The Sales

Daughter and I have hatched a plot to nip into town for a browse around the sales. We know that the Male Contingent have a horror of any environment which contains pavements, so we plan to go in on our own. We shall have a leisurely time wandering around, possibly stopping for a hot chocolate and generally enjoying ourselves without anyone trailing behind us saying, "Do you have to look at another jumper/notepad/hair bobble. Why can't you buy the first one you see?" We have a vague agenda which encompasses, amongst other things, going to the Apple Store to buy accessories for The iPad. (It is to be diplomatically referred to as "The" iPad so that no one can take offence at anyone else claiming ownership, even though, technically, it is mine.) We are on the point of slipping out of the door unnoticed, leaving Small Boy and Husband to their own agenda of gardening and chicken-care, when Husband whirls round and asks, "Where are you going?" "Just into town," I say as nonchalantly as possible. "Just to, you know, look around the sales." Of all the responses I am expecting, I am not ready for this: "Great idea! Let's all go. We could look at sofas." I gawp, horrorstruck and speechless, as I watch my carefully planned Mother-and-Daughter morning slip from my grasp. Then I catch sight of Small Boy whose face is turning pink. It's OK, I think with relief, he's sure to wail and gnash his teeth at the idea of shopping. He would rather spend a precious morning of his holidays sticking drawing pins in his ears and learning the periodic table by heart while eating the leftover sprouts for breakfast. But no. Wrong again. "Oh yeah! I want to come!" cries Small Boy doing a victory dance around the table. "I love sofa shops!" "Oh no," Daughter groans. "Don't do that thing you did in the curtain shop, please." Small Boy went through a worrying phase a few years back of going into raptures over velour and chenille fabric samples - he would rub his face in them and make purring noises. "Yes, don't do that," I add. Twenty minutes later we find ourselves being dropped off by Husband with specific instructions. "Right," he says jamming on the brakes and shooting me a steely look. It is one I've seen many times before and know never bodes well. "I don't want to be all day about this. You've got twenty minutes to go to the Apple Store while I do some jobs and then I'll meet you in the sofa shop at ten past eleven. Don't be late." Small Boy decides he wants to come to the Apple Store too, so I find myself running through town, dragging both children behind me. "Why are we running?" shouts Daughter. "So I can have more time in the store!" I shout back. "My legs hurt!" shouts Small Boy. "You should have gone with Dad," I return. We arrive in the Apple Store to find they don't sell the kind of cover I want for my - sorry THE - iPad, and so sprint to Carphone Warehouse. I am on the point of choosing a cover when my mobile rings. It is Husband. "Where are you?" "I'm in the Carphone Warehouse. Why?" "That's just what I was going to ask you." "What?!" "Why are you in the Carphone Warehouse? You said you were going to the Apple Store." I am starting to feel very huffy. Not only have I been given a timetable, I must now explain a detour in my plans within the confines of that timetable. "If you let me get on instead of phoning me, I should still make it to meet you at ten past eleven!" I hiss. I pay for the cover and note we now only have five minutes to do the 1000 metre dash to the sofa shop. "Mu-um! I can't run that fast!" "Slow down!" "I don't want to be late for y'father," "You sound like Grandma when you say that." "Grrrr!" We arrive in the sofa shop on the dot of 11:10. A smiley lady immediately walks over to ask if she can help. I start to explain that my husband will be somewhere in the shop, waiting for us. "No, he's not," says Daughter. "I've already looked everywhere and he's not here yet." I grit my teeth and try to return Smiley Lady's smile. "Never mind. Let's try some sofas while we are waiting." "I know what I like already," says a muffled voice. I glance round just in time to find Small Boy wrapping himself in fabric samples, a beatific, glazed expression on his face. I glumly watch him purr and giggle and I sigh as my last chance of a half-hour to myself browsing in the clothes shops vanishes. At least someone is having fun, I think as I reach for my mobile and call Husband's number . . .

New Year's Resolutions

We see in the New Year at the house of Small Boy's Best Friend William, and very convivial it is too. Once we have finished the exhaustive and raucous entertainment programme (including, amongst other things, filming the kids making a human pyramid - smallest underneath, naturally) the conversation inevitably turns to New Year's Resolutions. William's dad glumly announces that he will be training to complete the London Marathon in sub-3 hours as his sister's boyfriend has already achieved this, and he cannot face the world, let alone the rest of his family, until he has beaten the man.
I have never been able to keep up with William's dad, whether running or otherwise. But happily I was not intending to make any resolutions. (Other than to watch series one of "The Killing" now that the series is finished on television and the rest of the world knows how it all ends. It seems about time.)

Husband, however, awakes on the first day of 2012, alarmingly full of energy and, seemingly inspired by William's dad, ready to make lots of resolutions.
For me.
"You could start by giving up swearing," he suggests breezily.
"I bloody well couldn't," I mutter. My head is hurting. Everything is annoying me already, and the New Year has hardly started. "Can you please at least take your dirty plate to the dishwasher?" I grumble at Daughter.
"And you could also try and have a more relaxed attitude towards the children," adds Husband. "But before you have a go at that, what about tackling the Messy Drawer in the kitchen?"
I grunt an unintelligible response which includes some more swearing and not a lot of relaxed attitude.
The Messy Drawer is one of many glory holes throughout the house where things tend to get tidied away (i.e. chucked away) when I need to do a swift cleaning-up operation (i.e. every Friday night before Husband comes home). Over the four years we have lived in this house, the glory holes have become distinctly less glorious and increasingly less full of holes due to the amount of stuff filling them. I do very well at walking past them and ignoring them most of the time, pushing aside the niggling sensation that I really should Sort Them All Out Soon. And thankfully Husband has not usually got enough time or energy to remind me about them.
Until now.
Now he has had a week off work and is clearly feeling fresh and invigorated. (I should have recognised the signs. He joined in with Pictionary at the New Year's Eve party instead of falling asleep on a sofa or coughing and making obvious tapping motions on the face of his watch at ten thirty.)
"Come on!" he says, jumping up. "No time like the present!" He pulls the drawer out of the dresser and up-ends it on to the kitchen table.
"Oh. My. Word," he says. "What on earth is all this?"
He points to a pile of vaguely crumble-like substance mixed in with loose drawing pins, pieces of chalk, ink cartridges, used chequebook stubs and some tap washers.
"Well. It's - it's a messy drawer," I say lamely.

An hour later Husband has separated out the drawing-pins, pieces of chalk etc and put them into discreet compartments. He has swept up the crumble-like substance and disposed of it. And he is now talking me through the new filing system for stationery and chequebooks. I must admit to being impressed.
"That's lovely. Thank you," I say. "I think I'll go and have a shower now."
"Oh no," says Husband firmly. "Now that I've shown you how to do it, you can make a start on the next phase." He walks over to the kitchen cupboards and opens the bottom one where I store a spare kettle, a juicer, two metres of old wallpaper, bubble wrap, three French hens, two turtle doves and--
"NO!" I cry. "Not the Messy Cupboard! Have you no mercy?"
He gives me a hard stare that Paddington would be proud of and waits until I begin the mammoth task of clearing out and sorting.
I have a feeling that 2012 is going to be a very long year.

The Perfect Christmas Lunch

We have survived church.Husband sprints down the road making muffled excuses about having to "save the turkey", leaving me to whisk the Aged Ps out of the door before they can get the vicar in a corner and tell him what Richard Dawkins would have to say about his sermon.
Small Boy has almost reached the point of spontaneous combustion by this point.
"CAN WE OPEN OUR PRESENTS THE MINUTE WE GET IN?" he hollers, bouncing up and down in the middle of the pavement in front of me.
"You take them into the sitting room while Dad and I put the veg on for lunch and then we will open them, I promise," I mollify him.
"I hope the turkey will be done on time," says Mother.
"I'm sure it will be," I say.
"Did you know that it takes until you are 47 to perfect cooking Christmas lunch?" says Mother. "You've still got six years to go - ha!" she adds.
Small Boy rushes in to get the presents from under the tree and has them organised into separate piles for each person before I have had time to take my coat off.
"What's this one?" he asks, running up to me with a small packet which appears to be addressed to Mother - from Mother.
"Er, I don't know. Must be a mistake," I say.
"No, it's not a mistake," Mother says. "That present is for me."
"But it also says it's from you," says Small Boy.
"Yes, well. I don't get many presents," she says sniffily. "And I bought your mother the same thing in a two for one deal, so I thought I'd keep the free one."
I concentrate my energies on the roast potatoes and leave Small Boy to ponder on the appropriateness of this version of gift-giving.
Dad, meanwhile, has ferretted out a bottle of bubbly and cracked it open with the excuse that he has to "toast my brother in South Africa at this time of day". It is only 11:30, but frankly I am not going to turn down a glass the way I am feeling.
"SO CAN WE OPEN THE PRESENTS YET?" Small Boy yells, dancing around dangerously near a pan of sizzling hot fat.
"Yes, yes," I say, waving him out of the kitchen.
"Is that turkey all right?" Mother asks. "Why don't you let me help? After all, technically I perfected the cooking of Christmas lunch 21 years ago!" She laughs heartily.
Small Boy and Daughter are ripping the wrapping paper off the iPods we have given them. Once opened, there ensues a tedious exchange of texts, which unfortunately I am party to, and which goes something like this:

- Hello. This is me. Is that u?

- Who is this? I cant see ur name.

- u r a loser.

- Not Im not Im kl.

- This is Mum. Please stop texting me while I'm trying to cook.

- Hello. Is that Mum?
- no its not u loser.

- I dont hv a username do u?

- SHUT UP!

Mother quickly gets huffy as she doesn't have an iPhone or iPod so feels she is missing out. "I don't agree with all this technology anyway," she says. "The Kindle's rubbish for a start. I find I can't remember anything I've read on the Kindle! It's as if it wipes my memory the minute I've finished with it. And as for texting . . . " She fishes out her own archaic brick of a mobile. "I mean, it doesn't even work." She begins prodding at the keyboard and swearing. "Take a look at this, can't you?" she says, thrusting it under Dad's nose. "I want to send a text to our other daughter. Seeing as no one here is talking to me." She glares at her grandchildren. "But every time I press send, it doesn't do anything."
Dad frowns, presses a few buttons and says, "You've sent the same text ten times already."
"Well how on earth am I supposed to know that?" Mother says, throwing up her hands in despair.
"Never mind, Mum," I say, downing another glass of bubbly. "Technology is kind of the opposite of Christmas lunch."
"What do you mean?"
"If you haven't perfected it by the time you're 47, you're most unlikely ever to be able to manage it," I say with a grin. "Oh, look at that. The turkey's ready. Lunch anyone? Or would you like to wait another six years, just in case it's not perfect?"

Distraction Techniques

I made a vow to myself before Christmas that I would remain cheery at all times. This is not something that comes naturally to me, particularly when I have the Aged Ps to stay for longer than twenty-four hours, so I had to come up with some strategies to get me through the four days of festive family fun that lie ahead. I decided that the best way to deal with everyone was to treat them as I would a demanding toddler: feed them frequently, let them nap when they want to, ignore bad behaviour and praise the good. And if all else fails, use Distraction Techniques.
Thus it is that come Christmas Eve I find myself drawing up a mental Christmas Chart that would rival Miranda's mother's. In my mind's eye, it looks like this:

Christmas Day
8:30 am Breakfast
10:00 am Church
11:30 am Present-opening
12:00pm Drinks and nibbles
1:00pm Lunch
2:00pm Games
3:00pm Walk
5:00pm Tea and cake for those who can manage it
7:00pm Dr Who
8:00pm Supper
9:00pm Downton Abbey
11:00pm Bed

I am hoping that this will not leave enough room for indepth "discussions" (aka rants) about the Euro, the riots, Jeremy Clarkson or Nick Clegg.

We stagger down to breakfast, after a night of Small Boy waking up on the hour every hour to open another stocking present, to find the Aged Ps are up already and waiting for someone to put the kettle on and show them how to use the toaster.
"So when can we open our presents?" asks Mother, following me around the kitchen like the dog does when she is hoping for tidbits.
Husband has been schooled in The Chart, and is ready with the correct answer.
"After church," he says, as Mother moves into his personal space.
"I thought you didn't go to church?" says Mother, eyes narrowing.
He shrugs and says, "Coffee?" He is getting good at the Distraction Techniques too.
Mother is right, Husband doesn't go to church, but he is not stupid. He knows a good thing when he sees it. On Christmas Day when you have your in-laws to stay, going to church is a very useful form of killing time.
Mother doesn't go to church either, but she does not want to miss out on anything that could be used as material later in the day, so she comes.
Within seconds of sitting down, Mother has found a way of bringing the conversation around to the inconsiderate mildness of the weather which inexorably leads us to climate change. I make the fatal mistake of saying that Husband's brother (a social scientist who knows more than most people about the effects of climate change) has a lot of gloomy things to say about it.
"Yes, I know," says Mother. "It's East Anglia I'm worried about. It won't exist by the time the kids are adults."
"I think I'd be more worried about Africa," I say.
I might just as well have said, "Look out, there's an immigrant about to sit next to you."
Mother's face darkens. "Well Africa's a mess already. Let them all kill each other, I say. It's survival of the fittest."
I look towards the altar and take a deep breath. Don't rise to it. Think: Distraction Techniques, I tell myself.
"So, shall we play Cluedo when we get home?" I say.
Mother brightens. "Lovely," she says. "As long as don't have to be the Reverend Green. Load of crap, this religion business," she announces loudly as the vicar walks in.
Happily it seems that the organist has been told about Distraction Techniques too, as he conveniently starts up the introduction to Unto Us a Son is Born, just as Mother announces: "I'm an atheist, you know."

I smile and nod and start singing. Very, very loudly.

Aged Ps Bingo

It is Christmas Eve Eve and we are awaiting the arrival of the Aged Ps. The heating has been cranked up to top notch; we are wandering around in shorts and T-shirts and sucking ice cubes, but it is worth it if it prevents Mother from sitting in the corner, shivering and telling us that "old houses are too drafty".
"What's the betting Grandma arrives saying, 'We've had a terrible journey. There are far too many people in this country'?" I say.
"Yes," says Daughter. "She'll probably blame it on the immigrants."
I sigh. She probably will, although I would like to know the exact statistics of cars full of 'immigrants' travelling from the south-east to the south-west on Christmas Eve Eve versus the statistics of cars half-full of pensioners doing that same journey.
"At least it's not raining," I say, trying to look on the bright side. "Otherwise she would say, 'It's been a terrible journey. And of course it's raining. It always rains when we come to see you.'"
"Grandma always says the same things," says Small Boy, with a puzzled frown. "It's weird."
"Yes, But instead of letting it get us down, I think we should ignore it this time," I say.
"Or make a game of it," Daughter suggests.
"Oh! We could play 'Aged Ps Bingo'!" I say.
"What's that?" asks Small Boy.
"Well, you know in Bingo someone calls out numbers and you mark them on your card and then shout 'Bingo!'?" I explain. "In our version, every time Grandma, or Grandpa, come to that, says one of their sayings--"
"You mean like how it's been a 'dreadful year', or how it always rains when they come to see us?" chips in Daughter.
"Yes--"
"Or if they mention immigrants?" she continues gleefully.
"Or if they both start singing in Latin or talking in Italian?" asks Small Boy.
"Or Swedish," says Daughter.
"Yes, yes! All those things," I say impatiently. "If they do that, then we get to kind of mentally mark it and when we've got four or five or them we can say Bingo - very, very quietly, and only to each other," I add hastily.
I glance at the clock. Five minutes to go. I can be that accurate, because the Aged Ps are. Unless it's been an even more terrible journey than usual, that is.
One minute to go and right on cue, the heavens open and the most torrential rain we have experienced in the past fortnight is tipped out of the sky on to our heads.
Dong! The clock strikes three and the Ghosts of Christmas Present arrive on the doorstep, rattling their chains and moaning.
"Urgh. It always rains when we come to see you," says Mother, shaking her umbrella out over Psycho Cat.
"Bingo," whispers Small Boy, sniggering.
"Ahem," I say, giving him a pointed look.
"And we've had a terrible journey," adds Mother, plonking her luggage down on the dog.
"Bingo!" chorus Daughter and Small Boy, in slightly louder whispers.
"Not now," I say through gritted teeth.
"And I've just reversed the car into that skip you've left in your driveway," Dad mutters. "Non effundit imbres sed."
"BINGO!" the children snort, choking on their inadequately suppressed laughter.
I am shaking my head and furiously mouthing NO, but the Aged Ps seem not to have noticed anything amiss. But then: "Bingo?" Mother repeats, frowning.
I freeze and feverishly start praying for forgiveness and promising to be nice for the whole of Christmas if only she won't ask the kids what they are going on about.
"Funny you should say that. Look what I've brought you." She hands them a box of crackers.
The packaging announces that the box contains small table crackers with a joke, suggestions for charades and a game of--
"MINI BINGO!" shout the children.
Thank you Lord, I think, as I leave them to rip off the packaging and pour over the contents of the box.
I seem to have got away with that one.

All I Want For Christmas is Yoo-hoooo

Daughter's new passion is to Google guitar chords so that she can play and sing along to all manner of  X-Factor-soundy-likey numbers while she strums. She is actually pretty tuneful, so I cannot complain. I can shut the door, though. Particularly when she starts teaching Small Boy how to sing along to Christmassy Numbers.
Now, I like Christmas, I really do, and I love a good sing-along, but when your children bellow the likes of "Santa Claus is coming to town" or "Oh I wish it could be Christmas every day" or "All I want for Christmas is Yooo-hooooo!" at the top of their squeaky little voices, I begin to wish fervently that it was all over.
"So, all you want for Christmas is me?" I ask, after a particularly long drawn-out performance. "Well, that makes present-buying nice and easy."
Small Boy erupts into giggles and bounces around the room shouting, "Yes! You could wrap yourself up and put yourself under the tree!"
Daughter rolls her eyes heavenward. "She wouldn't fit," she mutters.
But Small Boy is still bouncing and giggling. I can always rely upon my son to find my sense of humour immensely pleasing, and since I know this won't last for much longer, I milk it for all it's worth. "I could stand in your room covered in paper and tinsel and ribbon and wait for you to wake up and find me on Christmas morning," I suggest.
Small Boy howls. "That would be SO COOL!" he shouts.
Daughter curls her lip and goes back to strumming and doing more X-Factor-style wailing noises.
"Hey!" says Small Boy, a glint developing dangerously in his already very beady eye. "Can I wrap myself up and be a surprise for Grandma and Grandpa on Christmas Day?"
"Er--" I hesitate, as an image comes to mind of the Aged Ps in their Aged PJs, staggering downstairs, the effects of their Christmas Eve drinking session still weighing heavily on their constitution, to be greeted by a Small Boy Jack-in-the-Box before they've had a chance to moan, "It really has been a dreadful year."
"Do you know what?" I say tentatively. "I don't think Grandma and Grandpa would see the funny side. I think you might actually give them a heart attack."
"But it would be HILARIOUS!" insists Small Boy.
It most probably would be, but I am not sure I am ready to deal with the consequences.
"No, I don't think so," I say firmly.
Small Boy looks momentarily disappointed. Then the glint comes back and he says, "What about if I wrapped Grandma and Grandpa up and they could be a surprise for Dad?" He hesitates. "Or, would that give him a heart attack too?"
I bite my lip and try to stay serious. "Yes, I think it probably would."
But he has given me an idea. I am going to give Small Boy full licence to act on the first person to say, "It really has been a dreadful year" - they will be boxed and gift-wrapped and shut in a room before you can shout "annus horribilis"!
That would be my perfect Christmas present.

The Aged Ps Go Berserk

Dad has joined a Swedish drinking society. No, you have not misread that sentence.
"It's called the BVs," he tells me.
"Sounds, ah, interesting," I say.
"Yes," says Dad. "I get to dress up as a Viking, drink Swedish beer and eat Swedish food. And the best of it is, we get to sing songs - in Swedish!"
I open my mouth to respond, but am at a complete loss.
I needn't worry, as Mother has already piped up in my other ear. "It's all bloody ridiculous, of course," she sneers. "But it keeps y'father quiet and gives me a night off, so I suppose that's something."
A night off from what? I wonder. Singing Swedish in the kitchen?
"So," I speak tentatively into the silence that crackles expectantly down the line. "Who are all the other people in the group?"
"Oh, I can't tell you," says Dad gleefully. "It's a secret society, you see. We are known offically as the Berserkers and Vikings and each of us has a name. There is a hierarchy too," he goes on. He is sounding more and more like an excitable ten-year-old who has just been admitted into the popular kids' gang at school. "You can progress from one stage to another once you have learnt the correct responses to certain questions."
"And the special handshakes," Mother guffaws. "It's like the Swedish Masons."
For once I have to agree with her.
(I Google it while I am on the phone to discover that the website is blocked and that I have to have a special password to be allowed to read anything about it at all. "Nytt anvandarnman och losenord" it tells me, sternly.)
"I'm going tonight," Dad continues, ignoring Mother. "And I've learnt all the questions and answers and if I get them right, I become a Hirdsmen."
"A herdsman?" I say.
"No," says Dad with infinite patience. "A H-irrrrds-men," he repeats in his best Swedish accent.
"Can anyone join?" I ask, breathing hard to supress my giggles.
"Absolut inte," says Dad, who seems to have gone into full-on Swedish mode now. "Sallskapet Basarkar et Vikingar genom inbjudan enbart. Och inga kvinnor ar tillatna."
"OK," I say in my fake Swedish accent. "Vell, I vould laik to buy some deorrrdorrant."
"Oh?" says Dad, playing along. "Ball or airsole?"
"Needer," I answer. "I vant it for my arrrmpits."
We fall about laughing and Mother slams her phone down in disgust.
"It's a shame that kvinnor aren't allowed in the BVs," I say, wiping tears of mirth from my cheeks. "I think I'd make rather a good Berserker woman."
"Ja," squeaks Dad, "Jag tror du skulle!"
Indeed.
God Jul minna vanner!

[The editor would like to apologise to any Swedish readers for grammatical and orthographic errors, which are no doubt legion ... Mainly because Blogger doesn't like writing in foreign.]

A Big Day Out for a Very Small Bird

It is the morning of the District Fanciers' Association Annual Poultry Show. Small Boy has been up since six thirty, pacing his room, memorising the names of all the special breeds on his chicken poster and waiting until he can legitimately wake us to take him into deepest, darkest Somerset to the village hall where he will show Titch, his Lavender Pekin.
A lot is riding on this day, and so far it has not started well. I have a tummy bug and Husband has a head cold. We would rather be in bed than standing in a cold village hall in the dark, but needs must.
At seven o'clock I stagger downstairs to help Small Boy retrieve his hen from the utility room where she has spent the night in the cage we used to put the dog in when she was a puppy. It is a cage big enough for a full-sized Labrador, so needless to say, the bantam Pekin looks somewhat lost in it. She does, however, look marvellously "poofy", which is our new adjective to describe quite how fluffed up her feathers become after a poultry-pampering session. However, as I lift her out of the cage and settle her in a cat box she tilts her head at me questioningly. She looks as doubtful as I feel about the day ahead of her.

Forty minutes later, I am only glad that this is a Poultry Show we are going to and not a Cat Show. Psycho Cat would have clawed her own eyeballs out after such a twisty-turny drive, but Titch is sitting demurely, not a feather out of place. This is more than can be said for me, as I am still feeling distinctly green about the gills, and have not enjoyed the thirty-point turn I had to perform to fit the Volvo into a parking space in the miniscule car park.
A huge number of people have already arrived with crates and crates of hens, cockerels and ducks. The hall itself is lined from floor to ceiling with metal cages stacked one on top of the other. There are mini hens, massive hens, cockerels the stature of your average Major-General with voices to match, and ducks of all shapes and sizes as well. One particularly neurotic duck seems to be convinced that it's being attacked by its own reflection and is savagely attacking the blurred image on the metal side of its cage, to the detriment of its oiled and polished beak. All the poultry, without exception, are stunningly attractive, brushed, fluffed and preened to within an inch of their lives.
The same cannot be said for the owners. I feel positively over-dressed in my Morning Face, jeans, jumper and un-brushed hair. I am glad I did not bother to set the alarm half an hour earlier to give myself time for makeup or matching socks.
I quickly forget that I am supposed to be marvelling at the beauty of the livestock and become more fascinated by the owners. I wonder what prizes I would award them.
Best Rare Breed, definitely, I think, as I notice a woman wearing an orange and brown jumper that is definitely handknitted and not in an On-Trend way.
Best True Weirdo.
Best Sour-Faced Trout Person.
Best Hard as Nails, Wouldn't Want to Meet You Down a Dark Alley Man.
They are amongst the weirdest and most unattractive bunch I have ever seen. And that is saying something from someone who has been to Crufts more than once and who knows more than she should about humans who take more pride in the appearance and health of their animals than they do in their own.
"So, can we go now?" I ask Small Boy, as I catch a particularly fruity waft of poultry poo that does nothing for the state of my stomach. (We are leaving Titch to be inspected and judged and coming back at 3pm for the prize-giving ceremony.)
"No," says Small Boy firmly. "Can't you see that everyone is giving their poultry a final grooming session? I must rub more Vaseline into Titch's beak and clean her feet again."

Somehow we get through the rest of the day, all of us slightly on edge at the thought of the tiny hen stuck in a cage, surrounded by noisy smelly neighbours awaiting her turn to be prodded and poked by potato-faced District Fanciers.
When Husband and Small Boy return at 3pm, I am bravely informed that Small Boy's Best Friend, William, cleaned up on the prizes.
"He got Best Bantam, Best Junior and Best Egg," he tells me. "But he did breed the bantam, and he did show eight hens."
"And what about Titch?" I ask.
Small Boy looks smaller than ever and says softly, "I asked why she didn't win anything, and they said she is Too Pale for a Show Bird."
I give him a hug and say, "Nevermind, she'll always be Best in Show to me. Just put it down to experience."
Small Boy brightens. "That's what I thought," he says. "Cos there's always next time, isn't there?"
"Next time?" I repeat nervously. I had hoped this poultry fancying was a one-off.
"Yes!" chirrups Small Boy. "There's another show in March. In Taunton! I've got the forms already . . ."
"Lovely dear," I say, through gritted teeth. "That's just - lovely."

The Aged Ps' Christmas Speech

Mother is gearing up for her Christmas Day Speech which she prepares every day as a rival to Her Majesty's. Ever since the Queen announced she had had an "annus horribilis", Mother has felt the need to compete. Once the lunch has been consumed, the crackers cracked and the pudding set on fire, Mother can be relied upon to sit back, sigh and say one of two things: "Well, I'm glad that's all over." Or "I have to say it's been a dreadful year."
Every time she phones she makes it clear that she is getting her material together early this year and gives me tempting little trailers so that I can have some idea of what I am to expect on the day.
"Well," she says, with feeling. "What do you think about Jeremy Clarkson?"
She knows very well what I think about Jeremy Clarkson, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. As it happens, it doesn't matter very much what I think as she leaves just about enough time in the conversation for me to draw breath before diving in with:
"If you ask me, it's ridiculous that he was forced to make a public apology. I mean, you can't say anything about anyone any more without being forced to make a public apology."
Actually, I think, you seem to do a very good job of saying exactly what you think whilst avoiding making apologies, public or otherwise.
"I mean, next they'll be saying we can't say the Greeks are lazy shits," Mother continues. "Which they palpably are. I mean LOOK at the state of their economy."
I make a mental note to warn Husband of the topics which will crop up over Christmas. Perhaps we can play "Aged Ps' Bingo" while they rant away to each other.
"Well, it's all the fault of their language," chips in Dad, who predictably has picked up the other phone. "Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful, but any culture whose language contains verbs which have four moods, three voices and three numbers as well as being conjugated in four main combinations of tense and aspect with a full complement of moods for each of the main tenses is bound to be a bit - moody!" he chortles.
Mother guffaws with glee at this Classicists' in-joke.
"Dad," I edge in, tentatively, "that wouldn't be Ancient Greek you're talking about, would it?"
"Ah," says Dad. "Well, doesn't matter much, does it? It's all--"
"Greek to me. Exactly," I finish. "So, apart from following Jezza's exploits and spitting tacks about the Greeks, how's life?" I ask.
Except I don't, as they have already moved on to howling about the state of the Euro and the perfidiousness of our Gallic neighbours.
"So what do you think about David Cameron's decision not to back the Euro?" Mother asks.
"I--," I begin.
"Tell you what," she says dangerously. "Don't tell me now. Let's save that discussion for when we come to stay next week."
I groan quietly and reach over to turn on the gas oven, ready to stick my head into it once I've put the phone down.

The Alarm(ed) Man

In true end-of-term spirit, everything in the house has decided to go on the blink. It's as if the house is saying, "You think you're run-down...? Try being me, with you lot rattling around inside me 24/7."
The family PC has given up the ghost (something I can no longer blame on the children leaving Sims permanently open, since we mercilessly murdered the whole Sims family weeks ago, consigning them to a cyber afterlife). A window is broken downstairs and it appears I shall have to sell all my wordly goods and/or sleep with the warty man from the glaziers to get it fixed this side of the New Year. And now the burglar alarm has broken. And not in a silent way.
We are woken at six thirty to the sounds of Daughter shouting, "There's a horrid beepy noise going on in the utility room and I can't make it stop!"
It transpires that none of us can make it stop, and so I have to call the security firm who grimly tell me it's "going to cost" me. Well, there's a surprise.
"And can you come and fix it this week?" I ask.
There's an ominous silence. "Hmmm," says the woman eventually. "Maybe. But I can't find any record of you on our system."
SO WHAT IF I'M NOT ON YOUR BLINKING SYSTEM? I want to shout. FOR GOODNESS SAKE, IT'S A RECESSION, WOMAN!!!! HERE I AM, WILLING TO THROW MONEY AT THIS. THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS TO COME AND FIX IT NOW!
She evidently senses a little ominousness in my own silence, because after a lot of teeth-sucking, she eventually agrees to send someone round.
When the someone arrives, he cannot work out where to park his car, or how to walk down the path to the house. He calls me on his mobile and I have to go out to meet him. He is hovering behind the garden gate, grinning sheepishly.
"Come in!" I call, waving cheerily.
He does not move.
I go up to the gate, open it and babble at him, "It's fine to leave your car there, just come on in."
He backs away nervously.
I run my tongue over my teeth. Nope, don't think there are the remains of breakfast lurking suspiciously. I look myself up and down. Yup, I remembered to get dressed this morning . . . I cannot work out what it is about me which is so off-putting. I smile encouragingly, "So, if you'd like to come this way," I try again, gesturing towards the house.
"Erm, have you got a dog?" the man says, stepping gingerly through the gate as though frightened it might be trip-wired.
"Yes," I say brightly. "She's very soppy--"
"What kind of dog?" he cuts in, shifting his gaze around, as if convinced I am hiding a dog on my person. "Only, I'm, er, very nervous of dogs," he adds, smiling shakily.
It is at this moment that I realise I had succombed to a stereotypical vision in my head of what a burglar alarm technician should be like. I had imagined a burly, no-nonsense type who could crush burglars in his bare hands. But no, it appears the species is softly spoken, nervy and terrified of Labradors.
"It's OK," I say. "You don't have to go anywhere near the dog. I'll keep her away from you."
We go in through the kitchen and the dog looks up dolefully. "I know, I know," her look of resignation clearly says, "I heard it all - he's scared of me. I'll stay here, don't worry." She sighs disappointedly and remains in her basket.
The man edges around the kitchen table and then makes a break for the utility room.
I leave him to pull and fuss at wires and tut a lot. It's OK, I think to myself, I've been forewarned: this is going to cost me.

After an hour or so of the alarm going off every five minutes, causing me to jump and utter unprintables every time, the man tells me it's fixed.
"So, shall I write you a cheque today, or should I wait for an invoice?" I ask.
The man immediately shuffles away from me.
That's funny, I think. I'm sure I just offered to pay him, not eat him alive.
"N-no," he says, waving a hand at me. "Don't give me a cheque. I don't like handling the money side of things, in case customers want to strangle me when they find out how much they owe."
"OK," I laugh.
He doesn't join in.
I escort him off the premises, making sure my soppy pooch gets not so much as a sniff of his trousers. The man is last seen doing a handbrake turn out of our drive, an expression of horror on his face, as though the very Hounds of Hell were on his tail.

The Only Bass in the Village

'Tis the season of choir rehearsals and general preparation for carol concerts, both in and out of school. I am wondering quite why I thought it would be a good idea to agree to host a children's rehearsal at my house in the final days of term when I am already running on empty and liable to bite anyone who comes within ten feet of me. But I hear myself agreeing to writing out cello parts, and copying out three part harmonies, with a blitheness of spirit akin to that of Scrooge's nephew, whilst inside I am seething more darkly than the crusty old uncle himself.
My poor, unfortunate children are at the receiving end of my bad mood, and suffer the worst of it on the way into school this morning. Small Boy has done his best to be merry and bright, but even he has had enough of me by the time we pull up outside school.
I stomp off to my own singing group's rehearsal with a face like the dark December sky above, and vent my frustration on an inappropriately lusty rendition of "Silent Night".
"Er, anything wrong?" asks my friend, as I belt out "All is calm, all is bright", my brow furrowed.
I tell her about the list of commitments that is overwhelming me and the fact that I have just won Vilest Mother of the Year Award.
"Things could be worse!" trills my friend. "You could be in charge of the whole village carol concert with a bunch of crumblies who labour under the illusion that I am put here on this earth for the sole purpose of spending two hours a week in a freezing church hall after work with a crowd of over-seventies whose last attempt at singing was a good thirty years ago and who believe their voices are on a par with those of the dulcet angelic hosts, rather than actually sounding like a combination of fingernails scraping down a blackboard and a chorus of belching banshees!" She pauses to draw breath.
"Oh," I say.
"And then there's Mr R. Oh. My. Goodness. He is the Only Bass in the Village, and by God does he know it."
"Right," I say.
"He tells me he's only got time for one rehearsal, turns up and criticises my Latin pronounciation, telling me it is 'too Cambridge', and then barks, 'Is this going to take long, only I've got a quail in the oven.'"
"A quail in the oven?" I repeat, baffled. Is this some kind of West Country euphemism I haven't had the pleasure of hearing until now?
"Yes," says my friend. "Mr R has roast quail on a Monday night, apparently. And then he tells me he doesn't need to see the music anyway, as he was a chorister at Westminster for seven years. Sadly that was about seventy years ago, but I can't comment or complain because--"
"He's the Only Bass in the Village?"
My friend nods, her face a worrying shade of purple.
She's right, I think as I gather my things and head back to my desk for a day of writing-as-therapy. Things could be worse.

The Aged Ps Give Thanks

Mother rings to update me on her Christmas shopping.
"So we've got you the Clarins--"
"Don't tell me!" I plead.
"What do you mean, don't tell you?" Mother snaps. "I'm telling you that I've got you what you asked for. I'm telling you because I thought you'd be pleased."
"Yes," I sigh. "Thank you. I am pleased."
Mother has done this to me every year since I can remember: she always tells me exactly what my Christmas present is the minute she has bought it. It is a miracle I believed in Father Christmas for as long as I did. (Which, in fact, was for a shamefully long time. I have an excruciatingly clear memory of walking into the bathroom and demanding to know whether or not Father Christmas existed. "You have to tell me," I informed them. "Otherwise one day I will have children of my own and I will wait up all night for him to come and then what will I do when he doesn't?" I was in my first year at secondary school when I asked this.)
"So that's Christmas all done and dusted," Mother announces with satisfaction.
"Great," I say. And there was I thinking it hadn't started yet.
"Yes, Christmas shopping isn't much fun, is it? So I'm glad it's all over for another year. London was hell. Y'father and I went to The Savoy to treat ourselves after battling down Oxford Street - urgh! Far too many people. But then there are too many people in this country, as I'm always saying--"
"Yes, you are," I cut in hastily before I get the "it's all the fault of the immigrants" rant. "So, The Savoy - that must have been nice?" I ask.
"Well, it would have been," Mother sniffs. "Except that they were only doing a Thanksgiving meal! Thanksgiving, I ask you? Since when did we give a stuff about that?"
"Oh, I suppose everything gets Americanised these days," I mumble.
"Huh! I hope they don't think we're going to start celebrating Thanksgiving. Halloween's bad enough. What on earth are we supposed to be giving thanks for?" Mother snorts.
"That's easy!" Dad has picked up the other phone and barks into my ear, giving me the fright of my life. "We should be giving thanks we got rid of the bastards."
The Aged Ps collapse into hysterics.
I wonder idlly whether Dad has thought of applying for the job of Jeremy Clarkson's script writer. But I manage not to let this thought slip out. I don't want to be giving him any ideas.
"Well, there's certainly no reason to give thanks for anything around here at the moment," Mother says, recovering from her hysteria. "The country's going to the dogs. What about the strike? Load of old . . ."
And off she goes, chuntering away to Dad about the fecklessness of the unions and the Have-It-All Culture of People Today.
I listen wearily while a picture forms in my mind of the same conversation rearing its ugly head over the mince pies and brandy butter in four weeks' time.
Suddenly I'm not feeling a whole lot like giving thanks, either.

Guess How Much I Love You

I am staring into the greying waters of the evening's washing-up, turning over in my mind the problems I am having with the final draft of my manuscript. Suddenly I experience a strange sensation around my waist: something has encircled me and is tightening its grasp. I shriek.
"Mu-uum! It's only me," says a voice.
I twist my head round to see Daughter, who has now released me. There is a distinctly wounded expression on her face.
"What were you thinking of?" I demand. "Creeping up on me like that - you scared me!"
"I was only giving you a hug," Daughter protests. "I'm just, like, happy?" she explains, looking anything but, "And I had this urge to cuddle you. Cos I, like, love you. I guess."
I am filled with a deep sense of suspicion. Daughter never hugs family members, least of all me. And she never, ever says "I love you". She reserves such overt displays of affection for her female friends and performs them in the manner of an actress in an American soap, flinging her arms high in the air and encircling her victim while squealing loudly.
The hug I have just received was entirely different: it was a genuine warm snuggle, designed to convey feelings of true love and affection.
"What has happened to bring on this sudden rush of feeling for your mother?" I ask.
Daughter shifts uncomfortably and blushes, then hands me a piece of paper.
"We got our Activities Week choices confirmed today," she says.
The clouds part, the light dawns; all becomes clear. I open the letter. Daughter has got her first choice of trip - to go to Barcelona in July for a whole week. I am asked to "please return the acceptance slip with a deposit of £XXX as soon as possible" and am thanked for my "continued support". Support of what? I wonder. Looking at the itinerary which includes shopping (of all things), I am assuming they mean "support of the Spanish economy". I doubt very much that my "support" has anything to do with furthering my daughter's education.
"Well, I'm glad you're happy," I say, signing the slip and handing it back to Daughter, my arms out to hug her in return.
She takes the piece of paper and then backs away from me with a freaked-out expression. "OK, calm down," she says, putting a hand up in defence. "There's no need to get all touchy-feely on me."
Of course, how stupid of me. She doesn't love me that much.

Hell On Earth or Goodwill to All Men?

I have had my head so deep in writing the final draft of my latest book that all contact with the outside world has stopped. Also domestic tasks have ground to a halt. This has not gone unnoticed by the rest of the family, but not in a way that could be described as helpful.

“I haven’t got any hockey socks,” says Daughter.

“Nor you have,” I reply from behind my laptop.

“You haven’t signed my homework diary,” says Small Boy.

“Nope,” I say.

“I don’t have any pants,” says Husband.

I lower my head behind my laptop and hide.

The laundry pile has mated with the washing up pile and is reproducing at an alarming rate.

The animals are on the point of declaring war. I forget to feed Psycho Cat and she retaliates by pulling the carpet away from the stairs in such a way to ensure that I trip and injure myself enough for it to hurt for several days, but not enough to prevent me from ever feeding her again.

I give the dog the shortest of walks and am repaid by baleful looks and much getting-under-my-feet at every available opportunity.

I forget to let the chickens out in the morning.

I forget to shut the chickens in at night.

Fortunately Mr Fox is evidently consumed with writing the final draft of his book too, so we have not been paid a visit.

In the midst of the chaos, the Aged Ps ring.

“How are you?” asks Dad.

“Well, OK. Just a bit hectic,” I reply. “I’m finishing my book.”

Mother picks up the other phone. “I hope you’re ready for Christmas,” she barks. “It’s only five weeks away, you know.”
“Christmas?” I repeat. Surely the words “it’s five weeks away” tell you everything you need to know about why I am not ready for it yet, I say. But only to myself.

“Yes. Christmas,” says Mother. “I need to know what you all want.”

Mother does this to me every year, and every year I manage to forget that this is what she does. She makes asking me what I want for Christmas sound like asking me what form of execution I would prefer.

“I – I don’t know,” I say, staring, dead-eyed, at the wall for inspiration. “Nothing.”
“You can’t want nothing,” she says, disgusted. And then in the same breath, “Mind you, people make far too much of a fuss over Christmas these days. It’s all spend, spend, spend. And it starts earlier and earlier every year. Really, with the state the economy is in, it should be banned.”
“I agree,” I lie. I actually love Christmas, but I love it at Christmas time, not in the middle of November.

There is an uneasy pause. I never agree with Mother on anything. The fact that I just have seems to have thrown her.

“So,” says Mother, eventually. “Would your husband like Max Hasting’s new book on the Second World War? It’s called All Hell Let Loose.”

Sounds like a description of the sort of time we have as a family at Christmas, I think.

“Er, I’m not sure. I’ll ask him,” I say.

“Because I would like it for myself, actually,” says Mother.

“O-kaay,” I say.

“So what do you want for Christmas? Because I need to know,” she persists.

I think about saying “Peace on earth and goodwill to all men” just to annoy her. In the end I say, “Clarins face wash?”

This, it would seem, is the right answer.

I put the phone down with a sigh of relief and return to my deadline, Christmas forgotten about until the next time she calls.

Which will be tomorrow when she will announce that she has bought Husband the Max Hasting’s book and that he can give it to her if he doesn’t want it, and that she hasn’t been able to find Clarins face wash in Sainsbury's, so she's bought me a copy of the Max Hasting's book too.

Joy to the world, and all that.

No Ruffled Feathers Here

The form for the District Fanciers' Annual Show has been filled in and the National Federation of Poultry Clubs has been sent a cheque for £2.50: one pound for the entrance fee plus £1.50 membership.
I am rather worried about the "membership" part. What does this mean for Small Boy's future? Will he be put on some register of "fanciers" and be required to disclose this information at a future date? I hope it won't cause problems with career choices later in life. Does that sort of thing come up on a CRB check, for example?
I hoped that once the form was in the post we would hear no more about Chicken Fancying until the dreaded dark December morning when we have to go to the show.
But no, Small Boy is on a mission, and when he is on a mission, no one is safe.
"So," he informs me, sternly. "Today is the day that I have decided we must do A Dry Run on Titch so that she can get used to being groomed."
"Don't you mean a Wet Run?" I ask, sniggering.
Small Boy gives me his best withering look. "No," he says. "A Dry Run is when you practise something. And we must practise grooming Titch. Otherwise," he reminds me, "she may Get Overwhelmed on the day."
Small Boy then proceeds to repeat all the advice his has gleaned from William about how best to do this.
"All right, all right!" I fling up my hands in surrender. "I'll get a washing up bowl, you get the baby shampoo, cotton buds and Vaseline."
That is a sentence I have never had to say before. I am hoping it will be a while before I ever have to say it again.
"And I need your hairdryer," Small Boy calls casually over his shoulder, before disappearing into the bathroom.
"My WHAT?"
Small Boy reemerges with armfuls of toiletries and one of my best towels. "Well we need a hairdryer obviously, otherwise Titch might get hypothermia like one of William's chickens did."
"WHAT?" I realise I am repeating myself in a high-pitched and slightly weird way, but really: chickens with hypothermia? Then I realise this is William we are talking about. "How did one of William's chickens get hypothermia?" I ask wearily.
"Well, it was all because he washed it and did all the things we are about to do to Titch," explains Small Boy, "and then he didn't dry it, so it got too cold and they had to take it round to their next door neighbour to dry it out in the Aga."
I have visions of Small Boy putting Titch in the bottom oven and forgetting all about her until the next day when the aroma of roast bantam floods the house.
"I'll get the hairdryer," I say quickly.
We then wash the chicken. I say "we", but actually Small Boy proves to be quite proficient at washing his little hen and she, in turn, proves quite content at being washed. She sits in the plastic bowl, blinking blissfully and emitting soft chirruping sounds. She also, bafflingly, seems to enjoy the experience of the hairdryer which I have the job of wielding while Small Boy holds her.
We finish off the Poultry Pampering session with a manicure and a nice blob of Vaseline on her comb. I make stupid comments along the lines of, "Would madam like some product on her feathers?" to which Small Boy snorts derisively and tells me to "shut up as you are not funny, Mum."
We stand back to admire our handiwork. And it has to be said that Titch does look rather fine. She seems to know it, too, and struts her stuff in front of her coop-mates, giving them the eye.
"Look at me!" she seems to say. "I'm a show bird, me."
I only hope she cuts the mustard with the District Poultry Fanciers. I won't know what to say to her if she doesn't.

Reasons Not to be a Chicken Fancier, Part Two

Small Boy is taking this chicken fancying business far too seriously for my liking. Things have escalated since the letter from the National Federation of Poultry Clubs mysteriously landed in our letter box. Unbeknownst to me, he took the letter into school and photocopied it for his gang of collaborators, whom he had already contacted by email to make sure of getting them on side.
"Just exactly who've you told about this chicken show?" I demand, when he comes running out of school, excitedly telling me that "everyone" (that word again) wants to come too.
"Just William," he says, appropriately. Then he looks a bit sheepish and says, "and Matt and Jamez."
("Jamez" is actually "James", but apparently "Jamez" is "more cool".)
"In other words, all your friends who also happen to have chickens?" I point out.
"Er, yeah. Obviously," says Small Boy in his you-are-a-der-brain voice. "No one else would be interested."
I sigh. "I hope you realise that their parents may well be as cross as I am about getting up in the dark on a December morning to wash a chicken and take it to a show fifteen miles away?"
"William's already asked his dad and his dad has already called the man who runs the show," Small Boy announces triumphantly.
Luckily, William's dad is a mate, otherwise I might have a few choice things to say about William's dad. He also knows a lot about chickens, so I had better be extra nice to him. He may have some top tips on how to groom the bird (no pun or euphemism intended).
"OK, so IF we were to show Titch, how are you going to set about making her beautiful for the show?" I ask.
I immediately regret my answer.
"First we wash her in warm water and baby shampoo," says Small Boy, the glint of the fanatic flashing in his eyes. "Then we get one of those cotton things on sticks and clean under her claws and around her feet, and then we gently clean her face. Oh, and we mustn't forget to make her comb look nice and shiny."
"And how do you propose to do that?" I ask.
"With Vaseline, obviously," says Small Boy.
Obviously. Silly me. How in heaven's name have I managed to survive forty-one years on this earth without knowing that you make a chicken's comb shiny with Vaseline?
"And, dare I ask, won't all this intimate attention upset poor Titch?" I venture.
Small Boy looks at me as though I need to go back to the School for Idiots and resit my A-levels. "Obviously," he says with heavy sarcasm, "obviously we don't just leave it until the last minute otherwise she will get Overwhelmed."
"Overwhelmed?" I repeat. I try to picture an overwhelmed bantam, but fail.
"Yes," says Small Boy. "And that is why we need to practise before the day." He fixes me with a stern expression. "And you are going to help."
That's my weekend sorted then. Oh joy.

My Son the Chicken Fancier

It is Small Boy's turn to receive a letter. He waves it at me, just as Daughter did with the Activities Week schedule. My heart plummets.
"What is it this time?" I ask. "A trip to Outer Mongolia to study the lemurs?"
"No," says Small Boy, exasperatedly. "You don't get lemurs in Outer Mongolia. They only live on Madagascar. And Bristol Zoo," he adds, a familiar faraway look developing in his eyes.
"Anyway, the letter . . . ?" I ask quickly. Whatever is in the letter, it has to be better than a lecture on lemurs, or indeed any other species and their endemism.
"Oh yes, the letter," says Small Boy, snapping back to the present as though coming out of a hypnotic state. "Read it. And I am going to do it, whatever you say," he adds threateningly.
I take the folded sheet of white A4 and see that is it from The National Federation of Poultry Clubs. My mouth goes dry. How on earth has my son become involved in The National Federation of Poultry Clubs without my knowledge? This is possibly more shaming than being caught wandering around London with a security tag sticking out of my bottom.
I look at Small Boy, questioningly.
"I want to show Titch in the True Bantam class of the District Fanciers Association at the annual show," he announces, holding his head high.
"You do?"
"Yes. And it's only one pound, so you can't say no," he says.
My heart melts at that. One pound! How can I possibly say no to that.
"You do know you'll have to groom Titch if you're going to show her?" says Daughter, scanning the letter.
"Groom a chicken!" I wail. "You can't groom a chicken!"
"Of course you can," says Small Boy. "I don't actually know how . . ." he admits, wavering momentarily. "But William knows, so I'll ask him. Maybe he could come for a sleepover so we can groom her together?" He is beaming like a fundamentalist loony convert to a weird and wacky cult. (Appropriate really, given the circumstances.)
Titch, the bantam in question, is a Lavender Pekin. She is a decidedly cute hen, but putting aside all feelings of horror at the idea of an association of "district fanciers", I can't see her holding her own amongst the posh chickens at the show anyway. I picture her sitting forlornly in a cage, waiting to be judged while the posh chickens cluck and throw out bitchy comments about her lack of professional grooming. Plus, I have been to an agricultural show before (under severe pressure, I might add) and I know what the judges are like: white-coated, bowler-hatted (yes! bowler-hatted!), mean-faced people with no regard for a poor chicken's feelings.
"I don't think it's a very good idea," I say. "I don't like the implied criticism in being judged by one's looks. And what if Titch doesn't like being groomed? And what about the other hens, Chi-Chi and Hazel?" I add, scratching around desperately for other reasons to get out of this crazy plan. "They will feel hurt that you are not showing them."
"Mum," says Small Boy, fixing with his you-are-bonkers expression. "They are hens. They won't know."

I tell Husband about Small Boy's plan later that evening. "How am I going to get out of this?" I ask in despair.
He is glaring at the letter and looks up, stabbing at the print. "I'll tell you how you're going to get out of it!" he exclaims. "Have you seen what time you have to be there? Nine thirty on a Sunday morning! And it's at least forty minutes drive from here - and that's after you've got up early to groom the flipping bird. You can't do it the night before."
That does it. There is no way I am getting up early on a Sunday to help my son groom a bantam hen before breakfast, with or without William's help.
"And more importantly," says Husband. "I'm not sure we really want to be encouraging our son to become a Chicken Fancier. Do you?"
I don't know. He would look quite cute in the bowler hat . . .

But Everyone Else is Going!

Daughter is waving a letter at me. She has her I-am-in-pain-I-want-this-so-much face on. "So can I go? Everyone else is going--"
Those words send a chill through my veins. They are rarely a good sign. "Everyone else" has a pair of jeans that cost more than my whole wardrobe; "everyone else" has the latest Apple gadget whenever a new one comes out. And "everyone else" goes to sleepovers where "everyone" gets no sleep and "everyone" gets up to all kinds of mischief. In short "everyone else" has a much better life than my daughter.
The letter is from Daughter's school outlining what trips are being organised for Activities Week in the summer. In the Junior School participation was voluntary, there was no choice of activity and the trip on offer usually had some educational merit. It also did not cost an arm and a leg. Now that she is at Senior School she has the choice between going to Barcelona for a week to go round galleries and shops (yes, really - shops!), going on various walking or climbing activities, learning circus skills at school or going on walks in the countryside near school. It is pretty clear which trip she tells me "everyone else" is going on. It is also pretty clear which trip she therefore is going to put all her efforts into persuading us to say yes to.
I arrange my face into an expression of regret mixed with stern discipline and prepare to launch into a speech about money not growing on trees and the country going through stringent cut-backs and this not being a time for frivolity and--
"I know what you're going to say," says Daughter before I have had chance to draw breath. "But I'll do literally aaaannnnything if you let me go to Barcelona. What jobs can I do? Tell me! Tell me!" She is actually wringing her hands. The I'm-in-pain expression is looking alarmingly real.
Husband walks in on this Oscar-winning performance, so I fill him in.
"What if I said I'd do the gardening?" Daughter says, turning the full force of her charms on her father. "You know how much I hate gardening, so that really is a huge thing to promise to do," she pleads.
I swear she is batting her eyelashes now. How do girls learn how to do this?
Husband struggles to keep a straight face. "Well, I don't see why not." He watches as Daughter's eyes flash and her mouth opens in a wide grin. She is about to throw herself at him and squeeze him in to a bear hug when he adds, "But you'd have to mow the lawn every week through the spring and summer right up until the trip. And in the winter you'd have to do some of the clearing I've started on the bank."
Daughter's forehead creases and her grin morphs into a large disappointed "O".
"Every week?" Daughter repeats incredulously. "But--"
"Every week," Husband says firmly.
I am trying to catch his eye. Surely he doesn't mean this? How could he hold her to such a promise? He knows what she is like about tidying her room, putting her books away, picking up wet towels off the floor. She wouldn't even finish mowing the lawn the first time, let alone repeat the action week after week right through until next July. I stare at him, but he is resolutely refusing to look at me.
"Well," says Daughter finally, pursing her lips in disgust. "I don't think that's fair. Why should I do that much work just to go away for one week?"
"Oh, you don't think it's fair?" says Husband.
"No," says Daughter.
Husband finally looks at me. "That's funny," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Because everyone else does."

Government Evacuation Scheme: Bath

It is 6:00am. The alarm has gone off to warn us we need to evacuate the house. Husband has to catch a plane, Daughter has to catch a bus and Small Boy is a genuine evacuee for the day. He is going on a school trip as part of his WW2 project and has to dress as a 1940s evacuee, complete with label around his neck, cap on his head, and Just-William-style shorts and wrinkled socks on his legs. I am the only one not being evacuated, as I have to stay in the war zone with the dog. I feel a bit queasy as I attach the brown paper label to Small Boy's collar.
"You're not going to cry, are you?" he asks, disgustedly. "I'll be back by tea time."
I can't help it. He looks an even smaller boy in this get-up. It's the knitted tank top that does it. How can mothers have waved their tiny children off in this manner, I think. I have to hide my face in a tea towel until I have gained control of my emotions.
*
I always groan when school gives us the task of dressing the kids up in ludicrous outfits. "As if I haven't got anything better to do!" I grumble. To which my family's answer is, "Well, you haven't."
This time it was quite fun, though. I used the school trip as an excuse to drag my kids off to my favourite market town which is famed for its vintage shops and cafes.
"Urgh! We are NOT going shopping!" Small Boy protested. "It's halfterm!"
Small Boy views going into any town to go shopping as being on a par with having his toenails ripped out. In fact, he would rather have his toenails ripped out, as the pain would be over more quickly.
"Yes, we are going shopping," I told him firmly. "We are going to look for a woollen top for you to wear on your Evacuee Trip."
And we found one. It turned out to cost me rather a lot more than I was thinking of spending, but then I told myself I could possibly wear it at some time in the future.
"It's far too big for him," Daughter said. She eyed me with suspicion. "You're not planning to wear it yourself at some time in the future, are you?" she asked.
"Of course not!" I lied, laughing nervously. "Cafe, anyone?"
*
So, here we are at 6:15am on Friday morning, putting together the final touches of Small Boy's costume and packed lunch, which, I note with relief, does not have to have a 1940s theme. I am not sure that the remains of the Trick or Treat stash which I am throwing into a lunchbox, together with a tuna roll, a Braeburn apple and an Innocent smoothie, would have been easily available with rationing coupons.
"Seeing as we're up so early," says Small Boy cunningly, "and Sister has gone and Dad has gone and it's just you and me," he adds, widening his eyes to their most puppyish size, "can I have a Full English?"
I look at my little son with his brown label around his neck and feel the tears welling up again.
"Of course," I say softly, before remembering that I have no sausages, no bacon . . . no nothing really, except a couple of eggs. I rummage in the freezer and manage to produce a bagel.
"How about fried egg and bagels?" I suggest cheerily.
Small Boy seems to think this will do. The day's experience is looking less and less authentic already, I think as I rustle up his very un-Full, un-English breakfast and watch him play on my iPhone.
Five minutes later he has demolished the breakfast and is running around the table in circles. I am still barely awake, and so I send him upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready to go.
I am just getting myself together when Small Boy remerges with his clothes askew. I inspect him and howl in horror.
"What have you done!?" I shriek, grabbing him by the collar.
The carefully faked evacuee label that I spent ages making last night is streaked with water marks and toothpaste.
"I didn't mean it!" mumbles Small Boy, looking up at me mournfully from under the peak of his very fetching outsized tweed cap.
We have to leave in two minutes. I grab a brown envelope, scribble on it in felt tip and mutter furiously, then cover the whole thing in plastic laminate to prevent disintegration after further spillages. It is hardly comparable to Kate Reddy faking mince pies in the early hours of the morning after getting off a long-haul flight, but I am feeling aggrieved nonetheless.
"They didn't have laminate in Second World War times!" wails Small Boy.
"They didn't have Haribo Tangfastics and Maltesers either - and nor will you if you don't shut up and get a move on," I snarl.
Suddenly the idea of being left to brave the Blitz with only the dog for company seems rather a good way of spending a Friday. I could sit under the kitchen table and watch Miranda on my laptop while eating the remains of the Tangfastics.
"Now come on, grab your gas mask," I tell him. "Or we'll miss Chris Evans and the Candyman."
If we'd have had them during the Second World War, the Germans wouldn't have even wanted to invade, I think grimly, slamming the door behind us.

How to Be A Grown-Up

I am very excited. Husband has stepped into the breach and kindly agreed to pick up the kids so that I can go to London Town to see friends.
The children are quite indignant about this.
"So does Dad actually know how to come and get us?" they ask. "Like, does he even know where our school is?"
I assure them that he does.
I am less worried about how they will cope without me than I am about how I will cope being on my own for a whole day. Stepping out of the provinces is such a rare occurence for me that I have palpitations for days beforehand just imagining what it will be like to sit on a train ON MY OWN. I make copious lists of what to take for the journey: iPod, earphones (I have been known to take the iPod without the earphones, which was very distressing as it meant I had to listen to The Public chattering around me), a book, a notebook, a pencil, phone, food, money, ticket, passport-- Oh no, I don't need a passport to leave the West Country. Although if devolution persists, no doubt it will not be long in coming. We'll definitely be needing one to enter Cornwall before the decade is out.
I realise that I am rambling, which is another sure sign that I am nervous about leaving home for the day. I pace up and down the kitchen, checking my watch every few minutes to see whether I can leave to catch the train yet. I am avoiding looking at the dog, as she has guessed that something is afoot and is giving me very reproachful looks.
At last it is time! I grab my ludicrously over-packed bag and run out of the house, freed for a few hours from the life sentence of picking up socks.
Escaping is not as easy as all that, though. First I must walk through a muddy, cow-pat bedecked field down a near-vertical incline to get to the station. This is a walk I regularly and happily do wearing wellies, but today I am wearing two-inch high wedge heels, because today I Am Going To Be A Grown-Up in London Town.
Sadly, I did not think that part of being a grown-up is remembering to think about which kind of footwear would be appropriate for such a walk. I also forgot that the last time I walked through this field to get a train to London I was wearing cream trousers. I slipped and covered them in green grass stains, but did not have enough time to go home to change so had to sit with my mac draped awkwardly over the stains until I reached Paddington where I ran to the nearest shop, bought a pair of jeans and changed into them hurriedly in the loos. It wasn't until the end of that day that an anxious stranger pointed out the jeans still had a security tag sticking out of the back. I had been sashaying around the capital all day, thinking I looked like the cat's whiskers, while all the time I had a large plastic grey lump hanging off my backside, announcing to the world that I was a shoplifter, and a pretty rubbish one at that.
I tell myself to slow my pace and teeter, cautiously yet precariously, down the slope. I am feeling quite pleased with myself that no disaster has occurred, when I lose my concentration for a second and go over on my ankle. Pain sears across the instep of my foot and my ankle makes a popping, crunchy sound. Too late to do anything about it, I tell myself grimly. Nothing is going to prevent my escape.

After two trains are delayed and I miss all my connections, the throbbing in my ankle is getting worse and I am beginning to feel that maybe these are all signs that I am better off at home, ironing pants and defrosting mince. However, I make it into Paddington Station eventually, and the sights and sounds of the bustling metropolis are enough to dispel any grumblings of doubt. I meet up with some old friends, two of whom have known me for a scary amount of time and have seen me do worse things than fall over in a field full of cow pats. We laugh and reminisce and drink too much red wine and I manage not to fall over or off anything. The wine serves to anaesthetise the pain in my ankle and I walk back to the station at the end of the evening thinking, "I used to do this all the time. I used to catch trains and tubes whilst wearing high heels and feeling a little bit inebriated without giving it a second thought. I need to do this more often." I pledge to organise another trip to London as soon as I can.
However, such plans soon lose their appeal once faced with the reality of the return journey: two and a half hours on a slow train, a change on a cold, rain-swept platform and a further twenty minutes on a train to my local station. I alight with the realisation that my ankle is now crunching painfully with each step, and I now have to walk back UP the dreaded slope. In the dark. As I slip and dodge my way through the cowpats with only a wind-up torch to light my path, convinced that there is a bull lurking at the bottom of the field, I think that maybe I am just not cut out for life in the fast lane.
 I certainly won't be wearing those heels again for quite a while, anyway.

How to Write (Apparently)

"I've been reading your blog," says Daughter accusingly.
"Oh?" I say, avoiding her narrowed eyes.
"Yes. And what I want to know is, are you going to write down everything we say and do?"
"I might," I say, edging away.
"Only, it's quite funny actually," she says. I glance at her nervously, wondering if this is some kind of trap. "Yeah, and I was thinking that you should make it into a book maybe."
"Oh, I don't think so," I say. "It would have to have a story arc, you know, a beginning-middle-end kind of plot that pulls it all together." I wave my arms around vaguely.
But Daughter is shaking her head. Teenagers always know more than their parents. It's a Law of Nature. "No, you don't need a plot," she tells me confidently. "None of the books I read have plots. You could write it like a diary sort of a story, so all you'd need to do is write what you're writing now, and just put the date above each bit."
"Sorry," I say, puzzled. "You say none of the books you read have plots? Do you mind me asking exactly what you are reading at the moment?"
This is a constant source of argument between us. Apparently all the books I recommend are "like, sooooo boring and you're always going on about books because you are a writer but you don't understand what I like".
But I am knocked off course this time by a big grin from Daughter who announces, "Well, at the moment we are reading Frankenstein in English. It's by this woman called Mary Shelley who ran off with this Percy Poetry Guy--"
"You mean Percy Shelley?" asks Husband, not even bothering to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.
"That's the one!" exclaims Daughter brightly, not even registering the sarcasm anyway. "So, this Mary Shelley, she's written this book about a man who makes a monster and the idea came from taking body parts from the people she had loved in real life."
"Urgh!" I say. "I don't think that's right."
"Yes," says Daughter, frowning at my interruption. "She had all these people in her life who died, including her children and her parents and pretty much everyone, and so they are who the monster is based on. And did you know that people always think the monster is called Frankenstein, but it's not. It's just Frankenstein's monster."
"Yes, I did know that," I say.
"Oh, well I bet you didn't know it wasn't really green," she says triumphantly.
"Oh," I say.
"So where is your copy of the book?" asks Husband. "Maybe you could read some now."
"No, I can't. It's at school. They keep it there and we only read bits and bobs in lessons," says Daughter.
Husband and I exchange dubious looks.
"So are you going to finish it this term?" Husband asks.
"No," says Daughter carelessly. "We're not going to read ALL of it. Just the important bits."
I raise my eyebrows and open my mouth to make a comment, but Daughter beats me to it, "So!" she says, holding up a finger to shut me up. "That just goes to show that it doesn't matter if a book has a plot or not, as you don't always read it all anyway. So you can write your blog as a book. Easy."
She shoots me a look of triumph, swivels on her heel and exits, stage left.
As is becoming the case more and more these days, Daughter has had the last word.

The Last Will and Testament of Small Boy

Small Boy wakes up at 6:30am at Uncle's house.
"WHY?" I wail. "It's halfterm. Can't you at least sleep in at halfterm?"
"It's cos there's no real curtains in this house," Small Boy explains patiently. "Anyway, I don't know why you're complaining, cos I'm the one who's been bored since I woke up."
Uncle does not have a telly, so Small Boy is feeling very hard done by. Normally he would be downstairs with his sister, watching inappropriate music videos and dodgy American comedy by 7:00am.
"I had to lie in bed and just - think," he continues bitterly.
"You could have read your book," I suggest. "Or gone back to sleep."
"Well, I didn't. Anyway, it was actually not a complete waste of time as I wrote my will," he says carelessly.
"You did what?" I exclaim. I haven't had a coffee yet, so it is possible I have not heard him correctly.
"I wrote my will - you know," he says, looking at me thunderously as though I am the stupidest person he's ever come across. "I decided what to leave you all when I die."
"Sounds good," says Daughter. "What do I get?"
"Well, first of all Mum is getting my wardrobe," says Small Boy, ticking off his meagre possessions on his fingers.
"That's nice," I say. "It was my grandpa's anyway, so--"
Small Boy waves his hands impatiently at me to shut up. "And then Dad's getting my bed."
Husband and I exchange looks. "I can't quite see your dad in that bed," I say. "It's a platform bed. And it's a bit small--"
"Mu-um! Shut UP!" says Daughter. "I want to know what I'm getting!"
"You can have my toys," says Small Boy generously. "And William is getting all my books. Well, all the animal ones anyway."
"What about me?" says Uncle.
"Oh YOU," says Small Boy, beaming adoringly at his favourite uncle, "YOU can have all my money. Which is £91 the last time I counted. And if I don't die until next month, you might get £100."
"Wow!" says Uncle. "That's generous."
"So what are you going to leave me in your will?" asks Small Boy.
Uncle looks around his sparsely furnished house and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "You could have all my socks," he suggests.
Small Boy follows Uncle's gaze around the room and agrees that there doesn't seem to be anything else Uncle could leave in his will.

We move on to a discussion about what Uncle should do to his new house in the way of home improvements.
"I've no idea what to do to the house, really," he explains. "So any suggestions would be welcome. I do know I'm going to let loads of weeds grow in the garden, though," he adds with utter seriousness. "I just think there's too much paving and stuff out there. It doesn't look natural."
"You like stuff that's natural, don't you?" Small Boy says with interest. "Is that why you don't have a telly?"
"I don't need one," Uncle says. "I can watch stuff on my laptop if I really want to."
"Like what?" asks Small Boy.
"Like really cool clips of talking animals on YouTube!" says Uncle.
He proceeds to show the kids his favourite clip, which involves some kind of ratty creature who appears to be shouting "Alan!" at the top of his voice. It makes the kids laugh until they cannot breathe.

Our visit sadly draws to a close and we prise the kids away with the promise that they'll see Uncle again very soon.
"It's weird," says Daughter as we pull away from the house, waving and shouting our farewells. "You know how Auntie C is nothing like Mum? Well Uncle is nothing like you either, Dad."
"Oh, in what way?" Husband asks.
"In every way," says Daughter. She lists a few reasons: "Uncle is kind of mostly vegetarian, he cycles everywhere, doesn't get planes, doesn't have much furniture, doesn't have much anything really, doesn't have a telly -" (This would seem to be the thing that's impressed the kids most.) "And he thinks talking animals are hilarious and he's basically way more fun than you. It just doesn't make sense that you're related."
"And that," says Small Boy, decidedly, "is why it is Uncle who is getting my £91 in my will and not you."
Husband looks at me and shrugs. "Oh well," he says. "At least I know my place."
"Yes," I say. "On top of Small Boy's platform bed, penniless and alone by the sounds of it."

Uncle's House is Pretty Cool Too

We arrive at Favourite Uncle's new house with Small Boy in full Documentary Mode. He has decided to film us while we are staying with Uncle so that he can remember "e'vry single thing" that we do. I am hoping I will not wake up in the middle of the night to find him pointing his camera at me. And I am definitely planning on locking the bathroom door at all times.
"Trouble is," he says, as we go into the house, "what I really need is a tripod cos my hands keep getting all shaky while I'm filming. D'you think Uncle has a tripod I could borrow?"
It transpires that Uncle has only this afternoon acquired enough beds for us to sleep in, and his front room is still full of unpacked belongings, so I am hopeful that even if he had a tripod he would not be able to locate it.

The kids are in heaven, mainly because Husband's brother really is their Favourite Uncle and everything that he says and does seems to send them into paroxysms of unbridled joy. Even the fact that he does not have a telly seems to act in his favour. I toy with the idea of getting rid of ours once we get home, only to find myself mentally listing all the programmes that I would end up missing.
Within seconds of entering Uncle's house, Small Boy has found something fun to film: himself. Or more precisely, himself scaling the heights of the staircase as though he were a mountaineer. He delivers his documentary-maker's commentary in a breathy, Attenborough-esque style.
"And here we have the brave climber, struggling to reach the summit of Mount Stair-verest," he gasps, throwing himself forward at full stretch on to the staircase and reaching up to grab the step above him. "He throws his grappling hook up-- Mum, do you see how much better this film would be with a proper tripod?"
"Hmmm," I say. "You could argue it'd be better with a real mountain, too."

We decide to take the kids for a walk to get rid of some of the energy they have bottled up during the journey to Norwich.
"Let's walk into the city," Uncle suggests. "We can go and visit the Coleman's Mustard Shop!" The kids exchange dubious looks. This is not the kind of activity they are used to Uncle proposing. "Cos, guess what? There's a sweet shop next door!" he announces wickedly.
"Yay!" The kids are out the house like a shot. I make a mental note to try this line myself sometime.
Uncle is explaining that the quickest and most picturesque route into town is to go through his garden. I look out of the kitchen window and see a patio area with a gate at the end leading to a steep muddy, wooded bank. It is so steep, in fact, that it turns out the only means of scaling it is on all fours, clinging to branches for support as we go. The kids attack this challenge with enthusiasm and are at the top of the slope in a flash, while I am still untangling myself from brambles and nettles at the bottom.
"Must get a bit of rope to make that easier," says Uncle as he offers me a helping hand to pull me up to the top.
Husband has let his competitive spirit get the better of him and is already at the top with the kids, looking down at me and laughing.
"That was better than Mount Stair-verest!" giggles Small Boy.
I have to admit it is worth the climb. The autumn sun casts long shadows across the heath we are now walking on and the city buildings beneath us are bathed in golden light. We stroll into the centre along the riverside, visit the market to buy a selection of Norfolk cheeses, the mustard shop to buy Norfolk mustard (resisting the chocolate-chip flavoured variety) and the sweet shop to buy sweets from old-fashioned glass jars. Everyone's diverse tastes catered for, we start to make plans for the next 48 hours. The first idea is to hire a boat for a day trip on the Broads the next day. Small Boy is keen to do some bird watching. (And filming, of course.)
Husband decides this gives him the ideal excuse to buy a pair of binoculars, so he, Uncle and Small Boy disappear into a shop while I try to keep Daughter from going into a catatonic state of boredom at the very mention of the words "bird watching". We play The Weird Game which involves trying to spot the weirdest person in the street. The winner gets a quid. It's amazing how competitive you can get over a quid. Daughter wins hands down when she spots a woman wearing some neon pink furry things over her jeans which make her look as though she has neon pink woolly mammoth legs. We find this ludicrously amusing. It is worth losing a quid over, I feel.
Husband, Uncle and Small Boy eventually reemerge looking very pleased with themselves.
"Mission accomplished!" Husband announces, waving a package in the air.
"And I've got a gorilla pod!" Small Boy shouts, bouncing up and down with glee.
"A what?" says Daughter with more disdain than she showed for the neon pink Mammoth Woman.
"A gorilla pod!" repeats Small Boy. "It's a tripod which is ultra-bendy so you can clip it to anything so you can film anything anywhere! I can clip it up on the ceiling in my room at night and film myself sleeping!"
"Just as long as it is only yourself you're planning on filming at night," I say sternly.
"Yeah, 'course," says Small Boy. But he is not listening. I watch as he bends the gorilla pod around Uncle's wrist, giggling like a maniac.
I decide I'm going to lock the bedroom door as well as the bathroom now. Just in case.

Drink, Drugs and . . . Turnips?

We are on the second leg of our halfterm holiday in Norfolk. Husband's brother recently moved to Norwich which is only an hour from my sister's house, so this second car journey was supposed to be less painful than the first. Husband and I switch on the radio and relax into the gentle humour of Radio 4's "The News Quiz" while Daughter sings softly to something on her iPod and Small Boy kills things on my phone.
We have been driving all of five minutes before Daughter leans forward and pipes up:
"When were you last drunk, Mum?"
I know why she is asking me this. Before we left to go to Auntie C's we made the mistake of allowing the kids to watch an episode of "Blackadder" with us. We ill-advisedly let them choose the episode where Blackadder challenges Lord Melchit to a drinking competition. We had forgotten quite how unsuitable most of the content of that particular episode is for young children. I had thought at the time that there would be repercussions from the scene where Baldrick announces he has "a thingie shaped like a turnip", but it transpires that Daughter has been more impressed by the drunken loutishness.
"I, er - oh, it's been ages," I lie.
"What about you, Dad?" she persists.
Husband glances at me with a wry expression. "Years and years," he lies as well.
"So what does it feel like, being drunk?" Small Boy asks.
"Lovely at first," I say, seeing no point in lying about this. After all, what would be the point in pretending that getting drunk was horrible? The kids would only ask why people bother to do it if it's not a nice thing to do.
Husband frowns at me and I realise with panic that this is a topic on which we should probably have agreed our party line first.
"Only at first," he says, with emphasis. "It quickly makes you feel terrible. And you lose control of yourself very fast," he adds, raising his eyebrows at me, as though in warning.
Oh no, I think, my throat going dry. He's going to tell an awful story about me doing something stupid to illustrate the evils of drink.
Then I remember that, at one time in his dim and distant youth, after consuming a few pints, Husband was famous for announcing to a crowded room that he was a sugar cube. I snigger but decide to keep that story in reserve for future use.
"Anyway, you know what Ollie says," exclaims Small Boy.
"No," says Husband warily. "What does Ollie say?"
"Why drink and drive when you can take drugs and FLY!" Small Boy cries, waving his arms around to illustrate the wisdom of his friend's advice.
Daughter roars with laughter and Husband shakes with suppressed giggles.
The youth of today, I think despairingly. In my day we would have been much more interested in jokes about thingies shaped like turnips.

It's Much More Fun at Auntie's House

The kids love visiting my sister's. She lives in a beautiful brick and flint house near the sea on the north coast of Norfolk with breathtaking views across fields alive with wild-eyed hares and flighty pheasants. Wide sweeping skies capture the imagination with daily cinematic displays of sunsets and sun rises, awe-inspiring cloud formations and the heart-stopping aerial acrobatics of buzzards, kestrels and hawks.
"I love staying at Auntie C's," says Daughter wistfully. "She's just like you, except she's more fun. And definitely more relaxed," she adds, watching her cousins. My one-year-old niece is nibbling on a piece of coloured chalk and painting a chair with yoghurt while my five-year-old nephew snuggles up in the dog basket with the cat.
"Yeah, and she does better breakfasts," says Small Boy, snorting a line of chocolate croissants.
Even our dog is critical of me this morning. She is longingly eyeing her canine cousins' position of privilege on the sofa and shooting me reproachful glances which clearly convey the message, "You'd never let me do that at home."

We have a happy time on Blakeney Point later in the day, spotting curlews and oyster catchers, and eating ice cream before lunch.
"You'd never let us do this at home!" says Daughter, gleefully cramming in a strawberry Cornetto before I can comment.
The three dogs run riot, tails whirling around like helicopter blades. Our dog cannot believe her luck. She is not used to such open spaces. She is also not used to so much black mud. My sister's two Labs charge into a particularly boggy patch and luxuriate in an extravagant all-over-body roll, flicking ribbons of thick gloopy muck up into the air in great showers, their eyes closed in bliss.
Our dog makes the mistake of stopping and checking with me before following her cousins. "NO!" I yell. The image of an onward journey incarcerated with a stinking mud-caked hound has already formed in my mind. I grab her collar and keep her back.
The dog sighs loudly as she watches them. "You'd never let me do that anywhere."

We finish off the morning with a meal in a local pub called The Pigs. True to its name, the menu contains all things porky and the house speciality is a platter called "Everything But the Oink". Husband is very keen on ordering this. I am curious, so we go for it.
The kids, true to form, resolutely turn their backs on anything untried and untested, and choose fish and chips.
The meal arrives and our platter is just as described.
"Wow! Look at this," says Husband, eyes wide. "It really is everything but the oink."
"What is all that stuff?" asks Daughter, wrinkling up her nose in disgust. "It doesn't look like normal food."
Husband points to the various offerings before him. "Black pudding, sausages, rillettes, pork scratchings, crackling, ham, roast pork," he says, licking his lips.
"Where's the vegetables?" asks Small Boy.
There is no vegetable in sight, not even as decoration.
"Doesn't look as though we get any," I say.
Small Boy groans. "That's not faaaaiiiirrrr!" he wails. "We've got this horrible cabbagey stuff." He pokes at a mound of, to me, very tempting-looking curly kale.
Husband is deaf to Small Boy's complaints, engaged as he is in a full-scale battle with a pile of pork scratchings.
"Mmmm," he says, his eyes closed in an expression of bliss close to that of the dogs' earlier when they were rolling in mud. "This. Is. Delicious."
"Don't tell me," I say, as I watch him tuck in with relish. "I'd never let you do this at home."

Are We Nearly There Yet?

It is halfterm. Husband has a rare two days off so we are determined to Make The Most Of It and see how far along the motorway we can get in the untrusty Volvo before one of its wheels falls off, or the gearbox explodes, or whatever it was that prevented us from getting to Longleat Center Parcs last October halfterm. We are aiming to get to Norfolk to see my sister and Husband's brother. (I should clarify that they do not live together. That would just be too weird.)
Small Boy is not good at long car journeys. He gets itchy the minute we leave the village. We are already on our fifth round of Twenty Questions before we have joined the motorway. It is a tedious enough game at the best of times, but Small Boy manages to take the tedium to new heights. This is mainly because there is never any point in asking the question, "Animal, vegetable or mineral?" as the category he chooses is always "Animal". And the animal he chooses is always some obscure variety of creature, usually only found on Madagascar.
We all pretend to find it fascinating for about fifteen seconds, but the game quickly descends into a shouting match along the lines of, "Oh for heaven's sake who on earth knows what a lesser-toothed mongat weasel looks like anyway?" (The answer to that complaint is often, "David Attenborough.")
Small Boy excels himself this morning, however: "Did you know that we are all related to dung beetles," he announces emphatically, cutting across an argument about it being against the rules to choose an animal no one has ever heard of. "We are all related to every animal, actually."
"Oh yeah?" says Daughter. "Who told you that?"
"Charles Darwin," says Small Boy airily. "It was all his idea."
"How about we stop playing Twenty Questions?" I suggest.
"How about no?" says Small Boy.
"Are we on the M25 yet?" asks Daughter. "Only I hate the M25."
This seems rather a forceful opinion to have, seeing as she does not yet drive and does not even travel on the M25 more than about twice a year.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Well, you know - it's like that poem by Paul Cookson," chips in Small Boy. "You're always . . . " he takes a deep breath and chants: " 'Stuck behind the man, stuck behind the man, stuck behind the man in the caravan' on the M25, aren't you?"
Daughter and Small Boy immediately launch into a long and loud rendition of the poem - or rather the refrain.
"STUCK BEHIND THE MAN, STUCK BEHIND THE MAN, STUCK BEHIND THE MAN IN THE CA-RA-VAN!"
"Oh look, there's Windsor Castle!" Husband shouts in desperation.
"Is that where the Queen and Dead Prince Philip went to avoid the Royal Wedding?" asks Small Boy.
"He's not dead," says Daughter witheringly. "He only looks it."
"That's not very kind," I say.
"Never mind," says Small Boy. "Can I have a Penguin biscuit?"
I rummage around in my handbag which has morphed into a receptacle for anything that did not make it into the main luggage for the weekend. I am just about to panic as all I can find are dog biscuits, a tic-remover, a packet of earplugs and three hairbrushes, when a glimpse of shiny paper reassures me that there are snacks somewhere in the bottom of the melee.
"Here you are." I pass a packet of Penguins into the back.
"Oh, look - jokes!" Small Boy cries with glee. "What language do penguins speak? . . . Finnish! Harahahahhaaaarrrrhaaa!" He gurgles hysterically while the rest of us exchange blank looks.
"Why is that funny?" asks Daughter.
Small Boy stops laughing and looks up from the biscuit wrapper like a startled tortoise. "Dunno. I mean, I get the 'Fin' bit, but what about the 'nish'? But hey, look at this!" he cries, pointing at the wrapper again. "In the ingredients, it says it contains 'glutton'! Er, what is glutton?"
Husband is shaking his head wearily.
I slouch back in my seat and stare forlornly out of the window while considering putting in the earplugs.
"Are we nearly there yet?" I ask.