New Talent

Just when you think you've got a handle on the talent required to look after your small children...

- nurturing

- patience

- bit more patience

- willingness to watch one's furniture get splattered in porridge/yoghurt/paint and not tear hair out/sell splatterer to nearest circus

- willingness to dress like shit because there's no point putting anything better on if you're going to get covered in porridge/yoghurt/paint, and sometimes excrement let's face it

- bit more patience

- good knees (required for getting down to pick up bits of fish finger coating / Cheerios / squashed raisin from floor)

- ability to survive on almost no sleep

- guts to tell family that yes you ARE going to parent this way and no you DO NOT require their input, thank you

- did I mention patience?

- there's more

- but I need to go to bed before the 2 hours of available sleep before the Fun Begins is cruelly snatched away

- where was I?

Oh yes, so just when you think you've mastered those skills, along comes a new requirement for talent: the ability to withstand a deep and profound urge to administer a right good slap to the mouldy old dragon of a teacher who is currently telling you your child is - not too stupid, or too withdrawn, or too emotionally immature, to start school next year, but TOO SHORT.

Next time, we are emigrating to Lilliput.

On Parenting

The Girl and Boy are sharing a room for the first time. We bought them an educational bedside light - a globe, which also has animals all over it in their countries or seas of origin. As The Girl turned it gently last night, taking it all in, she sounded out the letters A-F-R-I-C-A and then said "Africa! That spells Africa! It's hot there. I learnt that from the television. I learn so much from the television don't I, Mum?"

I said I supposed she did, but could she please not say that in front of the other mums at the park or at nursery. Then, somewhat foolishly, I asked what she'd learned from me.

"Oh, just that silly song about ants being desufficated in your pants," she said, matter-of-factly, and then sang a tuneful, "In an English country gar-ar-den."

"Right. And what about Dad?" I said. "What has he taught you?"

She thought for a second and then put her finger up her nose:

"He taught me how to pick my nose, because I've seen him do it and then I started to do it when I was about two and a half or something."

I smiled, more than a little relieved that The Australian's teachings are more pathetic than mine. Just.

Warning: 5-a-Day May Be Health Risk

Just before I start at the beginning, I must begin at the present, because something small but significant has occurred - involving a large piece of fruit - which has rendered me incapable of thinking back to a time before this small but significant occurrence with fruit, err, occurred.

I've always loved fresh pineapple. I've loved it so much that it never bothered me if it started to sting a little at the corners of my mouth after I ate it. Or if my tongue got a bit itchy. That was normal. It probably happened to everyone, and what was a little pain when it came to the lovely juicy tanginess?

So yesterday evening I was a little bored, what with The Australian working his UK hours as well as his Aussie ones, the children asleep, and the only programme on telly being 'Ladette to Lady'. (I still had it on, but in a kind of 'seen this; rubbish the first time' way, whereby you watch the entire show and then feel dirty and used at the number of minutes you've wasted but subconsciously agree to tune in same time next week.) 

'Ooh, we've got pineapple!' I said, happily diverted while the ladettes practised How Now Brown Cow, and went to the fridge. I cut myself a few slices and sat back down. 

Lovely juicy tanginess.

'I'll have a bit more of that,' I said, and felt fairly wholesome about all the fresh fruitiness. 

And then I had a bit more.

And a bit more.

And before I knew it I'd eaten half a pineapple. As I got to the end, my mouth started to tingle and I thought 'damnit, I've used the same knife The Australian used to cut the chilli earlier.' But I figured that my palate is pretty weathered and I'd be ok in a minute.

But the tingle turned to an itch, and the itch turned to a sting, and the sting spread all over my tongue and lips and down my throat until I was sitting there watching the latest ladette get booted while quietly contemplating whether this was how my life was going to end - a sudden tongue-swelling-throat-closing death and only a handful of pineapple skin shavings to show for it. (Admittedly, during the panic I did wonder if someone would publish my novel posthumously, and briefly considered writing a dedications page.)

I called The Australian in and tried to get across the severity of the pain while retaining some dignity about the fact that I'd consumed an insane amount of tropical fruit. He tried to douse me with water, and when that didn't work, milk. He asked me why I'd eaten so much - I said it was because I was bored, what with him leaving me all alone with only Ladette to Lady for company. A pint of milk later I felt the sting lessen. I decided to go to bed, sure that by morning I wouldn't feel like I'd swallowed a bunch of stinging nettles. Only I did. And I still do. And the responses I'm getting are not nearly sympathetic enough. I have these weird lumps all over the back of my tongue, which I think is about 15% bigger than it was before the fruit. I feel grossly punished for eating my 5-a-day all in one go, and a bit like I've lost a friend - I mean, obviously I can never eat pineapple again, and I really really liked it.

Hopefully by tomorrow I will be able to think about something else.

The Blog That Time Forgot

Actually, I wish I had forgotten about my blog, but since April and all that moving to the other side of the planet business I have been feeling terrorised by the blog. "Must blog about this," I have thought. An awful lot. At 3am, mainly. Once I even got out of bed, went downstairs, made tea  (loose leaf, in a pot, which you will understand if you've ever tried Australian teabags) and prepared to sit down at the laptop. But it is very cold in Melbourne and the house makes noises that I cannot be sure about yet so I went back upstairs and lay quietly with The Girl for a while.

I don't know what's different about today. It might be that this life is starting to feel more real. Some very friendly, very stocky men delivered our sofa this morning. I went for a walk without getting lost. The Girl has a place at nursery. The Boy is no longer sleeping in a 'travel cot'. The Australian is holed up in his office working Aussie hours as well as UK ones. I have been doing quite a lot of homely things - things I used to put off in London to make way for blogging and writing and sitting by the laptop waiting for someone to reject my novel.

The truth is that I am bored of the homely things. The washing and the scrubbing and the preparation of different meals for different palates, and the picking up of squashed bits of said meals from the polished floor. So I'm back. Only, I think to make sense of everything I am going to have to blog about April's goings-on before I catch up with May. Because if you don't know where to begin, you should begin at the beginning.

Tomorrow.

The Potato That Time Forgot

Amazing what you discover when you have a clear-out. Looks like it's chips for tea then.

Out of Order

I've got bloggers-block.

Ignoring it doesn't seem to make it go away, so I've decided to take practical action and Google "How to clear a blockage". Here's the advice:

1. Pour a bucket of warm water into the pan - from a height would be best. This often clears minor blockages.

Right, here goes with a warm gush . . . The "first date" was wonderful, despite the fact that The Zit had babies overnight and I looked like a half-and-half pizza. She told me my book was great, and that she also liked my bag. I blushed. We've decided to go steady. 

Damn, still blocked.

2. Place a large plunger over the outlet and pump vigorously.

There is less than a month to go before we emi- . . . emi- . . . go on a particularly long holiday to Australia taking with us all our worldly goods. As a good friend commented today when she popped in to see us: "Oh, I thought you'd be a bit more packed than this." We have done ten boxes, seven of which contain books. The Australian is very tickled by the fact that I've insisted on logging every single title, as apparently I'm very slapdash in all other areas of my life. He might also be amused to discover than since we decided to have a big clear-out of my books pre-packing, to lighten our shipping load, I have somehow acquired fifteen new books . . . It's like they seek me out; they need me. Surely this is acceptable, as in other respects I am very thrifty. For example I buy shoes for £6. God, I can't wait to live not-next-to a Primark.

Meanwhile, the final piece of our visa puzzle arrived last week - my police check. I'd managed to work myself into a small but fairly violent frenzy, worrying that I had committed some crimes of which I was not aware, which would show up on this report. But I haven't. I'm clean. The pigs ain't got nothing on me.

Still not shifting. Hmm . . . 

 

3. Use a toilet auger.

I had to look that up (see photo). Unfortunately I don't think I have one. Or maybe I've already packed it. Just give me a minute and I'll open up all these boxes . . . 

First Date Nerves

I have changed my mind, Doctor Olay, I do not want younger-looking skin.

You remember how it used to be: you're fifteen (32) and the boy (literary agent) you've fancied for ages (done a redraft for and exchanged some promising emails with) has finally asked you out (invited you into the office). You'd started to think it would never happen - boys (literary agents) usually pass you over in favour of your prettier (more talented . . . possibly also prettier) friends (fellow writers). But here you are, the morning before the date, lying in bed wondering what to wear, how to act, which way to tilt your head for that first kiss (we'll probably just shake hands first off) . . . But hang on, something's different - you can feel something lightly throbbing on your cheek and as you rush out of bed and stumble to the mirror you see the full horror of what has erupted on your face overnight:

A ZIT.

Waaaaaaaaaah!

You rush around in a blind panic - you've got to do something! He (she!) can't see you like this! Can you hide it with your hair? Can you casually leave your hand on your face for the entire date (meeting)? Use brown eyeliner to make it into a beauty spot? Some sort of head scarf, wrapped tightly around one cheek? A balaclava? HELP!!! You run downstairs and ask your mum (children) if it's really noticeable. "Not at all," says your mum. "Now hurry up, you'll be late for school." ("Eurgh," says your child, "what's THAT on your face? Hurry up, I want some Cheerios.")

Waaaaaaaaaaah!

You rush into the kitchen to find instant spot remedies: a lemon? Hmm, might work. You cut it open and slam it onto your face. Ow! OK, how about some alcohol: brandy, vodka or damson gin - which one, which one?? You wet a piece of kitchen towel with the vodka and dab it on. Ow! What else? Cumin seeds, porridge oats, fish sauce, plum jam . . . curry paste? dab, dab, dab. Ow! Ow! Ow! You run upstairs to the bathroom and grab the toothpaste - YES, TOOTHPASTE! You're sure you've read somewhere that toothpaste is an excellent remedy. You squeeze it onto your cheek and try to calm down as you contemplate yourself in the mirror, wild of hair, flushed of face and white-blobbed of cheek. You breathe deeply, clutching the basin for support as you think to yourself: Sod it. If he (she!) doesn't like me zits n' all, he (she!) isn't the right boy (agent) for me.

You see, this is why I'm so suited to teen fiction, because I feel like a 15-year-old on the inside, and I look like one on the outside.

Umm, except for all those laughter lines.