What's big and white and if it fell out of a tree it could kill you?

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

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...

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...

... 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

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?

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

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!!