Rant alert

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

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

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?

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

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

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

... 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.'