Monday, 31 August 2009

What? So I'm not Nigella?!

So... The girls have been watching Tinkerbell, the movie. And they're now obsessed with finding out what their talents are (watch the movie. I'm not explaining it.) Eilidh says her talent's reading. Hannah's talent is fashion (in that she likes dressing up like princesses, i think..) And Esther's talent is eating. (These talents were given out by the girls, by the way - not me. Just in case you're wondering).

Anyway.. they also said Robbie's talent was to be loving. Aww... so nice. And true.

And that my talent was "cooking".

Now - I know they were struggling to think of a talent for me. Because even I was.

And I really knew that my talent wasn't cooking. It was confirmed to me, when I'd made fish cakes for the girls, and they didn't eat them. Unusual? No, not so much. So I turfed them out on the back lawn for the birds to eat. A dirty big seagull came down and gobbled a few of them up.

Then hacked them straight back up. And I swear it shivered in disgust.

Though, every cloud has a silver lining.

Cos a magpie came along and pecked away at the seagull's regurgitated offering.

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

Visiting Hours.

If you're ever in the neighbourhood, you're more than welcome to drop by. Most of the time, the kids will be dressed and groomed. Most of the time the house will be relatively clean and tidy. Most of the time, my hair will not resemble a burst couch. Most of the time I won't be wearing a t shirt with dried snot on it. Most of the time there won't be a bunch of paraplegic Bratz dolls lying all over the floor, their dismembered feet stashed in to their party tour bus. Most of the time there won't be washing slung over clothes horses trying to get dried inside, cos it's so wet and miserable outside that I have a backlog of washing to do (thus the snotty t shirt). Most of the time when I hear a knock at the door, my blood doesn't run cold, hoping against hope that one of the neighbours are coming to drop by for a friendly chat. Most of the time, when I hear a knock at the door, I don't frantically think, how am I going to freeze time, so that I can at least straighten my hair, chip off the snot, give the Bratz dolls the ability to walk again, tidy away the washing and rustle up some tasty treats?


But, I can't freeze time. And it seems to be the case that neighbours have a sixth sense about the state of me and my house. I think they lie in wait. I think they choose their moment. I think the have planners on their walls, that mark out the times that I'm most likely to be at my least presentable and most vulnerable. And then they strike. With a rat-a-tat-tat, and a (well disguised) friendly "hello", they swoop in for the kill, and worse yet - the judgement. The eyes sweeping across the battlefield of fallen Bratz, their killing field - a floor littered with hair elastics and dust bunnies, their gaze only to be broken by my jarring appearance. Not too unlike Vivienne Westwood...


My attempt at nonchalance is my only way out. And my gratitude that trashy daytime TV wasn't on. Just to complete the heinous picture.


So. If you want to come by. Sure. But, please. At least give me a heads up. At least give me time to sort out the barnet and sweep my manky floor and threaten the kids with no TV for a week should any bad behaviour present itself.


That will be all. I shall now relive the horror over and over til I feel suitably moved to sweep up.