

Anyway, other news: we are all over our germs; touch wood the boys haven't come down with anything to date. Pickle won a silver medal in his chess tournament and the teacher told me she was extremely proud of his performance. She said he was concentrating so hard he almost had steam coming out of his ears. Poppet has the electric keyboard back in her bedroom again in order to practice 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas' for the piano recital next week. Nobby went to Poland for a night, meanwhile I blithely volunteered to take on Boy-Next-Door's puppy for ten days at Christmas... Can't wait to see what Nobby says to that.
But I like to live dangerously - after all, I am a teacher now.

In Praise of Nobby

2009-12-04T08:38:00.002+01:00

Now, it wasn't the nicest way to stay up all night - there I was, one o'clock in the morning, holding my daughter's hair back while she vomits into her rubbish bin... Yes, the lurgy has landed chez Nobby and Me and no mistake. I had it last weekend and now Poppet is down with fever, puking and other unmentionables. Yuk.

But of course then we faced the dilemma that has been plaguing other working families for decades - who should take the day off work to look after the sick child? How typical that the one child who so rarely gets sick decides to do it during my first foray back into working life for nine years. Yes, ok, I know the work is voluntary; hang on, let's get this straight a minute, actually I am paying them for the privelege of being taken to pieces and put in my place by a dozen six-year-olds five days a week. (Its clear I need a lot more practice at this teaching malarky after watching several little faces glaze over during my explanation of subtraction yesterday. One little boy took it a step further and crawled away from the whiteboard grumbling 'this is boooooring'. Oh bugger.)

Anyway, long story short, the morning after the mid-night visit from Cardinal Chunder I was due to have my teaching skills observed and assessed by my mentor. And bless him, Nobby, who comes in for some serious stick here from time to time (ok, all the time) got up early, raced to the office and back before school-run time, set up his computer and files on the dining room table and volunteered to work from home and guard the invalid while the missus went to work.

My hero.

Pickle

2009-11-15T13:47:00.006+01:00

Everyone should have a little Pickle in their life.

Mine is a constant source of amusement, bemusement, bafflement and amazement.

He is rapidly becoming the king of the anecdote, regularly launching into these descriptions of something that happened in a Pokemon game, of which I know zip, nadda, nuffink, not a Scooby Doo - not that this puts him off. But he tells it in that sing-song lilt, with his voice going up at the end of each sentence like he's asking a question - if you've ever seen American Pie and can remember 'This one time?.. at band camp?..' then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

Nobby and I exchange secret smirks every time he starts.

'Did you know? I was playing with the Thingmebob? [I can't/don't want to remember what they're really called]

and he uses a rock weapon? [a what?]

and I was versing the Dooda? [I am actually at a loss for coming up with a better term for him to use than 'versing'. It says 'Thingmebob versus Dooda on the screen so he uses versing as a verb... and I'm gonna let him.]

and I only had a grass weapon [?]

and I destroyed his Pokemon? [hurrah]

and is grass really stronger than rock?' [... ooh, that really WAS a question, better switch face from screensaver and attempt an answer.]

We now have a code for when he's going on and on and on and I've had enough of pretending to listen. I just say 'a-ha... h-hm...yup...really?...oh yeah?...a-ha...h-hm' and he usually breaks off and runs at me for a good-natured tussle to show his disapproval that I don't want to take an interest in his life's passion. I suppose he has a point, I am such a bad Mummy.

Last week we had International Day at school. Pickle ended up sitting in the front row of the audience with the rest of his class. And at one point the headmistress was sitting right beside him. I pointed it out to him on a photo yesterday and he told me,

'Yes, that was pretty scary, having the Boss of the whole school next to me.'

Shame I'm not the Boss of the whole school. I had the misfortune to teach his class today because I was substituting for the usual teacher, who has succumbed to the hot-house of germs which is the average primary school and taken to her bed with the flu. Well, they say never work with kids and animals, and I have been happily flouting the first rule till now. Trouble is my own kid is an animal when he has a captive audience and Mummy at the blackboard. What a horror.

To get back in my good books tonight he wrote me out a poem that he borrowed from Horrid Henry:

"Dear Old Wrinkly Mum
Don't be glum
Cause ya got a fat tum
and a even bigger bum
Love from your son
Pickle "

Sweet little thing.

One liners

2009-11-15T00:15:00.005+01:00

This one on my email from Rose this evening:

'The cat shat on the mat...

...I shit you not'

Methinks the kitten is cruising for a bruising.

(Can you tell we've been practicing our poems at school this week?! This teaching stuff is addictive...)

Rather busy

2009-11-11T17:30:00.002+01:00

It's going to be pretty quiet from me for the near future because I am out from 8 till 5 every day like a real working person with a real job.

The main difference from my former working life is that most of my current job involves general crowd control of a group of a dozen six-year-olds and trying to crow-bar knowledge into them; much to their surprise and dismay that I am no longer sitting quietly up a corner of their classroom taking notes but am expecting them to do as I tell them now.

It's risky too - so far this term I have been exposed to:
-chicken pox (already had it, phew),
-flu (avoided it),
-colds (caught one),
-headlice (caught several, she says scratching at the memory).

And I thought refereeing at home was hard - add another few dozen children in a small hall on a rainy lunchtime and see how many take a dive off the stage, try to climb out the windows, turn somersaults onto the crash mats and chuck toys and assorted foodstuffs around.

I'm exagerating of course, but only because I am thanking my stars for choosing a small school where the children are not running too wild. I am on my knees by two-thirty, which is official throwing out time, but then I have to take two home with me, feed, water, wash and entertain them all evening AND write lesson plans, evaluate my day's performance and do some reading for my case study.

So now you know why I am a blogging Scarlet Pimpernel. Consider my every word a bonus from now until I (hopefully) graduate.

And in case I get too snowed under, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and Happy Easter.

Life is full of surprises...

2009-11-10T00:05:00.001+01:00

... we came home from school today to find Tiggy was lying in her kennel.

Wonders will never cease.

We've been to Wien...

2009-11-01T21:04:00.003+01:00

Where in the world can you conduct an orchestra, fly through the air dressed as a blue-bottle, admire world-famous Impressionist paintings and hurtle round in a dodgem, all in one afternoon?

Vienna, that's where.

I was all geared up for a rant about having to take the brats with us on our romantic anniversary getaway because we like all our friends far too much to ask them to mind the unruly mob for a couple of nights. We sent Tiggy to the kennels; no such thing for the kids unfortunately. But as it happens not only is Vienna a cultural and architechtural feast for adults, it's also quite well geared up for the small people.

Oh, except for the cathedral, which is where we (stupidly) headed to first. Have you ever tried to explain, in hushed tones, to a bouncy seven-year-old boy that skipping, humming and climbing on pews is somewhat frowned upon in most religious houses? And that the candles are not there for blowing out while you sing Happy Birthday To You? And that loudly declaring 'This is boring. Can we go now?' may well be true but it's really not polite? Yeah, well, we didn't have much luck with Pickle so we scarpered sharpish before we got chucked out and went to look at the horse and carriages waiting in the courtyard out front instead. Actually one of the horses had more luck with the discipline, more so than it's owner who made a bee-line for Pickle crying 'No touch! No touch!' the minute he stepped near one. The horse turned round and bit him. Maybe I need to try that one myself...

Luckily he wasn't too traumatised to ride in a carriage, a rather extravagant way to get across town when the metro only costs a fifth of the price, but it was fun pretending to be royalty and waving to passers-by. Both children were good as gold round the Impressionists exhibition, although I'm not sure anyone else got through all the paintings as fast as we did. Poppet spent more time playing with the turbo-charged Dyson hand-dryer in the toilets than appreciating the finer points of Monet and Renoir but at least there were no meltdowns with the promise of TGI Fridays if they behaved.

On Day Two we gave in and hit the kiddy-trail, starting with Prater Park - the fun fair. Actually, not many rides were open but I did get to try out one roller coaster where you lie down on your tummy in the car to be hurtled round loops and corkscrews like you're Superman. It was... interesting. Then we did the 'Dizzy Mouse' - twice - which I found far more scary because the car rotates as it throws you round countless U-turns at dizzy heights. Of course the kids loved it; I made Nobby take them on his own for round two.

Four ketchup-y hot dogs later and we headed to the Children's Museum called Zoom! for an exhibition on flying. They had a mock-up of a passenger jet to play in and Pickle was quick to don one of the pilot costumes and head up to the flight simulator in the cockpit. Poppet dressed up in a harness and got herself hoisted to the ceiling to get a fly's-eye-view of the place with accompanying buzzing noises. Thankfully there were no giant fly-swats around. I'm amazed we managed to prise Pickle away from the paper-aeroplane-making room but he was allowed to bring 'Cheat' and 'Bingo' his champion flyers home with him.

We also visited the Natural History Museum with it's aquarium and fascinating Darwin exhibition, but the House of Music was the real treat with three floors of interactive displays about sound and music. After conducting a virtual orchestra with something that looked suspiciously like a Wii, creating a melody by throwing dice and recording our own sounds for some sort of jukebox, the final room had Pickle and I making our own track using ambient sounds from categories such as 'Body,' 'Space,' as well as your own voice. He let me choose a little Mozart Nachtmusik for the background while he mixed in farts, yawns, space shuttle launches and the sound of him (and me) giggling. It wasn't quite Top of the Pops but we had a LOT of fun.

So I think we'll have to bear that in mind for next time we are tempted to explore a capital city - I'm seeking out the kiddy stuff... whether the kiddies come too or not.

2009-10-31T17:29:00.007+01:00

It's Halloween in Budapest... and the kids and me have just been for a little stroll round the graveyard.

No I haven't gone barking mad, although after the week I've had I could be forgiven for going totally cuckoo. We've had to ban the word 'essay'; it can now only be referred to as 'the 'e' word', in a similar vein to 'the 'c' word' which sounds a bit like 'mishmash' and can equally send me reaching for the valium. Oh, and someone said the 's' word earlier when I mentioned how cold it's been today - I do not want to even think about s-n-o-w this side of mishmash so that one's on the no-no list too.

But you'll be pleased to know that I handed in the 1000 word-er in good time having finally struck inspiration on the return journey from Vienna on Thursday night. I cut this one pretty close, clearly I am settling in to my old student days at last. I subsequently tried some trendy entertainment with Nobby last night to really reconnect with the student 'vibe': we hit the A38 Club - a concert venue in an old, moored, Ukrainian boat down the dodgy end of the Danube.

Nobby, ever the eighties whore, has managed to sniff out a Hungarian band called the Panonia Allstars who play fantastic Ska music. He's seen them a few times but his usual Ska buddy recently skipped the country as we expats so often do, so I was allowed to go along instead. It took me right back to my Saturday afternoons at The Hop bouncing along to Bad Manners as 600 people all broke into the Ska dance when Panonia started playing. The only slightly un-nerving thing is the effect that 600 bodies jumping in unison can have on a moored boat - it moves. I didn't quite feel the need to cling on to the rigging but it was a weird sensation nonetheless.

However, I felt bloody old and not the least bit trendy all wrapped up in my sensible coat while these nubile young things hopped about in sparkly apparel. When someone behind me gave the crocodile clip holding my hair up an unfriendly poke (I hadn't had time to wash my hair, I was busy washing more nits out of Pickle's right up until the taxi arrived so the Carol Jackson look was the best I could muster) I realised a study full of text books isn't quite enough, I need to work on the image a bit. May require some hair dye as well as shampoo though these days, just don't measure me up for the zimmer frame and bunglalow quite yet.

Anyway, I digress. Did I mention we went to Vienna? Oh, but first, why did I take the kids to the graveyard on Halloween? Well October 31st is the day when Hungarians go to visit, tidy up, decorate and light candles on the graves of the dear-departed. It wasn't at all spooky wandering through the flickering candlelight and the place was really busy. I'm not sure my 'whooooo-ooo!' noises didn't do much for the contemplative atmosphere but I really couldn't resist.

I'll tell you all about Vienna next time. Happy Halloween!

One down...

2009-10-25T17:49:00.004+01:00

Cripes! Has it been a week already since my last blog-confession? I didn't realise, as I came crawling out from under my text-book mountain, blinking and dazed in the bright light of having FINISHED MY ESSAYS!!

But the celebrations didn't last that long. Just enough time for a family trip to the cinema to see 'Up' in 3D which was so hilarious I think the whole room heard my guffaws (I'm a student, I don't get out much.) Though I seriously wish we'd nicked some of the 3D glasses, they are way better than the free ones that come with the DVDs, with a nice Wayfarer look to them as opposed to Blue Peter sticky-backed-plastic-covered-cardboard.

We also had a family trip to the Cash and Carry as my neighbour managed to wangle me a membership card - since I am not a VAT registered company she's put me down as a farmer! Given my addiction to Farmville on Facebook it's pretty apt. (My sister and I agree that Farmville is like a mini Zen garden in cyberspace and we won't hear a word said against it before you start.) It was quite fun dodging the fork-lift trucks and stocking up on a year's supply of Kitkats. We found some cases of Australian wine at a reasonable price too, cheers.

Today I have been back at the books doing some background reading for the next assignment, due in on Friday. Slight issue in that I am supposed to be writing a proposal for a case study in my school and the school is currently shut down for the Autumn break. Whoops, note to self: must be more organised and interview fellow teachers before they all skip the country for a well earned rest. At least the reading has been very interesting today, I am feeling quite intellectual and busting for a debate on the finer points of teaching theory with Rose, whenever we two emerge from the virtual libraries long enough to hold a conversation. At least I don't have any exams, she had one earlier this week, poor lamb, and just to prove Sod's Law wasn't solely created for me, the Parisien public transport system decided to go on strike that very same day. Ouch.

In order to stuff my head into my cerebral pursuits I need to get the rest of the family occupied. Nobby was easy - there was a match on. All I needed was earplugs so I didn't have to hear him yelling at the TV. I'm sure he's convinced they can hear his shouts of 'Refereeeeeee! That was NEVER off side!' Pickle went on the DS of course, although three hours of it stretched his tolerance a wee bit and he subsequently went nuts on the trampoline before settling down with Boy-Next-Door round at his house for a spot of cyber-golf.

To Poppet I gave a box of Halloween decorations and a packet of sticky-tack.
Oh. My. Giddy-Aunt.
The place is like a witches coven bar the cauldron... though they are all the rage in Budapest, you can pick them up at the local supermarket complete with tripod for goulash-making over an open fire a-la olden days field-workers and farmers. Since I am now a farmer, I really ought to get one. We had a Halloween party last year and my Mum sent a tonne of decs in one of her care-packages so we have bats, spiders, skeletons and pumpkins a-go-go. The place smells like pumpkin too because the Cash and Carry had them on special so I spent last evening hollowing one out and cutting a scary face on the sides. Now I have a fridge-full of pumpkin to bake into pies, whenever I tire of the intellectual stuff.

Anyway, not much more to report really unless you want to read some of my insights into modern teaching theory. No? Oh well, I'll leave that to the markers. Fingers crossed I scrape through and live up to my Swot label from my beloved Squis and her be-twinned mate who reckon I am really sad for handing it all in a day early. I do not apologise ladies and I was not trying to be teachers pet. You have no idea how close I was to head-explosion. Not pretty.

PS Congratulations to Big Bruv and the Missus on their house move this week. Hurrah!

Eeeeew

2009-10-18T22:39:00.002+02:00

We had the day all planned out. Nobby was going to do the weekend party-run (birthday season has begun), thrust the children into the sugar-fuelled fray then take himself off for a mooch round the shops while I stayed at home and bashed out another essay. Then, after a quick lunch, they were off to the cinema with some friends to watch Up in 3D.

Oh, the best laid plans.

Curve-ball number one was my almighty hangover this morning from completely over-indulging at our anniversary dinner last night. It had to be done really; ten years ago I was pretty fuddled poncing about a restaurant in my wedding dress waving my bouquet around, I thought I could recreate the moment. Wrong. Capacity for alcohol is way down and I don't think we'll be going back to that restaurant in a hurry.

Well, I ask you: you've got a busy, successful eatery slap-bang in the middle of a European capital city, why the hell don't you accept credit/debit cards for payment? Even sober I find that kind of reluctance to join the rest of us in the 21st century somewhat insulting. Give me half a bottle of nice red wine and I can get very verbal about it. Tip? I'll give you a tip - don't sour my anniversary treat by making my husband run to the cash point so we can settle our bill. Now stick this piece of coal up your backside; give it a day, maybe two, you'll no doubt squeeze it into a diamond.

So I spent much of my kid-free morning feeling rather nauseous and not really getting much written down on the very bright white piece of paper moving about in front of my eyes.

Then my friend calls to cry off the cinema trip because she's just found head-lice on both her kids. Apparently the nit-nurse was in school on Friday as there have been a couple of cases, not that I heard anything about it, and despite being declared nit-free on Friday she'd just pulled 31 lice out of her son's mop. Eeew.

We've never had a nit-problem at our house, mostly I think because I diligently keep the children's hair completely filthy. But Pickle returned home from the party scratching his head... you guessed it - nits. Oh nuts.

I whizzed out to the Sunday pharmacy for some treatment, earning a sympathetic-if-slightly-disgusted look from the pharmacist, and we all spent the afternoon smelling pretty awful from the hairline upwards and fighting the urge to scratch imaginary lice running down our necks to escape the napalm in our hair.

After rinsing, in good mother-gorilla stylee, I then set about picking nits off every inch of my brood's scalps. I am pleased to report there were only two actual crawlers, one on each kiddy, although they were crawling no more after their dowsing. What a way to spend an afternoon.

I wonder if I can get extra time on my essay deadline? 'The lice ate my homework, Sir.'

Now, stop scratching.

Chilly

2009-10-15T19:56:00.004+02:00

Another corker from Pickle: What do you call a girl with a frog on her head?

Lily!

What do you call a city covered in driving snow in the middle of October?

Budapest!

Yup, it is SNOWING here already. I am mightily aggrieved. When I said I was looking forward to some cooler weather this isn't quite what I had in mind. Global Warming? Yeah, right.

The landlord had to pop over and fire up the central heating boiler for me yesterday so I don't turn into a block of ice while I pore over my essays. I could just cuddle up with the dogs of course - they are so attached now that once they've finished a good wrestle in the garden they pick a house then curl up together for a kip. It's so cute!

I battled my way through the inclement weather yesterday evening to meet up with the one other person (nutter) doing the same distance-learning teaching course as me. It was so nice to meet a human being in the flesh to rant about the essays to that I chattered on like a fish-wife, I'm not sure I let her get more than two words out. I also met her sister, who successfully completed the course a couple of years ago and who thankfully doesn't appear to have lost any of her faculties in the process; in fact she seemed very normal and knowledable to me so there's hope for me getting through this without having to grow an extra brain to fit it all in.

By the way, congratulate me - Nobby and me celebrated TEN years of marriage yesterday. Ten.

Blimey.

According to the traditional 'list' ten years is 'aluminium'. Hmm... romantic.

So I made him a card with a heart on the front cut out of Bacofoil. He bought me some beautiful flowers and booked us (and the kids!) into a hotel in Vienna during half term.

THEN I found the 'modern list' which says ten years is celebrated with diamond jewellry! How hacked off am I?

There's no substitute for research, must study harder next time.

One stick short

2009-10-12T10:01:00.004+02:00

Why would anyone volunteer to take on a puppy? Is a frontal lobotomy included in the price? Or does it only happen at a full moon? I have a theory - you take on a puppy because it looked cute and sweet and it was a sunny day. (And possibly because your son begged you for six months.) Fast forward to seven o'clock on a rainy Sunday morning when your son has let the puppy go outside while you try to snatch ten minutes more sleep and now there are muddy footprints all over the clean floor as well as a puddle of wee on the back door-mat because it decided it didn't like being out in the rain. Suddenly you realise that someone somewhere is havin' a larf.

Couple that with a sudden yell of 'Mummeeee! The puppy's vomited under the table!' and you might want to rethink just how cute that puppy looked in the box.

Still, we made it through our puppy-sitting weekend relatively unscathed and the children learned a lot. I'm not sure I was quite prepared for the anatomy lesson, but when your daughter asks, 'Mummy, what's that thing like a lipstick underneath him? Why is he trying to rub it on my brother?' you need to take a deep breath and be honest.

And Ike is kind of cute. He is especially sweet after 8pm when he crashes out for the evening, muttering the occasional groan in his sleep. The new Ja-JaBinks nickname really suits him, he even has the funny walk - rather like a drunken whippet wearing clogs: skinny legs, huge feet, aiming in a forwards direction but somehow veering off slantwise. And he keeps getting the hiccups, I have never seen a dog do that before. It's the Despereaux ears that really tickle me pink. I did a quick rendition of 'Do Your Ears Hang Low?' for the delictation of my small people yesterday. It's an old ditty I recall from my childhood, not quite as exciting as 'Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour On The Bedpost Overnight?' but charming all the same. I'm not sure if the kids think I'm amazing to have remembered all the words for soooooo long or whether I'm just one slice short of the full loaf. But I don't really care.

You don't have to be mad to live here, but it helps.

Potty Time

2009-10-10T15:10:00.004+02:00

Pickle's lost another tooth. The Tooth Fairy was running low on change and he only got 300huf. But he doesn't seem to mind.

Poppet smacked her big toe on the trampoline and needed an X-ray. It's not broken... but the lift from the basement car park to the medical centre on the 4th floor was.

The Insurance Fairy had better be able to poo money when I put the bill under my pillow tonight and rest my aching back.

Boy-Next-Door left his puppy here for the weekend - it looks like Ja-Ja Binks... only ginger. Tiggy is putting it through its paces and exerts her top-dog authority by dragging it round by the scruff of its neck. Still, it seems to have learned from her that weeing in the house really isn't going to win you any friends and keeping quiet at night keeps you from getting water-pistolled (all that Dog Borstal training is flooding back to me).

I am still having an essay crisis but my Mum is sending a text-book care-package, gawd luv 'er, (and by that I mean a parcel of text books, not a model parcel that would get you a Brownie badge).

Nobby is at a meeting over the other side of Hungary and missing all the fun.

That's all for now, but here is a joke from Pickle, who is reading this over my shoulder because he wants to play Grow-Island on Mummy's computer and the bit about pooing money made him giggle.

He says:

What happened when the cat swallowed a coin?

There was money in the kitty!

An announcement

2009-10-07T11:39:00.002+02:00

I just need to let you all know that Pickle has finally lost his first tooth. I didn't twig at first when he ran up to me at the end of school yesterday with a huge grin - he's always happy, plus of course his adult tooth already grew in behind the wobbly one (flash git) so there's not much gap to speak of.

But after much wide-mouth-frog-style grinning coupled with meaningful eye-gestures and unintelligible noises I finally got it and congratulated him, while Poppet sulked how 'it's not fair!' that her own wobbly tooth isn't budging.

Despite suggestions to the contrary the other week, Pickle decided he does actually believe in the Tooth Fairy and later wrapped his tiny incisor inside a tissue, inside a ring box, inside a Russian dolly with a note saying 'Lots of love from Pickle'. He was delighted with the resulting 400 forints this morning, especially as he thought he'd only get 300. The Tooth Fairy must have been feeling generous after waiting seven years for her first visit to Pickle's bed.

Anyway, as you were. I have to get back to my essay, I still have half a Thesaurus left to swallow so I can beef up my words a bit. I mean, to enable myself to enhance my written vocabulary... I seriously don't envy my tutor their job.

Lookin' Good!

2009-10-05T21:13:00.004+02:00

This will have to be a quick word as I am up to my eyeballs in essays. I have two to complete by Saturday and I only have 1200 words to play with - not easy for me, I do love a good waffle. The one I wrote last week is full of big words but sadly lacking in verbs as I was running over the word count. I'm hoping they'll get the gist... (or maybe I'll have to rewrite it. Sigh.)

Anyway, I decided to take most of Sunday off to get some household things done and spend time with the small people and Nobby. Poppet and I had some Mummy-Daughter time before I decided I couldn't put off Tescos any longer. No-one else wanted to come along so I went on my own.

I didn't think I was wearing anything particularly flash but I kept getting the feeling that people were looking at me. I checked the usual things - flies done up, same colour shoes on, bulges all normal size and in the right places - and all seemed to be in order. Then the girl behind me at the checkout was very obviously staring at me while the guy running my stuff past the infra-red was avoiding eye contact. Very strange.

So I busied myself checking off my list - I always take one and I always neglect to look at it until I am just about to pay. Luckily I had remembered everything except the make-up remover. Make-up remover? Now why did I need that? I don't wear a lot of make-up. I certainly never do my nails...

Then I finally noticed, with dawning horror, the bright pink blobs of Princess nail varnish on my fingernails and suddenly remembered just exactly what Poppet had wanted to do with our Mummy-Daughter time.

You guessed it - Beauty Parlours.
Using her own cosmetics.

I really should allow myself the occasional glance in the mirror on my way out the door because I had just spent an hour in Tescos sporting hair, nails and make-up by my eight year old...

Fish, footie and flying

2009-09-29T23:27:00.003+02:00

Ever had one of those days when you just can't remember the Core Foundation Subjects of the National Curriculum? Or define the main factors that create an Effective Learning Environment?

Hmm, it's been a study crisis kind of a day and we're only on week two of the course. I blame the fun day I had at school observing lessons yesterday - I was lucky enough to pick a field trip day and took the opportunity to 'observe' Grade 7 on an outing to the local Cash and Carry to research products they might sell in a school shop they are planning to open. I observed quite a few items I would happily buy myself; I hope they'll let me tag along when they go to make the purchases. As for the students, it was literally watching kiddies in a sweet shop. Did you know you can still buy those candy cigarettes? At this place you can even pretend you're in candy duty-free and get 50 packs for a cut down price. I offered the group my services as a consultant representing the parent population who will be supplying the readies for their customers, in case they wanted to conduct a little market research on what Mummy will approve for little Johnny to spend his hard earned cash on. But once I'd put the kibosh on chewing gum, candy fags, fizzy pop and crisps they strangely stopped asking.

Anyway, after all the excitement (and the fun-packed journey with four eleven-year-old boys in my car) slaving over a hot OfSTED website didn't hold much appeal today. I think I learned that there are three types of planning - long, medium and short term (no kidding) - but that's about it. Luckily I was saved by a couple of friendly teachers at the school who were willing to listen to me rant then allow me to grill them about teaching practices when I went the collect the skunks. (What they don't know is I had a concealed tape recorder taking down all their pearls of wisdom so I can use them in my assignments as my own ideas! I AM KIDDING, Mr Course Tutor, Sir.)

Enough of study talk though. Let me tell you what I did at the weekend.

On Saturday we were invited to one of those company Family Fun Day things at a local camp. It was pretty good all told. I learned how to weave a bird out of strips of coloured paper while Poppet fashioned a pin-wheel, and Nobby and Pickle played football. Then I walked the dog round the forest while Poppet did some fishing in the little pond, and Nobby and Pickle played football. Later, Pickle and I raided the free buffet while Poppet fished... and Nobby played football. Poppet had a ride on a pony, while Pickle fished (and Nobby played football). Then Pickle and I visited the three fire engines they'd laid on and he went up on the hydraulic lift about 10 storeys in the air (it was strictly not for me, despite the comforting presence of a pretty fit fireman who offered to let me wear his helmet...) while Poppet fished and Nobby played football.

Are you getting a pattern here? Poppet and Pickle's previous angling experience is limited to a game called 'My Simms' on the DS but they were sorely bitten by the bug once they got a rod in their hands and the little fishies started to bite. Incidentally, I am doing Nobby down a bit here, he did come and join in between football games, they were only twenty minutes each, and he was rather keen on the fishing too, having been brought up by a keen angler and done quite a lot when he was younger. (But who caught the first fishy with the rod though, huh? Me!)

However the kids soon discovered a quicker way to catch lots of tiddlers using a large square net that you chuck off a bridge then pull up as they're scurrying past. Once they were over the revulsion of handling their slimy, flapping little bodies Poppet in particular had a wonderful afternoon hauling them in, then picking the dead ones out of the bucket.

Pickle joined in the fishing for an impressively long time after tiring of the football and then he decided it was time to test Mummys nerve to the max (as if he doesn't do that on a daily basis anyway). Before I knew what I had volunteered for he was in a harness and hard hat, attached by ropes to a chap known as 'Chubby' and shinning up a telegraph pole, gaily calling 'Come on Mum! You can do it!!' over his shoulder.

May I refer you back to the earlier paragraph about the lovely fireman and how he couldn't persuade me up his ladder? Well, I couldn't let my little boy down like that so up I went - it was one of those aerial assault course things, all about fifteen metres off the ground and requiring some serious monkey skills that my 7 year old has in abundance and which I sadly seem to have lacked since birth.

I get vertigo on a deep-pile carpet people, this was not fun.

I think the mountaineer types who were operating the thing quickly cottoned on to this fact as I bear-hugged each telegraph pole I arrived at like I was greeting an old friend. Meanwhile Pickle whizzed across swinging ropes, narrow bridges and what was basically a tightrope and proceeded to jump off the final platform for the final lowering to terra firma singing 'I Believe I Can Fly' at the top of his voice.

As if that wasn't enough, he then climbed up a single telegraph pole, stood on a tiny platform on the top, then jumped off, hitting a large beach-ball on the way down. All for shits and giggles.

I am happy to report that while I was trying to force my heart out of my throat and back to its proper place, Nobby and his company team won the football tournament. Unfortunately I missed the trophy ceremony because I was watching my son fly through the air on the end of a rope but I heard the applause through the trees and I was very proud.

The joy of learning

2009-09-21T22:27:00.003+02:00

OMG my head is spinning. Today I have been learning about 'metacognition', 'deep learning', 'high order thinking' and 'constructivism'. This is mind-boggling stuff, and rather tricky to spell. There is no getting away from it, I am really going through with this PGCE Teaching course.

I have watched two lectures by a wonderful chap who sounds just like Eric Idle, and he certainly seems to look on the bright side of life with the little jokes and anecdotes he puts in his lectures. It was all on the internet so it could have actually been a Monty Pythoner for all I know, he was about a centimetre tall on my screen.
How's this for a great way to start a course:
Two parrots were sitting on a perch. One says to the other, 'Do you smell fish?' ... geddit? boom boom! Yup, he and I would definitely have got on if we didn't only get to meet in cyberspace.

It's interesting learning all these modern theories about teaching and learning methods. Apparently now we teachers don't instruct to a group of passive learners who learn by rote and regurgitate in exams. It's all about facilitating the learning and students have to take responsibility for their learning, constructing knowledge by analysing, evaluating and judging. Sounds a great idea to me, only trouble is I was taught in the old style and I am having to learn all this in the new style, there is no-one holding my hand here and making me nice cups of tea in a cosy faculty office when I can't think how to start my assignment essay. Eek!

I was the student in the back row of the lecture theatre with my eyelids made up to resemble open, alert blue eyes while I had my real eyes firmly closed, sleeping off the excesses of the night before. Now there's no one to nudge me if I start to snore or to lend me their lecture notes if I don't get round to taking any. Luckily the course is all beautifully guided with a detailed self-study workbook to go through and a crash course in study skills for the old farts like me who haven't had to 'compare and contrast' much more than which brand of baked beans to buy at Tescos for the last fifteen(ish) years.

And yet there are new distractions in the virtual learning environment. All is quiet in the house, there is no impromptu party thumping out loud music elsewhere in the hall of residence, I don't have to walk past a single bar on my way to the virtual lectures and tutorials. The dog is walked, the kids are in school, there is a flask of coffee on my beautifully tidy desk. What could possibly keep me from immersing myself in the books? These days it is not the pull of an afternoon with my friend Bob and her three male flatmates watching every episode of Black Adder then hitting the local student bar with the rugby team. Nowadays I have 'Farmville' and 'Mob Wars' and 'Livechat' to put me off my stride. They are just a double, sometimes only a single click away on Facebook... oh, how innocent we were in the olden days with only a drafty library and a microfiche for company.

Anyway, I really ought to get on with analysing that Ofsted report, I really don't have time to Blog. I am a student you see, and I can prove it. Not only did I pop into Farmville to harvest my crop of pumpkins when I should have been investigating the Core Subjects of the National Curriculum, I just fell asleep on Pickle's bed saying goodnight to him when I should have been preparing for a day in the classroom tomorrow.

All I need now is to stay up all night on ProPlus, sleep through my alarm every morning and have a lot of big rows with my flatmates about the washing up and my transformation will be complete.

What's big and white and if it fell out of a tree it could kill you?

2009-09-19T17:06:00.002+02:00

Whilst my boy is watching some obscure cartoon about a boy with a pet fart (don't ask, but he keeps it in a cage beside his bed and Pickle thinks it's 'well cool' - so much for the spanky new TV and satellite receiver improving the quality of our TV time...) let me tell you about an exciting and fun new sport:

Fridge Wrestling.

Anyone can take part, it is particularly popular among Stay At Home Mums whose husbands are away and whose landlords insist on delivering a new fridge while you are out. Clearly landlords all subscribe to The Law Of Sod given that mine only ever calls to say he's on his way over when I have been in alone for 5 hours and am about to go out.

So get an old fridge, preferably one that has been used and abused by several tenants in a rented property over a fifteen year period, switch it on and wait for bits to fall off it for twelve months or so. When it develops a noise sounding like an aeroplane landing in your kitchen each time the motor runs, Round One can begin, as you wrestle it through the pantry door so you can shut the noise away for the sake of your sanity. You must be unaccompanied for Round One, the fridge must be heavy, with no wheels and the doorway must have maximum five millimetres clearance on either side.

Round Two can start when the landlord finally tires of your constant b*tching about the stupid fridge and tells you he'll buy a new one. He will keep you waiting a week for it then call to say he'd like to deliver it in the next half an hour just as you are leaving for a meeting. Of course he won't have his house keys with him so you must leave the front gate on the latch and when you return the new fridge will be on your doorstep with a note asking you to leave the old on in the same place for him to collect.

You can have help for Round Two if hubby happens to be home from his travels. All you have to do is move the fridge to the interior of the house so it doesn't get rusty or stolen in the night. Of course a telepathic link would come in handy to ensure no hands, feet or heads become wedged between the fridge and the door posts on the way in.

Round Three requires a free hour or two in your schedule and involves getting the old fridge out of the pantry and onto the front porch, unwrapping the new fridge from it's sellophane and somehow removing the polystyrene pallet from underneath it - small children can come in handy at this stage. Then, since the new model will not actually fit under the wall cupboards in the designated fridge corner of the main kitchen because the kitchen was built around the old fridge and they make 'em taller these days, wrestle it into the pantry, shut the door, have a cup of tea.

It's a very enjoyable way to spend a Friday afternoon.

Introducing a new Super Hero

2009-09-16T11:31:00.002+02:00

Pickle has a new name.

I am pleased to inroduce you to Teflon Boy.

Nothing sticks to this one, both literally and metaphorically. Now that's quite a Super Power.

He came to me last evening, after a heavy session of spinning his sister round on an office chair, complaining that his dressing over his stitches was falling off. And sure enough, upon closer inspection, he was sweating so much that all the sticky had disappeared and the thing came off in my hand. Boy sweat - more effective than acetone any day. Unfortunately, upon even closer inspection, it seems that one of his steri-strips had also slipped in the flood and the hole was opening up and oozing out something nasty looking.

Just. Effing. Fabulous.

Options were limited at that time of night so I decided to let it scab again and take him back to the private clinic this morning. They confirmed that this is it now, there is nothing we can do but wait till it heals and get him seen by a plastic surgeon a couple of months down the line.
So much for keeping him off 'physical activity' - a note excusing him from PE is obviously not enough, but being Teflon Boy even the simplest instruction to 'not run about getting hot and sweaty and risking bashing your head' slides straight out of his brain. I might as well try to nail jelly to the wall.

He has Teflon shoulders too - earlier in the evening I was trying to get him to do his homework but I could not get any co-operation out of him; I tried threats (do it now or no DS for a week), bribery (do it now and I'll let you watch TV) and corruption (do it now and I'll pay you 300 forints) but nothing stuck. Actually the homework was to finish a task that he had refused to do in class because he was in a mood with the teacher for taking a toy off him... in fact now I think about it Tefal must have got their hands on him long ago; this is not new behaviour. Perhaps I should be looking for a red spot on his bottom to show me when he's reached optimum temperature.

Poppet, meanwhile, has astounded me this morning by locating her 'responsibility' gene, switching it on and actually helping me out. Somehow it has sunk in that if you wait for Mummy to do absolutely everything you're going to end up at the school gates half an hour late, still in your pyjamas with scraggy hair and smelly breath. Most mornings I even have to do the walking for the precious darlings; Pickle's favourite phrase is 'Mummy, carry!' while his dressing gown is on, wanting a lift from his bed to the sofa then from the sofa to the breakfast table. (Hey, perhaps that's what I'm doing wrong at every other mealtime when he can't stay in his seat for more than five seconds at a stretch, I should bung on his dressing gown...?)

How we ever make it out the door is a daily miracle, yet this morning when I raced back into the house to get Poppet's coat, Pickle's bag and shut the dog out, I encountered Poppet carrying Tiggy's water bowl into the garden to join the dog bed and toy she had already put there. Then she picked up her own coat and got into the car. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

Knowing my luck this was just a one-off and I'll be back to headless-chicken mode tomorrow, but we'll see. Hope springs eternal.

Infamy, infamy! They've all got it in for me...

2009-09-15T12:05:00.000+02:00

They're watching me.

I'm not sure who They are but They are definitely out there.

I think They may by quite young because They are doing things my kids do... only worse.

See, I am familiar with the phenomenon whereby I can spend a happy couple of hours pottering about my housewifely duties completely undisturbed while the children play one of their games. If I drop in to see how they're doing I'll get told to go away (unless I'm carrying crisps or chocolate of course). Then the SECOND I pick up the phone or park my bum on the loo they will drop what they're doing and start shouting 'Muuuuum! I need a drink!', 'Muuuuum! He hit me!' or 'Muuuum! where are you?' Either that or they'll have a catastrophe and require medical attention.

Well They obviously think this is rather a good game and have taken it a step further. They are following me around like a stalker and broadcasting hints on 'How To Really Piss Off Nobby's Missus'.

So far this morning the doorbell rang while I was in the shower and completely covered in soap - Pickle had forgotten something very important for school (a Lego Storm Trooper) - then the phone rang while I had a mouthful of toothbrush and paste - Nobby was checking in from Vienna because I collapsed in bed too early to talk to him last night.

Next I went to Tescos because Old Mother Hubbard has been in my kitchen and all the food had gone. But They had already been there with a copy of my shopping list and removed all the stock. I ALWAYS buy Tescos chocolate chip cookies, they are what keep me going on a daily basis and we need lots because Poppet likes them too and has found a way to reach the high cupboard I keep them in. There was not one packet of cookies on the shelves. I always buy orange cordial because Poppet likes to make it up with fizzy water and pretend its Fanta (because mean Mummy won't let them drink pop). They had peach, pear, strawberry and apple, raspberry, elderflower... every darned thing except orange. It was the same with the beer, crisps, nuts and chocolate bars (are you detecting a theme here? I've gone a bit comfort-foody during this latest Pickle crisis and Nobby-absence), loads of brands except the specific one I wanted and always buy. But when I couldn't find a single turnip in a Hungarian Hypermarket I knew for sure this was personal.

And then They drained the power out of my i-pod while I was in the freezer section, just to add insult to injury. I hadn't even sung out loud once this time. How jolly rude. I had to listen to the muzak piped through the store instead and they're on a bit of an eighties 'bet you never heard this one on the radio' stint at the moment, it was not good.

So whoever They are, I'd appreciate it if They stopped. I have had enough now. I am off out to get the post. You can bet I will find a card there from the gas man or the parcel post man telling me they came while I was out shopping... if you hear a sky-rending scream, that'll be me.

TTFN

a stitch in time...

2009-09-14T13:49:00.002+02:00

... saves nine (plus one) fingernails being bitten to the quick by an anxious mother. It also saves your beautiful little boy from a life-long souvenir scar across his face to remind him of his time in Hungary.

Yes, sorry, still going on about the hole in Pickle's head. The trees in my front garden know all about it because I went at them with the secaturs like a woman possessed yesterday evening after wrapping my offspring up in cotton wool on the couch. One big pile of ivy, tree and shrub clippings equals one very pissed-off mummy - Nobby knows I'm not one for gardening in a good mood.

Anyway, quick update. I want to name and shame the Health Clinic that Nobby's company have been shelling out huge great wadges of cash for over the last year but who have consistantly refused to see my children every time I call them. In a family of two adults and two little kids, according to the law of averages, who exactly is going to require the most health care over a 12 month period? You don't need to have kids or a degree in medicine to work that one out. Unless you work in this particular clinic, which told me this morning that I shouldn't bring my child in for a second opinion on the state of his facial injury because there is no-one there who specialises in treating children. Surely a cut is a cut? I wasn't aware there was a magic age where your skin starts to heal differently making you eligible for expensive private Hungarian treatment.

I am ranting, but, hell, I need to. Nobby is still in Vienna so I have both barrels pointing at the keyboard instead. And I'm not sorry!

Fortunately (or rather unfortunately for his poor mother) a little boy we know gashed his head during the holidays and I was on hand to do the mercy dash to the nearest private clinic which was recommended by a fellow teacher, so I decided to jump on this band wagon of 'it's not what you know it's who you know that counts'. So this morning I grabbed said Mum, got the phone number and took Pickle along to see if anything could be done for him.

Sadly after eight days there is nothing she can do to improve the quality of the stitching he received at the other hospital. It is too late for glue but it would have really helped when the cut was fresh (all we got was iodine.) So Pickle will have to chose whether to go with the Action Man 'desert warrior' look and wear his scar with pride or the Hugh Grant 'don't I look cute looking up at you through my fringe?' fop.

I, meanwhile, will have to choose between sending in the heavies from Nobby's firm to tell 'our' private clinic what I think of them forcing me to fork out 50 euros at another clinic because they are all too squeamish to look at a bleeding kid, let alone the requirement that I use a public hospital in the first instance last Sunday because they don't work weekends, or go down there and give it to them myself.

Either way, I recommend they run and hide.

Confused dot com

2009-09-13T14:39:00.003+02:00

I have several questions buzzing around my tired little head today.

Firstly, where did all the Praying Mantises come from? I don't remember having seen a Praying Mantis in the flesh before even though they have been quite popular in kiddy films lately. And then last week my housekeeper was trying to explain this large green insect she'd found in the basement which had freaked her out. She didn't know the English for it though so I assumed it was a grasshopper or a locust and I've seen plenty of those; we did experiments on locusts for my Biology 'A' Level so they are, like, soooo last year for me.

But it wasn't until we saw the dog go into stealth mode down the basement stairs - head down, ears up, head, back and tail all in a straight line and creeping forward like something off One Man And His Dog - and we went to investigate that we realised 'Ah! It was a Praying Mantis!' (Life is like a game of Charades round here.) It was big and green and funny-looking. Even more so on the funny-looking front once the dog had played with it for a bit... Then a couple of days later I opened the front door and bam! there on the porch is a Praying Mantis, a brown one this time, calm as you please like a boy scout on Bob-A-Job week. I was going to invite it in to do the washing up but I'm not sure it would have reached the sink.

Secondly, this is one from Pickle and I am now curious myself, is Jerry a girl or a boy? I am talking about the mouse in Tom and Jerry, for which the children have a big passion at the moment, especially 5 seconds after the words 'right, it's time for bed' leave my mouth. They watched it all the way back from England last month and I find it very hard not to sit and join them guffawing at all the slapstick cat and mouse humour. Thankfully they haven't tried to re-enact any of the chases yet or hit each other with hammers or blown each other up with dynamite and it's proving a useful bribery-and-corruption tool at bedtime: 'Get into your PJs and brush your teeth and you can watch one more before we go up.' Works like a charm.

But, is Jerry a girl or a boy? When Jerry obliterates Tom's opera performance and takes over the 'Figaro' him/herself it's wearing a tuxedo. Yet when they're battling at the beach Jerry dons a Southern Belle dress and minces along holding a flowery parasol. Then there's the tennis tournament and Jerry is only sporting a pair of red shorts... Poppet and Pickle are convinced that the long eye lashes make Jerry a girl. I always believed it's a boy. Very confusing.

OK this question has only just popped up. Why isn't my computer keeping up with my typing any more? I'm hardly Miss Moneypenny tapping away at 100 words a minute but in the last couple of days I've had to go back and fill in the blanks where the stupid thing has been missing letters and spaces, dragging its feet like a petulant child being hauled to the supermarket. 'Dn't wana goto th sprmarkt ummy!'

This is the laptop by the way, maybe it's trying to tell me the honeymoon is over now. Blimey that was short. Meanwhile my desktop seems to have finally breathed it's last unfortunately. I tried to turn it on just now and clearly I've lost my touch (!) because I didn't even get a blue screen, it's black and blank and lifeless. Rest In Peace old thing.

Fourthly, finally and actually very seriously, the most important question of the day is why hasn't Pickle's head healed up despite a week in steri-strip stitches, two days off school and careful care from yours truly? We went to the hospital this morning hoping to rid him of the huge bandage and itchy surgical tape but somehow the sides of the cut haven't stayed together and it had started to heal from the bottom up in a nice leaf shape rather than the small unobtrusive scar I had been hoping for. Poor little chap writhed in pain as the doctor opened it all up, cleaned it all out and basically started all over again. I haven't felt so guilty since I watched three nurses hold my daughter down while they set her broken leg.

So here's another question: should I be getting a second opinion on this? My guts say 'yes' and as luck would have it Nobby is at a conference in Vienna stuffed full of medical practioners who are married to or well acquainted with other medical practioners and he's got the numbers of a couple of specialists I can take him to this week. I am well aware of the power of 'it's not what you know it's who you know' but I never dreamed that this adage would apply to health care. But in Eastern Europe, oh yes.

So I will keep you up to date on the progress of the boys continuing trauma. For now he is spending the rest of Sunday on the sofa with Nintendo DS, Jetix TV, Dr Seuss books, McFly CDs, pizza and iced tea all within easy reach. I am going to join him before my head explodes.

Hoping to have good news soon. On the other matters, anwers on a postcard please.

How's the patient?

2009-09-08T20:41:00.004+02:00

When a fellow parent telephoned me earlier to check the homework for Poppet's class, he apologised several times for disturbing my evening. From the racket at his end of the phone I imagine it was Bedlam Central over there. Thank goodness video phones are not the norm, 1) so I didn't have to witness someone else's evening kiddy-carnage and 2) so that he didn't see what I was actually doing, which was building 'The Ultimate Thomas the Tank Engine Railway Track' whilst sporting a Sportacus hat on my noggin (he's a character in Lazy Town, don't go there). I had blithely volunteered to rake out the blue plastic train track in a final bid to get Pickle off the DS and back into the real world while he recuperates from bouncing his face off the asphalt. The hat was his personal touch. Pickle said it made me look like an elf so I must be an Elf Worker. I tried to explain I want to be a teacher not a nurse, ha ha, but the irony was lost on him... possibly because he's only seven ('ealth worker? boom boom! My Dad would be proud of that one).

Speaking of 'ealth, Mr Pickle had a checkup at the hospital today on the hole in his head. Despite it looking rather gooey to my untrained eyes the doctor was satisfied that it's healing nicely and he can go back to school. Hallelujah! I might actually get some studying done now without the pinging and beeping and repetitive annoying tunes of his DS and having to rack my brains for other ways to keep him from being bored. Trust my luck to get my lovely back-to-school celebration kyboshed within the first seven days. But pity the poor office staff who will have to put up with his verbal diarreah all break time while he's signed off physical activities.

More 'elf' - I've also taken the pair of them to the dentist this week. Poppet had a panoramic xray to check if the two teeth we've been waiting for for over a year are actually somewhere in her head. They are, of course, and she looked so tiny standing in the xray machine in a massive lead apron that I hope they make an appearance soon and she won't have to do it again. Pickle, on the other hand, hasn't lost a single tooth yet and none of them are wobbly (which is fine by me because wobbly teeth make me cringe). However he is growing two new ones behind the baby ones.

Now that's just showing off.

Stop the world, I wanna get off

2009-09-06T12:58:00.003+02:00

I don't think I can take any more excitement this weekend. Can someone please make all the madness go away?!

It all started last night at the Hungary vs Sweden World Cup Qualifier. I have been a football widow for more than ten years, but I decided early on I should show willing and join in a bit. I could probably manage a reasonable explanation of the off-side rule these days and I know one or two colourful songs. Nobby's and my second 'date' was on the footie field - I went to watch him play for the company team on a pitch just spitting distance from my house and very nearly blew my chances by having to make a mercy dash to the bar for hot coffee before the final whistle because I feared all my extremities were going to drop off. I had dressed for a date and completely ignored the fact that it was December and blowing an icy gale. I soon learned - by February I was in full ski gear with a flask in my pocket and a hot water bottle up my jumper and before long I was in charge of half-time oranges and the bucket and sponge for being such a regular on the touchline.

Anyway, Nobby took me to the match last night and I witnessed first hand Hungary coming down with a nasty case of Sweden. They were all over them, and scored after just nine minutes. I didn't get to sing 'You're Sh*t And You Know You Are' or 'It's All Gone Quiet Over There' at all during the first half, because they weren't and it didn't. Not that anyone else would have had a Scooby Doo what I was saying of course. The game picked up a lot in the second half and Hungary scored a penalty in the 79th minute, at which point the entire crowd of forty-two thousand people was on its feet yelling and screaming 'Ria! Ria! Hun-ga-ria!'. A draw was a great result and they only had to hold onto the ball for eleven more minutes of play and three minutes of injury time. They almost managed it as well.

However, the goalkeeper who frankly had been riding his luck the whole game in my professional opinion (!) somehow cocked it up two minutes and fifty seconds into injury time. He kicked the ball away, it rebounded off a Swede, and trundled into the back of the net. Forty thousand fans were suddenly deathly quiet, standing still with their mouths open, trying to work out what had just happened. Meanwhile the ref blew the final whistle and two thousand Swedes went bezerk. The Hungarian team sat down on the pitch as if they'd just lost the Cup itself and the fans continued to just stand there in silence. We all filed out like zombies. Nobby and me felt compelled to drown our sorrows in beer and curry before heading home in the wee small hours, little knowing the drama we'd face this morning...

Poppet and Pickle each stayed at a friend's house last night so we could head out nice and early to the game and appreciate the full experience of the packed underground train, singing and chanting and beering all the way. I took Tiggy with me to collect Pickle this morning because his best friend only lives about 200 metres away. I managed to extract him from the house without too much fuss and we were just heading off down the road when disaster struck... in the form of a speeding dog with no sense of direction. She pelted towards me seemingly oblivious to the small boy who was standing in the way and so took him out at the backs of his knees, sending him flying up in the air and crashing down to the ground. At first I thought he'd just grazed his side until the screaming started and we noticed the blood... he'd gashed his face and I'm convinced I could see bone. Yuck. How I refrained from joining in the screaming I really don't know but I scooped him up, ran him home, scared the crap out of Nobby with our entrance and shortly headed off back into the land of Hungarian National Health Care. Not quite how I wanted to spend my Sunday morning, but them's the breaks.

Long story short, he is sporting a neat row of steri-strip stitches and an impressive head-bandage and the x-rays showed nothing is broken, phew. He's now on the sofa with a DVD and a bucket of popcorn with the promise of two days off school and frequent 'How are you feeling?' from the rest of us. I never knew having kids could be so frightening. Still, I am hoping we've had our three catastophes now - my knee, Poppet's chin and Pickles head seems a fair score for this year. I want to publicly thank my lovely hubby for keeping for putting me back together this morning, perhaps his presence at the next Hungary game on Wednesday will help them too!

Ria! Ria! Hun-Ga-Ria!!

School Days

2009-08-31T22:01:00.005+02:00

The big day has arrived! Last night the shoes were polished, the pencils were sharpened and the school books were retrieved from behind the sofa... the alarm went off disgustingly early this morning and we all piled off to the first day of school, with Mummy hip-hip-hooraying all the way.

Trouble is, there were a lot of changes in our school over the summer so we parents were expected to stick around all morning to hear about it, so no sloping off to Ikea for me. But since I had already met the kids' new teachers I was able to relax a bit and catch up with some other mummies and swap summer stories: 'Yes, we had a great time, wasn't the weather wonderful? What? you spent a month in the south of France with hot and cold running Nannies? How lovely! Then your parents took the kids for a fortnight and you finished off your tan in the Seychelles? Super!' Ugh. I soon tired of that as the painted-on grin started to slip. So I crept off to the car, where I had cleverly stashed a flask of real coffee because the stuff they serve from the school canteen is pretty grim, and texted Rose to let her know what I spiffing time I was having. It's occasions like this I really miss my double-espresso-with-a-lesbian-tea-chaser buddy to giggle in the corner with over the dad who was blatantly talking to my chest and how Pickle heckled the Principal during the assembly.

Pickle, as it happened, didn't stop with heckling. It seems ten weeks of do-as-you-please, or close enough, has turned my Gorgeous Boy into a Grumpy Bugger. His new teacher asked all the children to sit and draw a picture and write about their holiday while she held a meeting with the parents. My boy lay on the carpet with his head under the sofa declaring that he didn't want to, 'It's boooooring.' Hmm. Mummy meanwhile is looking for the nearest hole to climb into, or at least to throw all the copies of Horrid Henry into - sorry Francesca Simon, personally I think the stories are a great bed-time read but my son seems to have adopted them as a life philosophy and I'm not sure I can take it. Not when Poppet has Moody Margaret down to a 'T' as well. She's been throwing stroppy tantrums all week, although I must say she was terribly polite and diligent for her new male teacher. I'm not sure what he made of her affected American accent which became stronger as the morning progressed; seeing as he's from Pennsylvania I hope he doesn't think she's taking the piss.

So my son ended up the only boy in the entire school, I expect, to get homework on the first day back.

Later on, after a meeting where my new role as Student Teacher was announced to all the other Mummies and Daddies, much to my glowing pride, it became clear that Pickle was still in a bit of a funny one when he pushed through the crowds to me and told me, loudly of course, that some 'pooey girls' had come to sit at his lunch table and he didn't want to sit with pooey girls so I needed to go tell them to get lost. Hmm. Shortly afterwards we were all released early and some mug offered to take him for a playdate. I nearly bit their hand off. However Poppet then demanded that, to be fair, she needed some friends over as well. So having lost one boy I brought two more home then Boy-Next-Door came round to join in as well. It wasn't actually too bad, at least they left the TV and electronic games alone and made up a game in the garden. I'm not sure how much they all liked being bossed about by my daughter; she may only be eight but she already knows how to get boys by the bollocks (metaphorically only... so far).

Later I delivered the boys home and went to pick up my own. His friend's dad seemed not unhappy to see the back of him. 'I tried to get them out to the park but Pickle didn't want to,' he told me. 'All he's done is play DS.' Bugger. He's turned into Cyber-Boy - is that a USB port growing on the back of his neck? Long story short the behaviour did not improve all evening and all the 'Don't be horrid, Pickle!' in the world wouldn't stop him jumping on his sister, faffing around in my kitchen and teasing the dog, or get him to do the homework. Nor did taking away his Lego, teddy bear or bedside light. And putting him to bed at six-thirty did not go down well either ('act like a baby, get treated like a baby - and they go to bed at six-thirty, matey!')

How long can you string out drawing a picture and writing three sentences? I'll tell you how long - he was given the assignment in the parent's meeting at 11h15, he finally completed it (after being threatened with a visit to the Principal's office) at 21h15. So that's ten hours. Is that a Guinness World Record on procrastination or what?

And here's me thinking that the new school term would make things better?!

Sod it. Tomorrow I'm off to IKEA.