Out of the Mouths of Babes

It is Saturday and I am getting ready to go and give a talk at the Cheltenham Literature Festival. I would like to think that this would mean my family might treat me with a mite more respect than usual, but it is not to be.
"Morning," says Not-So-Small Boy.
"Hey! Stop waving that spoon in my face, please," I say, backing away.
"But I was only going to scoop out your ear-wax," he replies.
"Do what?"
"Yeah, I was going to scoop out your ear wax like the Vikings used to do before going into battle," my son continues eagerly.
"Erm, I hate to break it to you, but firstly I am not a Viking, and secondly I do not have enough ear wax to merit it being scooped and thirdly I am not going into battle. I am going to give a talk to fifty seven-year-olds. Actually . . ." I pause. "Maybe the two things are pretty similar, but I still don't want you scooping anything out of my ear with a dessert spoon, thanks."
"Oooh!" Not-So-Small Boy looks downcast. "But you've done your hair and put make-up on, which is kind of also what the Vikings used to do to look good when they went into battle, so you might as well have your ear wax scraped out, too," he pleads.
"No," I say firmly.
My son bangs the spoon down crossly. "I have just realised that you have lots of opinions on things that really don't matter at all," he announces.
"Like not wanting to have my ear wax scraped out with a spoon?" I say.
"Yeah. That and you don't like it when people say 'annual leave' instead of 'holiday' and you don't like swearing but you swear all the time when you are driving and--"
"Right. Have you quite finished with your character assassination?" I ask, getting up to leave. "Only I have to go now."
"Good luck," says Husband. "You'll be great."
"Huumpf," says my son. "Only if you are not patronising. You always sound patronising when you talk to little kids."
"Great," I say. "So I've got waxy ears, I have stupid opinions on things that don't matter at all, and I am patronising."
"At least there's no danger of things going to your head," says Husband.
Indeed. Out of the mouths of babes and all that.

No Peas for the Wicked

I stare glumly at the contents of the fridge as I try to think of yet another way to make our glut of courgettes and carrots into an appetitising meal which will appeal to all the family.
"I never thought I would say this," I say. "But I am sick of cooking."
"But you love it!" says Not-So-Small Boy. "You are always doing it, anyway."
"I am also always washing, ironing and sitting in traffic, but I don't love those things," I point out.
"I have never seen you washing and ironing while we are stuck in traffic," says my son with a titter.
"I have never seen you ironing full stop," says Husband with an even louder titter.
I turn to face the men in my life brandishing a monstrous courgette and a Sabatier knife in what I hope is a menacing manner. "Do you want me to stop doing all the chores?" I suggest. "I would be quite happy to go on strike altogether."
"Oh dear," says Not-So-Small Boy. "No cabbage for the evil."
"What on earth is that supposed to mean?" I ask.
Husband snorts. "Don't you mean no peas for the wicked?"
"Oh, maybe it is no peas for the wicked," says my son. "Anyway, it's what that guy Bob says."
"Which guy Bob?" Husband asks.
"You know - Bob Marley!" says our son. "The dude in A Christmas Carol."
Husband raises his eyebrows. "Ri-ight," he says. "Anyway, back to the real world. What's for supper?"
"It's not courgettes AGAIN is it?" Not-So-Small Boy howls.
"Yup," I say. I bring the knife down hard to show I mean business. "It might be no peas for the wicked. But it's definitely courgettes for the rest of us."

(Note: Check out Roger McGough's fab poem "No Peas for the Wicked". It'll raise a chuckle or two.)

The Day of Reckoning

It is Monday Morning. The Monday Morning. The one we have all been warned about.
Husband and I creep out of the house at first light (which is not difficult, as the M25 starts up outside the bedroom window well before that). This first light is very light indeed, as all traces of cloud have disappeared, the Gulf Stream having predictably moved just as Mother is going in for her operation. I almost comment on the fact, but stop myself just in time. Marital good behaviour between me and Husband is wearing considerably thin after 48 hours of the Ageds. I have no desire for him to use his ultimate weapon: to tell me that I am "turning into y'mother".
I need not worry, we are doomed to have a row before he leaves, the tension having mounted to seismic level.
As if on cue, I approach a roundabout and Husband yells, "LOOK OUT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
"SHUT UP AND DON'T TELL ME HOW TO DRIVE!" I yell back.
I drop Husband at the station in stony silence and grit my teeth for the scene that will be awaiting me back at the house.

When I return, Not-So-Small Boy has already retreated to the Pink Sofa (still covered in a protective rug) and is watching TV. He turns and gives me a knowing look and says, "Grandma is ready to leave."
So am I, I think, as I make my way to the kitchen.
But the scene I am greeted by affects me unexpectedly.
Mother is sitting at the kitchen table, drumming its surface repeatedly with her fingers and chewing her lip. Her eyes are red and watery and she looks as though she has not slept a wink. Dad is pacing and washing and drying up everything in sight.
A surge of sadness mixed with guilt and anxiety overcomes me. I draw Mum to me in a rough hug and kiss her head.
"It's going to be all right," I murmur. "It'll all be over soon and then you'll feel better."
The words come from nowhere. I am sharply aware of the scales of time moving, millimetre by millimetre, to a tipping point from which they will not return. The roles are in the process of reversing.
I close my eyes as I hug my mum and Husband's voice comes to me, unbidden.
"You are turning into y'Mother."

Chapter Four of the Aged Ps Holiday Special

It is the weekend, and Husband has come down to join me and Not-So-Small Boy at the Aged Ps'. Mother has often commented that "It would be nice to see your husband once in a while. I'm beginning to think he doesn't think much of us," so it is with some bafflement that news of his arrival is greeted with the words:
"When is he leaving?"
"I - er - Monday morning, I suppose," I say.
"Monday morning? MONDAY MORNING?" cries Mother. "But that's when I'm going in for my operation. He can't be here when I have to go in for my operation."
"It's OK, I'm sure he'll be leaving really early," I assure her. Mother is looking rather wild, I notice. I take a deep breath. "I will make sure he leaves before you do. I will drive him to the station myself. Now, how about I cook supper tonight to give you a rest?"
Mother glances anxiously about the kitchen. "I don't know what food I've got - if I've got to feed Him as well," she says pointedly.
"It's fine. I'll go shopping--"
Too late, Mother is already rootling aggressively through the fridge, chucking things over her shoulder as she gives me a running commentary on what is "going off" or "needs using up".

I collect Husband and warn him on the way to the Aged Ps' that Mother is liable to explode at any moment, "So tread softly," I say.
He and Not-So-Small Boy behave impeccably, helping me get supper and laying the table out in the garden. The Ageds come out to inspect.
"That looks lovely," says Dad appreciatively.
"We're not eating outside, are we?" says Mother, eyeing the cloudy sky. "I mean, I know they say the Gulf Stream is moving north, but knowing my luck that won't be until I'm in hospital." She fixes Husband with a steely glare. "I'm going to have an operation on Monday, you know."
Husband sets his jaw. "I know," he says.

Supper goes smoothly, with not a spot of rain to marr the proceedings. Mother smiles and thanks me and says how nice it is to all be together. The Ageds finish their meal and Mother announces she is going to put her feet up and watch the cricket Dad has recorded for her.
All's well that ends well, I think.
But then--
"I, er, I don't think I did record it actually," says Dad sheepishly.
"WHAT?" Mother shouts. "YOU DIDN'T RECORD THE CRICKET? WHY NOT??!! YOU STUPID *&%$£?!"
Dad cowers as Mother chases him into the house, shaking her fists at him and using extremely colourful vocabulary.
I cover Not-So-Small Boy's ears while Husband looks on in amusement. He turns to me and says with a grin, "You wouldn't think she was having an operation on Monday, would you?"

My Nice Weekend

Daughter is revising.
She is making it clear to anyone who will listen that this constitutes the End of Life as We Know It. She has also stolen my desk chair and all my pens, used sheaths of my computer paper and interrupts my work constantly by slouching into the kitchen while foraging for food and sighing a lot behind a curtain of unwashed hair.
"It's not fair," she wails at regular intervals. "Revision sucks!"
I decide to cheer her up by cooking a family lunch which has been carefully chosen to contain a selection of her favourite things. I think of it as a sacrifice offered to appease the twin gods of Sulk and Despair. It seems to work for a few minutes: the offerings are consumed heartily, and laughter and jokes are shared, but as soon as the spoon clatters into the bowl a loud sigh is uttered.
"While I was eating that ice cream, my life was good," declaims Daughter. "But now I have to get back to work, so my life is rubbish again."
Husband and I exchange looks.
"I'll do the washing up," I say.
Daughter curls her lip at me. "Really?" she says, scorn and faux-Americana oozing from every letter of the word. (I think this is meant to mean something along the lines of: "Do you really think that is going to make me feel any better about the fact I have to REVISE?")
"And then," I continue, "I think I might sit and read the paper for a bit."
"Oh wow," says Daughter. "Get you and your nice weekend." She flicks her hair and leaves the room, her curse hanging in the air like a bad smell.
Alea iacta est, as the Aged Ps might say.

The curse takes effect, just as I am washing the last plate and am thinking, with a smile, of the cup of tea I will drink while sitting on the sofa with the newspaper spread across my lap.
I glance out of the window and see . . . the Dog racing to far side of the garden. That looks odd, I think, as she sniffs at something and--
"NOOOOOO!" I yell.
Too late, the Dog has rolled. And she only ever rolls in one thing. Fox poo.
I hide my head in my hands, and the vision of sofa, tea and newspaper disappears like the sun behind a Bank Holiday rain cloud.
The Dog returns, joyfully, to share her au de chien with the rest of the house, rubbing herself against me and the furniture as she passes. I run, screaming, to grab dog-shampoo, dog-lead and the jet hose.
Then just as I am rinsing the Dog's head and leaping to one side to avoid being sprayed by the Dog shaking herself on to me, Psycho Cat pounces on our one friendly robin. I dash to intervene, hose still in one hand, but am, again, too late. The bird is fluttering helplessly, one leg and one one wing broken. I hesitate as I try to decide whether to finish the dastardly deed myself or leave it to the cat, when through the kitchen door, I spot Jet, the other cat, who has leapt on to the remains of the roast chicken, her yellow eyes shining with glee.
"ARGH!" I yell, throwing the hose to the ground. "Someone HELP ME!"
Husband appears, grinning and covered from head to toe in stinking brown gloop.
"What on earth--?" I gawp.
"I was just making some weed compost," he explains cheerfully. "What's the matter?"
"The animals - dead bird - filthy fox poo - roast chicken!" I stammer.
"Ah," says Husband, surveying the scene. "So much for you and your nice weekend, eh?"

Wii Are Not Fit

It is raining. It is raining so hard that even Small Boy refuses to go outside. It takes a lot to prevent Small Boy from going out, as he "feels sick after being inside for too long" apparently.
But today the trees are bent double in the wind and the chickens are sheltering under the nesting boxes huddled together to prevent their feathers from being ripped off. The dog is letting out great rumbling sighs of despondency and the cats have their faces to the back of the sofa. Daughter is out for the day and Husband is avoiding having to deal with an overactive Small Boy by having an extended lie-in.
I am trying to ignore him too, by reading the paper.
It is not working.
"Let's go on the Wii!" shouts Small Boy, after his fifty-sixth lap of the kitchen table. "I've got too much energy and I need to get rid of it."
"So I see," I say from behind the newspaper. "OK, I quite fancy using the Wii Fit anyway."
We spend the next hour cursing the Wii for not being a sentient being. It has "unsynced" itself and does not seem to respond to us hurling abuse at it or hurling the controls around the room. Finally the light that is supposed to stop flashing stops flashing and we have lift-off.
I stand on the balance board and attempt the Tree Pose and the Warrior Pose while Small Boy rolls about on the floor, shaking with laughter at my pathetically low "Yoga Novice" score.
"Can't you even stand straight?" he roars. "Look at me, I can do it easily."
He pushes me off, leaps on to the board and balances, Zen-like, arms above his head, one leg out at 90 degrees behind him, his eyes closed. PING! He scores 100 and is crowned "Yoga Master".
Oh to be small again.
"I'll show you a really brilliant way of getting high scores all the time," he says, noticing my crestfallen expression. "All you have to do is just stand on the board and not do anything at all." He demonstrates.
"Yes, very impressive," I say. "Only, I'm more interested in getting something out of doing the actual yoga rather than simply achieving a high score."
"Why?" asks Small Boy, his eyes boggling at his mother's ridiculousness.
"Never mind. Shall we try another game instead?"
Small Boy grabs the controls and clicks on "free jogging".
"Isn't this just jogging on the spot?" I ask incredulously, as the instructions come up on the screen informing us that we do not need the balance board because we will be . . . jogging on the spot.
"No! Deeerrrr!" says Small Boy. "You have to follow the cat and observe things as you go."
"While jogging on the spot," I point out.
"Well, OK, but - oh, just do it all right?"
Small Boy keeps control of the remote (like father, like son) and begins jogging. On the spot. "Come on, Mum, you've got to run with me!" he yells, pumping his skinny little arms and legs up and down.
Within seconds the Mii has overtaken the cat and has gone head-over-heels and whacked its virtual head on the ground.
"Heeeheheheheheheeeee!" cries Small Boy. "This is awesome! Come on, we're on our feet again. Let's go!"
By the end of the game we have virtually tripped eleven times and scored a pathetic score which labels us "Dwindling Fire".
"I LOVE that game," says Small Boy.
"But you got a terrible score!" I say. "I thought you only cared about getting the best score possible?"
"Yeah, but it doesn't matter this time cos I didn't log you off before we started. So actually it is you that has the lowest score ever! Isn't that hilarious?"
Isn't it, though.

Where There's A Will . . .

Husband and I have been revising our will. Small Boy comes in on the end of a discussion about how much detail we need to include about our possessions.
"What do I get when you die?" he chirps.
"Oh, I - I don't know," I falter. I hadn't banked on him being part of the decision-making process.
"Can I have your saxophone?" he asks. "It should go to me really cos I can get a better sound out of it than my sister. She can have the piano," he adds generously.
"OK," I say.
"And I think I should have the house, cos I am the boy," he says.
"Now hold on a minute!" says Husband. "We're not going anywhere just yet."
"More to the point," I say, "I think you'll find that the 1701 Act of Settlement is to be altered to allow firstborn daughters to inherit."
Small Boy gives me a Paddington stare.
"Yes anyway, I am going to get the house when Dad dies," he continues.
"Oh, and what about me?" I ask.
"You can live in the garage. You're always going on about wanting to convert it."
"Yes, into a writing shed!" I say. "Not a granny annexe."
Daughter walks in. "What are you talking about?"
"Who gets what when they die," says Small Boy. "I'm getting the saxphone and the house."
"WHAT?" says Daughter.
"I think you can handle this," says Husband. "I'm off now."
Daughter corrals me into a corner. "Since when were you two dying?"
"We're not!" I protest. "Not yet, anyway."
"And if you do, what will happen to me?" she demands, hands on hips. "Who will I live with? Have you thought of that?"
"Yes, we have actually--"
"Oh not Grandma and Grandpa!" Small Boy wails. "They're almost dead already!"
"It's OK, I think we might ask your aunts and uncles to be guardians," I say. I am getting a bit flustered.
"Bagsy live with Uncle Charlie!" shouts Small Boy.
"Oh look at that!" I shout, remembering long forgotten distraction techniques from when they were toddlers. "It's time for 'Big Bang Theory'."
"YAY!" shouts Small Boy.
"Bagsy sit in the corner of the sofa!" shouts Daughter, hurtling out of the room.
The dog sidles up to me and looks at me mournfully.
"It's all right," I say. "You're quite probably going to die before me, so you don't need to worry about going to live with Grandma either."
She sighs gratefully and returns to her basket.

Small Boy's New Career

Small Boy's latest school project is to write and illustrate a picture book. As I was a picture book editor in a former life, I announce my intention to steer well clear.
"I do not want to be blamed for anything going wrong," I say.
"Well, that's good. Cos I don't want you to help anyway. You don't know anything about picture books any more and you only actually write animal books and my book is not going to be an animal book, so you wouldn't have anything useful to tell me," Small Boy retorts.
He sets to work and very soon has produced something which, I have to admit, is rather good. I particularly like the back cover, complete with blurb (a word all school children seem to know these days), barcode, price, publisher (Macmillan - not sure if they were consulted on this) and a quote from the Guardian (betraying his parents' preferred weekend reading habits).
"This is great!" I congratulate him.
"I know," says Small Boy. "I'm going to get Macmillan to publish it properly with a proper Real Life Cover and everything," he adds.
"Right," I say.
"And I was thinking," he continues, the bit wedged firmly between his new front teeth, "as I know all about publishing now, I might get started on a new book straight away. It's always good to have a two-book contract, don't you think? Also, Dad and Sister oughta write books too. Then we could be a Totally Writing Family and all work at home and Dad wouldn't have to go travelling for his work any more."
"OK," I say. "What are your suggested titles?"
"Well," says Small Boy, brow furrowed in concentration, "Dad's book oughta be called 'How To Stop Rudely Being Rude At The Table', cos it's a subject he knows all awful lot about."
"Oh yes?" I say.
"Yes. And it could be divided into chapters like this: Chapter One: How Not to Pick Your Nose at the Table; Chapter Two: How Not to Pick your Ear at the Table; Chapter Three: How Not to Pick Your Nails at the Table; Chapter Four: How Not to Use Your Blackberry at the Table; Chapter Five: How Not to Not Listen While Other People Are Talking at the Table--"
"Right, I get the picture," I cut in. "What about your book?"
"That's easy," says Small Boy. "It'll be called 'The Big Book of Knowledge'."
Daughter choses this moment to walk in on the conversation. "What's he going on about now?"
"He's going to write a new book called 'The Big Book of Knowledge'," I explain.
"Yeah, like, right!" scoffs Daughter.
"I've got an idea for a book you could write too," says Small Boy, smiling dangerously.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah! It should be called 'The Big Book of Drama'."
"OH WHAT???! YOU ARE SUCH A------!" Daughter screams, storming out of the room.
Small Boy shoots me a look of unbridled triumph.
"I think," I say carefully, "you might need to work on your inter-personal skills before progressing further with building your publishing career."
"Really?" says Small Boy.
"Yes, really," I say, shuddering.
Moved over Murdoch: Small Boy Wilson is lurking in the wings, just waiting to pounce.

Being Zen

Life has become unmanageable of late. In a bid to regain some control and peace I have decided to take up yoga. I intend to become bendy and Zen.
I find a class that is close to home, easy to find and attended by no one who knows me. That last point is extremely important as I know that I will look insane as I try to contort my body into positions it has never felt the need to adopt previously. And I don't want anyone laughing or pointing at me. That would not be conducive to Zenfulness.
I find the class, say hello to the smiley teacher who positively EXUDES peace and bendy Zenfulness, am shown to a mat, lie down and immediately think, "This is it, a lovely hour and a half of deep-breathing and calm."
The class quickly escalates from deep-breathing and calm into the toughest hour and a half of my life. The people in the room with me did not look as though they could walk down the road without suffering from a coronary, but it soon becomes obvious that they have been bending their legs around their heads for some years. I have to concentrate very hard as I am instructed in a calm-but-firm manner to "bring your right foot forward to the right of your hands which should be a shoulder-width apart and stretch your left leg back, keeping your head up, your arms strong and your back flat and remember to breathe into the belly - and re-laaaaaax".
By the end of the session I feel as though I have done ten rounds with Amir Khan and still managed to come out smiling. I float home and spend the rest of the day dreaming of my family bustling around me while I sit and watch serenely from the lotus position, clad head to toe in extremely becoming gear from Sweaty Betty.

The real world comes crashing in at school pick-up time. Small Boy greets me with a face like thunder and enough school bags to give the impression he's cleared out the changing rooms and is bringing home the whole year-group's kit to be washed. Daughter has a particularly intense scowl etched on her face.
Yipppee, it's the weekend, I think as I drive home through rush hour traffic to a mountain of laundry and an evening meal to prepare.
Husband at least has a smile on his face when he walks in. "Did you know that Apple are about to launch a new product?" he says, beaming.
"Well I hope it's an iCooker or an iLaundromat," I snap, shovelling pants into the washing machine with one hand, cat food into the cats with the other and kicking a tray of chips into the oven with a foot whilst narrowly avoiding kicking it into the dog by mistake. (The flexiblity yoga gives a woman is not totally without its uses in a domestic setting.)
"What about an iDad!" sniggers Daughter.
"Nah, they're useless," interrupts Small Boy. "iMums are much better - and more expensive."
"How's that?" says Husband, looking rather wounded.
"S'obvious," says Small Boy. "iMums do all the cooking, cleaning and tidying and washing, and iDads just come home, sit down, eat the food and make a mess."
I shoot Husband a triumphant grin.
Maybe I should sit and watch serenely from the lotus position after all. iDad and iKids might have to use a few of those neglected Domestic Apps, but I'm sure they would manage. And I would achieve my goal of being truly Zen.

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.

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.

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.

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."

Pirates Ahoy!

Small Boy stretches and yawns. "I think I had a dream last night that I was a pirate," he says.
"You think you did?" I ask.
"Yes. Well, I must've done, cos when I woke up, my duvet was twisted round the wrong way."
"Still not following," I murmur as I dole out slices of toast and cups of hot chocolate.
"Well, see, pirates steer their ships backwards, don't they? So that must be why my duvet was round the wrong way. S'obvious - I must've twisted it round thinking that I was steering the ship."
Daughter rolls her eyes, flicks her hair and puts her hands on her hips. "You utter numpty!" she cries. "Pirates do not steer backwards! If they did, they wouldn't be able to see where they were going. Unless they had wing mirrors - hey, that would be so cool! Huge great wing mirrors on the sides of the ship!"
Small Boy is getting huffy. "Well, it's not like there's anything for the pirates to bash into on the sea, so it doesn't matter if they can't see where they are going."
I swear as I trip over Psycho Cat who is having an argument with a Daddy-Long-Legs and has got the dog over-excited into the bargain.
Daughter is now explaining in her I'm-trying-to-be-patient-but-you-are-all-losers voice that pirates have "steering wheel thingies" and that they don't all row backwards in a line "like in those lame boats Mum likes".
Of course, this is all my fault. I should have known. This latest of Small Boy's delusions is clearly down to my yelling at the television during the Boat Race. But it turns out, this is the least of my worries.
"Anyway, it doesn't matter which way they steer," he announces, with a defiant toss of his head. "What I was going to say is, if I ever get the chance to be a pirate, I will definitely be a Traditional one."
"A Traditional one?" Husband repeats in alarm, looking up from his BlackBerry.
If he was worried when his son announced his intention to wear tights on his head and do an impression of Kate Winslet in Titanic, he is going to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown once he hears Small Boy's latest sartorial plans. I can feel it in my bones, me hearties. I hold my breath and wait for the accusations to fly: "You were the one who let him dress up as Cinderella when he was two!" (In my defence, he did look cute.)
"Yes, a Traditional one - you know, one which dresses properly, not one of these modern ones," Small Boy says with scorn.
"Oh yeah? So what will you wear?" Daughter asks, pursing her lips. She looks at me as if to say, "He will have NO IDEA what to wear."
It turns out she is wrong.
Small Boy beams. "Well," he says, holding up a hand to begin counting off on his fingers, "for a start I will wear a wooden leg. Then I will wear a hook on my arm. I will have a proper captain's hat, a parrot on my shoulder and a stripy T-shirt and I'll have a big Traditional Crew."
"A what?" we chorus.
"You know - a big Traditional Crew of men." He beams disconcertingly. "And I'll have a nice skull 'n' crossbones too. And swords and pistols hanging from my belt. Oh! And I'll steal sugar."
"You'll steal sugar," Husband repeats. He is beginning to sound like the imaginary parrot on Small Boy's shoulder.
"Yeah, I'm not going to steal all that boring stuff that modern pirates do. And I'm not going to kidnap anyone. I just want the sugar."
"Why?" I ask. I'm not really expecting an adequate answer, but I do feel the question needs to be asked.
"S'obvious," says Small Boy, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "In olden day times sugar was the most expensive thing, so that's why the Traditional Pirates stole it. And I like eating sugar cubes, so . . . " He spreads his hands and shrugs.
Daughter and I are heaving with silent mirth by now. Husband is shaking his head, eyes wide, and is backing away towards the door.
"So you are going to swing from the rigging of your Traditional Pirate boat in your Traditional Pirate gear," I say, between squeaks, "land on the deck of a Saga cruise ship, run to the dining hall and shout 'Shiver me Timbers!' and steal all the sugar bowls?"
"Yeah," says Small Boy, looking rather hurt at my giggling.
"We'd better warn the Aged Ps," says Husband with a knowing look. "You know how much they love their cruises."

Let's Be Spontaneous!

Weekends used to be relaxed affairs; a period of two days when we slowed down, chilled out, mooched around and generally enjoyed ourselves. Not so now that the God of Sport rules our every spare moment. The alarm heartlessly streams Radio 4 into our bedroom at the same time at the weekend as it does during the week, the only difference being that Husband and I will have already drawn lots the night before as to who will respond, leap out of bed and start yelling: "Bags! Teeth! Hair! Shoes!" (We have made life difficult for ourselves, I admit. We still labour under the misguided belief that Friday nights signal the beginning of two days of fun, which invariably results in us drinking just that bit too much wine and watching just that bit too much rubbish telly before keeling into bed just that bit too late to be getting up at the crack of dawn the next day. We are just too wild for our own good.)

This Saturday it is my turn. I stumble and lurch blindly to the bathroom, promising myself yet again that next time I will not have that beer before that half bottle of wine on a Friday night, and manage to locate items which could be described as "clothes". However on closer examination, it would be stretching the imagination to beyond breaking point to describe their combined effect as anything resembling "an outfit".
No matter, I think to myself. I have only to drop and run this morning. I could, in fact, drive to school in my pyjamas, open the door, push Daughter out and drive away, tyres leaving satisfying burn marks on the tarmac.
Then I think of the scornful looks I would get from Daughter and reason that pyjamas probably aren't the solution I'm looking for. I resolve to pull on a coat to cover up the worst of my ensemble and decide to risk going make-up-less, having convinced myself that no one will be seeing me up close.

The children have already been up for at least an hour to ensure they get their required weekend dose of unsuitable television. I meditate briefly on the benefits of allowing them this on a weekday as it might mean Daughter would get out of bed of her own accord if she were allowed an hour of "Glee" and dodgy music videos before school, instead of being on the receiving end of my own personal brand of extraordinary rendition for teenagers, i.e. standing by her door shouting "GET UP!" and flicking her light switch on and off until sleep is no longer an option.

On arrival at school, I am horrified to see that two of the Dads are there, leaning against their cars and chatting. Why can't they do the drop and run thing like us Mums? I think, panicking, as I attempt to drive into school without being seen. I absolutely, positively cannot let them see me looking so rough. It would be Social Death, as Daughter would say if anything like that were to happen to her. However, at this moment Daughter, it turns out, is more concerned with Actual Death due to reckless driving.
"Mum! Look where you're going!" she cries, as I try driving with my head bent low behind the steering wheel, my hair flicked Bieber-style over my face. "You're going to crash into Evie and Millie and Molly and Livvy and Lottie if you're not careful. Oh, look! The Dads are waving at you, Mum. Aren't you going to say hello?"
I wince and wave back, knowing I will now have to get out of the car in my ill-chosen Saturday-morning garb so as not to be seen as rude and unfriendly. I think back to an article in the Guardian Weekend magazine about School Run Chic. My look this morning is less Claudia Schiffer, more The Lady in the Van. I regret not staying in my pyjamas. At least then I could have popped my head out of the window, gestured to my pyjamas and made some idiotic joke about going to a pyjama party without having to emerge from the car.
"Run!" I urge Daughter. "If you're lucky no one will realise we're related."
She shoots me a rueful smile. "Sometimes you are OK, Mum," she says gratefully, before breaking into a sprint, while I go over for a chat.

I arrive home to find that Small Boy has got himself a play date. As Daughter has arranged to go into town after her match, this means that Husband and I find ourselves in the unusual position of an entire day to ourselves with no children.
"We could go out!" I enthuse. "We could go to the cinema or something!"
"Oh, no," Husband says, shaking his head. "We haven't booked tickets."
"We don't need to - we can be spontaneous!" I cry. I realise I am probably looking rather wild-eyed and desperate at this point, but what the hell, I am FEELING wild-eyed and desperate. We have not been spontaneous since 1998. A fact which possibly explains Husband's reaction.
He shoots me a look of utter panic. "Spontaneous?" he echoes. "What's that?"
I sigh and retreat to the sofa with a cat and the newspaper. Husband looks visibly relieved that I have given up so easily and returns to his greenhouse.
At least I can catch up on a bit of sleep while I wait for the children to come home, I think, settling down with Jet curled into me, purring contentedly. (She and I do not often get such quality time together, it has to be said.)
I am just dozing off, my mind filled with soft-focused images of turning up to school looking like Claudia Schiffer, when something wet is shoved into my face.
"Urgh!" I jolt awake, sending the cat shooting from my lap, but not before she's given me a vicious farewell scratch. "What the--?"
It is the dog, her head on one side, a half-chewed tennis ball in her mouth. From the look of utter woe on her face she is plainly saying, "You're not going to sleep, are you? But we've got the whole day to ourselves! I thought we could be spontaneous . . ."