Squirrel, Shark and Tiger are big girls. You are aged seven, we say casually, like we are handing over the keys of the car, adding don't bring that Jonathan back again because last time I had to stare at his ugly mug over my cornflakes.
Seven, girls, seven. You are aged seven. Girls who are aged seven, we say, in case they have forgotten from the last time we said it six minutes ago, do not scream in public. Big girls aged seven do not take swinging punches at their sister. Big girls do not snarl, growl, nor lift up their wheelie bags in a rage, build up momentum as they are swinging round in a pirouette, and try to take out both sisterly bodies in a single strike. Unless you are Bjork, or course, in which case you can. And if you do any of these things, we say, then we will lie in a loud voice that you cannot trash hotel rooms either just because your rock star big sister does. We have to find some excuse, Shark, just shut up and let us deal with it.
These days, we just get sulky age seven looks returned to us. Sometimes Squirrel rolls her eyes and tuts. She must have seen that somewhere on kid's TV and thinks this is how to be grown up. We are aged seven she will say with a sigh. We are not aged three.
When the children were aged three, and ran amok the moment their eyes say the lovely wide open spaces of an airport terminal, then things were trickier.
I discovered many solutions to the problem of three little kids running off in three different directions. Here is one. It is ribbon. Ribbon will do the job, so will wool, embroidery thread, string and any type of tape, so long as it is flexible and long enough. This is what you do.
1. Have three cute little bags ready for the airport terminal hidden in your hand baggage. At the terminal, whip these bags out and declare the magic fairy brought them. Incidentally, magic fairies are very useful and can make all sorts of household objects appear and disappear in seconds. It is, in fact, the same magic fairy who makes mother's bottle of beer arrive at lunchtime which mummy says is a special kind of fizzy lemonade which is why you can't have some.
2. Anyway, unless your children are not normal, you can rely on the kids immediately being enthralled by the appearance of cute bags, which they will rip open. And inside? A bright and shiny coil; 6 metres long of broad satin ribbon, all neat and new. Immediately the kids start to unwind it. Encourage this. The rest of the departure crowd will be scattering at this point as they see blue, red, purple ribbon flying into the air like some Chinese state circus demonstration run by midgets and a mad woman gleefully shouting 'Higher! Get it higher!'
3. Once unwound, encourage kids to wrap it round themselves and trail the ribbon along the floor behind them, tying Pooh bear at the end if desired, so that he bumps along the ground, looking sad.
Thus far, I have secured three objectives. The first is to create as large a space around my own family as possible - to hell with everybody else, let's face it, I'm a parent - so that I never lose one of the kids in a crowd. The second objective is to extract, while inconveniencing everyone, as many Ooo's and Aaah's from every other traveller as I can muster. There, you see, they are smiling at this sight, three little beings with their penguin trots, wrapped in ribbon and tugging their toys, how cute is that? Ha! Complicit in their own oppression they are disadvantaged, delayed, and I can steam on to the head of the queue, trailing piglets and poohs and hippos in my wake. Third, and this is practical, is that the kids, by tying ribbon around themselves, have actually made handles and reins, so that you can grab them if they are in danger of wandering off the track.
If you are really lucky, of course, the kids will tie each other together, and their animals, and find this hilarious, or insulting, depending on the mood. Then they make so much noise that Mr Spooky will never dare snatch one and you can hear them even though they have run off to Terminal 1 and you are in Terminal 2.
Well, sadly, we don't have to do this stuff anymore while travelling to Dubai at age seven. Because this is big girl stuff. So we insist on public display of favourite cuddly toy strapped in special harness to wheelie bag, cute clothing, neat hair, and a ready supply of jam sandwiches.
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Monday, 11 February 2008
Problems? Solutions.
We are packing. And we have problems on the clothing front. We are travelling to a Muslim country where women and children do not show bits of themselves. Here in the UK of course they let fly all over the place, and most don't mind if they push it all in Grit's face too, usually accompanied by bra straps and thong tops, while she is trying to do a decent bit of grovelling in the 10p bin at Tesco.
In fact, now I am warming to this subject of nudity in the UK, our local Tesco has a sign which requests that customers are properly attired when they enter the shop. This might show you what sort of area we live in. It is all about class, of course, and not poverty.
We live in a Smalltown where ladies like to show their status, not by how many labels they can dazzle you with or how much bling-fling they can do, but by how much blue flesh they can get out on a cold winter's day while waiting outside the Agora Marketplace. The men are not much better. Come summer, fat bellies abound. Pumped up with beer from the working men's club the Saturday night before, come Sunday morning, out they all flop. Two hours of midday sun in a chair turns the tops of these bumps bright pink. The man boobs on top provide the adornment to this glory. By afternoon the whole lot of it comes rolling into Tesco for a Sunday Mirror and, probably, a pork pie. Well I may be against Tesco on most things, but I am with them on this one. So when they put up the sign reminding customers that clothes are considered desirable, I sympathise.
I would like to emphasise that this is not out of a prudish demeanour, that I don't bring out my belly, thighs, upper arms and knees for public consultation. It is because I consider these bits of me revolting and in all likelihood that's what other people think too. I can't say that the ancient Grit upper arm, deserted by sunlight and any type of attention for the last seven years, is a particularly attractive sight.
But Grit arms, fat bellies, Tesco and UK dress standards are not the problem. It is Shark, who seems to have no suitable modest clothes at all and who has recently grown a bit everywhere so that she looks like a Michellin baby in last year's frocks. Worse, she won't wear anything but blue sleeveless dresses. And of course they have to be denim. I hope this phase of her life passes quickly, but it's probably worth recording for the family archives. Because next year it could be pink, frills, and Peter Pan collars. God, I hope not.
For the last year I have been supplying this demand for replica blue denim dresses from ebay, which is an excellent source in growing sizes long after the shops have stopped the fashion blip when I should, had I known Shark's upcoming demands, have bought 20 frocks in all advance sizes. Ebay is excellent for children's shopping, but I won't get distracted by that here. Because ebay is out of the question right now. We are travelling in two days.
Solution? Find credit card. Get Shark into car. Get into town. March Shark round M&S, John Lewis, Adams, Laura Ashley, H&M. Put in front of Shark all clothes which are:
a) blue
b) dresses
c) denim or denim look-alikes
d) have sleeves at least to the elbow and hems that go over the knee.
A-C are easy, because they fit Shark's model of a perfect outfit. The struggle comes at d). For this, mummy Grit has a tactic. Every time Shark pauses long enough to look at an outfit with sleeves and of a decent length, mummy Grit goes into raptures. She could be with John Galliano on a night out. 'Ooooo!' she squeals. 'Look! Shark! Isn't that adooorable! That would look FANTASTIC on you! What a beautiful dress! Try it on! No! I INSIST! It's so amazingly right it's got SHARK written all over it! NO, it won't take long! Just ONE MINUTE in the changing rooms! I'll help! And YES I'll stand guard if anyone comes in! Look! We're here, so let's just try it on, RIGHT NOW.'
Five hours later, I may have feet that are dropping off and an over-tired Shark who has been E-numbered with a jam doughnut, but I also have success. One outfit with long sleeves, one outfit with leggings, one new dress, blue and green. And now Shark is proudly packing them into her suitcase and I am calculating whether we'll be back in time to settle the bill.
In fact, now I am warming to this subject of nudity in the UK, our local Tesco has a sign which requests that customers are properly attired when they enter the shop. This might show you what sort of area we live in. It is all about class, of course, and not poverty.
We live in a Smalltown where ladies like to show their status, not by how many labels they can dazzle you with or how much bling-fling they can do, but by how much blue flesh they can get out on a cold winter's day while waiting outside the Agora Marketplace. The men are not much better. Come summer, fat bellies abound. Pumped up with beer from the working men's club the Saturday night before, come Sunday morning, out they all flop. Two hours of midday sun in a chair turns the tops of these bumps bright pink. The man boobs on top provide the adornment to this glory. By afternoon the whole lot of it comes rolling into Tesco for a Sunday Mirror and, probably, a pork pie. Well I may be against Tesco on most things, but I am with them on this one. So when they put up the sign reminding customers that clothes are considered desirable, I sympathise.
I would like to emphasise that this is not out of a prudish demeanour, that I don't bring out my belly, thighs, upper arms and knees for public consultation. It is because I consider these bits of me revolting and in all likelihood that's what other people think too. I can't say that the ancient Grit upper arm, deserted by sunlight and any type of attention for the last seven years, is a particularly attractive sight.
But Grit arms, fat bellies, Tesco and UK dress standards are not the problem. It is Shark, who seems to have no suitable modest clothes at all and who has recently grown a bit everywhere so that she looks like a Michellin baby in last year's frocks. Worse, she won't wear anything but blue sleeveless dresses. And of course they have to be denim. I hope this phase of her life passes quickly, but it's probably worth recording for the family archives. Because next year it could be pink, frills, and Peter Pan collars. God, I hope not.
For the last year I have been supplying this demand for replica blue denim dresses from ebay, which is an excellent source in growing sizes long after the shops have stopped the fashion blip when I should, had I known Shark's upcoming demands, have bought 20 frocks in all advance sizes. Ebay is excellent for children's shopping, but I won't get distracted by that here. Because ebay is out of the question right now. We are travelling in two days.
Solution? Find credit card. Get Shark into car. Get into town. March Shark round M&S, John Lewis, Adams, Laura Ashley, H&M. Put in front of Shark all clothes which are:
a) blue
b) dresses
c) denim or denim look-alikes
d) have sleeves at least to the elbow and hems that go over the knee.
A-C are easy, because they fit Shark's model of a perfect outfit. The struggle comes at d). For this, mummy Grit has a tactic. Every time Shark pauses long enough to look at an outfit with sleeves and of a decent length, mummy Grit goes into raptures. She could be with John Galliano on a night out. 'Ooooo!' she squeals. 'Look! Shark! Isn't that adooorable! That would look FANTASTIC on you! What a beautiful dress! Try it on! No! I INSIST! It's so amazingly right it's got SHARK written all over it! NO, it won't take long! Just ONE MINUTE in the changing rooms! I'll help! And YES I'll stand guard if anyone comes in! Look! We're here, so let's just try it on, RIGHT NOW.'
Five hours later, I may have feet that are dropping off and an over-tired Shark who has been E-numbered with a jam doughnut, but I also have success. One outfit with long sleeves, one outfit with leggings, one new dress, blue and green. And now Shark is proudly packing them into her suitcase and I am calculating whether we'll be back in time to settle the bill.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Getting out the suitcases
This is not easy. The suitcases are stored under the eaves. This is a stupid place to store them. I wish I would find somewhere else to stuff the wretched bags, out of sight, at a moment's notice because someone's calling round, and at that instant there's nowhere to put them. Except under the eaves.
Anyhow, under the eaves I climb. First problem: the floor is not a proper floor. It's just a few squares of hardboard laid across the plumbing pipes. Where the plumbing pipes go I have no idea. Someone's washbasin. Or our sink. There is a large creeping brown stain across the ceiling to the landing. That's probably us, even though we've blamed the neighbour. More specifically, it's probably me, kneeling on the water pipes, losening the joints, grovelling about in the darkness trying to extract the last wheelie bag.
The second reason why storing the bags under the eaves is a stupid idea is that the toilet waste pipe is propped up with a CD case. For that particular history of misery, you'll need to check out Grit's Day. I can't bear to recall the horrors here. Anyway, last time I knocked over the CD case and brought the toilet waste pipe off I had to sit there, scrunched and hunched in darkness, shouting to Squirrel from my position behind the wall and sending my voice through the empty bathroom and miraculously through the closed door too. 'GET DADDY!' I'm shouting, louder and hoarser each time. Squirrel comes to the bathroom door, finally detecting sound. Thank goodness someone's up here, I'm thinking. Because no-one would come and find me, wondering where mummy's gone. I could be stuck here in the eaves for hours. Or at least until someone wants to use the toilet.
And the final reason why it's a bad idea getting the bags out at all is that when they come out, all the kids sense that we've got travel coming up again. Tiger starts wailing 'I don't want to go!' and Shark starts complaining that it's not Australia, and Squirrel dives straight into her clothes basket and pulls out the most unsuitable items she can find and declares she's not leaving the country without them. Ever.
Oh joy. Preparation.
Anyhow, under the eaves I climb. First problem: the floor is not a proper floor. It's just a few squares of hardboard laid across the plumbing pipes. Where the plumbing pipes go I have no idea. Someone's washbasin. Or our sink. There is a large creeping brown stain across the ceiling to the landing. That's probably us, even though we've blamed the neighbour. More specifically, it's probably me, kneeling on the water pipes, losening the joints, grovelling about in the darkness trying to extract the last wheelie bag.
The second reason why storing the bags under the eaves is a stupid idea is that the toilet waste pipe is propped up with a CD case. For that particular history of misery, you'll need to check out Grit's Day. I can't bear to recall the horrors here. Anyway, last time I knocked over the CD case and brought the toilet waste pipe off I had to sit there, scrunched and hunched in darkness, shouting to Squirrel from my position behind the wall and sending my voice through the empty bathroom and miraculously through the closed door too. 'GET DADDY!' I'm shouting, louder and hoarser each time. Squirrel comes to the bathroom door, finally detecting sound. Thank goodness someone's up here, I'm thinking. Because no-one would come and find me, wondering where mummy's gone. I could be stuck here in the eaves for hours. Or at least until someone wants to use the toilet.
And the final reason why it's a bad idea getting the bags out at all is that when they come out, all the kids sense that we've got travel coming up again. Tiger starts wailing 'I don't want to go!' and Shark starts complaining that it's not Australia, and Squirrel dives straight into her clothes basket and pulls out the most unsuitable items she can find and declares she's not leaving the country without them. Ever.
Oh joy. Preparation.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
Insurance
The travel insurance runs out two days before we get to Yemen. That's Yemen, where two Belgian tourists were shot recently on an organised tour through the country.
Dig is good about these things. He does not immediately press the panic button, cancel the flights, rearrange the schedules or give up enturely and hide in the kitchen. In fact Dig is my insurance, because he is calm, and orderly in his thoughts about these things, and usually, he does not take risks. He is also well travelled, and knows about things. When he is not with the family, he has the benefit of armoured cars and people who look after him, sometimes.
Today Dig does the business with the insurance renewals, checks the conditions for repatriation of dead bodies and scrutinises medical emergencies. So taking the family off to Yemen where shootings happen is going to be OK.
Dig is good about these things. He does not immediately press the panic button, cancel the flights, rearrange the schedules or give up enturely and hide in the kitchen. In fact Dig is my insurance, because he is calm, and orderly in his thoughts about these things, and usually, he does not take risks. He is also well travelled, and knows about things. When he is not with the family, he has the benefit of armoured cars and people who look after him, sometimes.
Today Dig does the business with the insurance renewals, checks the conditions for repatriation of dead bodies and scrutinises medical emergencies. So taking the family off to Yemen where shootings happen is going to be OK.
Friday, 18 January 2008
Learn Arabic
Always learn a bit of the language. Even if it's 'hello' 'goodbye' 'sorry' 'thank you' and 'help'. I've learned something of Kannada in Karnataca, Mandarin in Beijing and Portuguese in Brazil and it's come in jolly handy - especially when we got stranded at that bus station in God knows where.
So this is the strong message we're giving to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. It doesn't matter how badly you think you speak it, learn some. You never know when it's going to come in handy.
Thus in anticipation of the trip to the Middle East, I've got out of the library Teach Yourself Arabic (Eastern version).
Incidentally, I think it is a public duty to learn Arabic in private. I have been going ACK ACK ACK all morning over several cups of tea, and I have nearly managed to tell the tea pot to drive shway shway because it is going too fast.
So this is the strong message we're giving to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. It doesn't matter how badly you think you speak it, learn some. You never know when it's going to come in handy.
Thus in anticipation of the trip to the Middle East, I've got out of the library Teach Yourself Arabic (Eastern version).
Incidentally, I think it is a public duty to learn Arabic in private. I have been going ACK ACK ACK all morning over several cups of tea, and I have nearly managed to tell the tea pot to drive shway shway because it is going too fast.
Friday, 11 January 2008
Be at home when the passports arrive
This is very important.
Otherwise, this is what happens:
The man from Secure Mail comes to the house and buzzes on the flat with the non-working buzzer. This happens at 9am while Grit is sitting at the breakfast table chewing her way through rice dream and muesli, wondering about her fatty habit webs. After 345 calories worth, Grit gets up and goes to another flat. As she passes the front door she notices a yellow card which reads that someone tried to deliver something. Then her mobile buzzes a message. This reads how a Secure Mail delivery driver can deliver me very important documents if I am at home.
Well we have had this before. We can wallpaper the message WE ARE AT HOME in a big banner across the front door and still we get a card which says 'Sorry! No one was in when we called!' This happens often, and I bet it does not just happen to Dig and Grit. This happens because drivers for delivery companies leave the cards and not the parcels on a routine basis. Believe me, I have complained. I have gone to desks and put my finger on them. I have written wallpaper sized messages and photographed them with me in front of them holding the day's newspaper as evidence should the entire matter come to court. I have done what any slightly unhinged mother of triplets can do.
So today I am incensed. Here is another ruddy card, claiming I am not in, when I am. Grit immediately texts back a short, sharp, quite frankly rude message to the effect that I am in.
Actually, I do omit to say that the buzzer to that flat doesn't work. You have to buzz them all. However, I exonerate myself on this because there is a message to that effect in the lobby and one could make the supposition that an effective delivery man's mind would read and interpret that message rather than scarper as quick as possible because it is raining and nice and dry and warm in the van.
The next step for Grit is to write a big rude message that reads: I am IN. Buzz all flats marked to left' and stick it on the front door. I then proceed to mark big, big arrows to all buzzer bells. Grit really has done this on the spur of the moment without thinking that actually her next step is to go out.
When we get back there is another card. This time it reads 'We tried to deliver your mail again. Are you in or out?'
Shortly afterwards the phone rings. At the other end is a Secure Mail delivery man. Grit immediately becomes a backsliding weed and starts her grovelling apology, reassuring the very nice gentleman that it was not a premeditated trap to get him to drive all the way back, honestly, really and truly. In fact Grit goes so far as to make up an emergency which called her out of the house and possibly, she indicates, might have included a doctor and a fire brigade.
Well, the newly chastised and meek Grit is given a new time to wait in the house and really be there. i.e. between 9 and 5 on the day that I'd planned to take Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to the safari park.
Now Grit, have you learned your lesson?
Otherwise, this is what happens:
The man from Secure Mail comes to the house and buzzes on the flat with the non-working buzzer. This happens at 9am while Grit is sitting at the breakfast table chewing her way through rice dream and muesli, wondering about her fatty habit webs. After 345 calories worth, Grit gets up and goes to another flat. As she passes the front door she notices a yellow card which reads that someone tried to deliver something. Then her mobile buzzes a message. This reads how a Secure Mail delivery driver can deliver me very important documents if I am at home.
Well we have had this before. We can wallpaper the message WE ARE AT HOME in a big banner across the front door and still we get a card which says 'Sorry! No one was in when we called!' This happens often, and I bet it does not just happen to Dig and Grit. This happens because drivers for delivery companies leave the cards and not the parcels on a routine basis. Believe me, I have complained. I have gone to desks and put my finger on them. I have written wallpaper sized messages and photographed them with me in front of them holding the day's newspaper as evidence should the entire matter come to court. I have done what any slightly unhinged mother of triplets can do.
So today I am incensed. Here is another ruddy card, claiming I am not in, when I am. Grit immediately texts back a short, sharp, quite frankly rude message to the effect that I am in.
Actually, I do omit to say that the buzzer to that flat doesn't work. You have to buzz them all. However, I exonerate myself on this because there is a message to that effect in the lobby and one could make the supposition that an effective delivery man's mind would read and interpret that message rather than scarper as quick as possible because it is raining and nice and dry and warm in the van.
The next step for Grit is to write a big rude message that reads: I am IN. Buzz all flats marked to left' and stick it on the front door. I then proceed to mark big, big arrows to all buzzer bells. Grit really has done this on the spur of the moment without thinking that actually her next step is to go out.
When we get back there is another card. This time it reads 'We tried to deliver your mail again. Are you in or out?'
Shortly afterwards the phone rings. At the other end is a Secure Mail delivery man. Grit immediately becomes a backsliding weed and starts her grovelling apology, reassuring the very nice gentleman that it was not a premeditated trap to get him to drive all the way back, honestly, really and truly. In fact Grit goes so far as to make up an emergency which called her out of the house and possibly, she indicates, might have included a doctor and a fire brigade.
Well, the newly chastised and meek Grit is given a new time to wait in the house and really be there. i.e. between 9 and 5 on the day that I'd planned to take Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to the safari park.
Now Grit, have you learned your lesson?
Friday, 4 January 2008
How to renew child passports
Dig, Grit and all the little Grits are planning some adventures. Because we are organised, this means renewing three child passports which run out this year. Here's how Grit does it.
1. Get the passport renewal application forms from the Post Office. Lie about going to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. They think that pulling down 6 application forms from the Post Office trays is a good game. Then, withing two minutes, there will be a pile of application forms for motorcycle tax discs, travel insurance, OAP bus passes, E11 medical cards, and post office savings accounts stuffed into Grit's handbag by little helpers. None of these are needed. And neither is the help.
2. At home, get the renewal forms out the handbag, preferably within the same month. If there are any problems now in processing the application forms it is better to leave time at the other end so we can drive down to the passport office if necessary. At that point it is highly recommended to take Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. I have noticed that in any place offering any service we always seem to be dealt with quickly after arrival once Squirrel starts screaming. (Of course this does not apply to A&E where we still had to wait five hours for the eye wound.)
3. Read over forms. Get very irritated about the erosion of civil liberties in the UK because apparently it is no longer the Passport Office. It is the Identity and Passport Service. Pause in all work to lecture everyone about the inevitability of identity cards in the UK.
4. Tell everybody to shut up because I am talking. Say that it is extremely important to be aware in this country and anyway I must get the forms right and it is not possible if Tiger is shouting Baby! Baby! Baby! in my ear, because then I will write 'Baby' in the space where it asks for my relationship to the child.
5. Go looking for a black pen. Be several days about that job.
6. Start to fill in forms. Be terrified of making a mistake, thus make a mistake and spell surname (that has been spelled the same for 148 years) wrong.
7. Get stuck. To fill in passport renewal application forms you need everybody's passport. Thank goodness that Dig is organised on this one and keeps all passports together in a safe place, wherever that is. Slowly write out lots of numbers in all the little boxes as instructed. This is not so easy with someone who has numerical dyslexia and routinely writes 15 instead of 51. Thank goodness far-sighted Grit actually has 6 passport renewal application forms to hand because she knew that 3 would never do.
8. Get fed up. Filling in a passport renewal application form seems to be all about 'If you have answered yes to 4b and your child was born after 1981 go straight to Section 9'. In theory, this should be a straightforward instruction requiring a small mental exercise to do with route planning. It would be too, but Squirrel starts making a squeak-squeak-squeak noise which is as effective as stabbing a knitting needle through the screen of a tomtom sat nav. Take aspirin, tell everyone to shut up and leave for 24 hours. Do not lose black pen in this difficult time.
9. Take Squirrel down to the Post Office where there is a photo booth blocking the aisle. The photo booth is strange. There are no printed instructions anywhere. Grit wastes 10 minutes of life looking for them. No Grit no. The photo booth is not a useless piece of metal junk which deserves a good kicking. The photo booth is advanced technology and we live in the 21st century. Remember, written instructions are dead. The photo booth talks! But only after you've put the first pound coin in. Only there are no written instructions to tell you this. Grit, remember next time to just stop shouting, put your money in and the photo booth will talk to you and tell you what to do.
10. Wind up seat very high indeed because child's face is below photo screen. Apologise when seat comes off in hand. Say loudly, so that Grit does not look like a middle-aged vandal now smashing up the photo booth with a small child for cover, that next time we could bring a happy bucket to sit on like that time we went to the Netherlands.
11. Sit child on seat. Check there is no modelling balloon inadvertently sticking up at the back of her head. Check she is not wearing face paints, scarves, glasses, is not smiling, has hair brushed back and is not clinging to the booth. Tell her to sit upright and take that look of terror off your face because you can't possibly fall off the seat at your age.
12. Tie her legs to the seat with a long scarf to stop her thinking she is going to fall off the seat again. Say it is lucky I got the seat back on otherwise you would have had to sit on the spike.
13. Shut curtains and stand outside. Shout things like 'Can you see the button? The photo booth says press the button!' Child is confused. Grit, who can hear the instructions but not see the buttons once the curtain is shut, is confused. The answer is simple: try and do photo-taking by remote control. Bend over and stick out your British museum*. Stick head under the curtain to see the buttons, hear the instructions and see the screen while checking that Grit's head cannot possibly be in the photo. This is all very complicated and blocks the aisle.
14. Repeat twice more with Shark and Tiger. Do not waste time looking for the instructions or pulling the seat off.
15. Collate 6 photographs, 3 filled in forms, and 3 passports and cleverly arrive at the Post Office at 8.55am, before the 9am pensioner crowd and after the 8.30am work crowd. Smugly stand in short queue waiting for the check and send service which costs £7 per passport.
16. At the counter where there is a sweet little old lady, have all passports rejected because they need countersigning on the basis that a child's face changes.
17. Argue. Say that two of the kids are are identical anyway. Say that Shark is still Shark and her face hasn't changed. Become sarcastic. Ask things like what did they do? Become John Travolta? Old lady replies that it is better to have your passport renewal application rejected at the Post Office instead of wasting time having it rejected at the Identity Agency. Realise that being facetious, argumentative and difficult with the old lady who controls the rubber stamp isn't going to get anywhere and come home.
18. Drive to the Hat's. She will countersign the ruddy forms and sign the back of the photographs to say it is really Shark, Squirrel and Tiger and not John Travolta. Forget it is now 9.45am and the Hat will be in bed because she has been partying half the night.
19. Get the Hat out of bed by banging on the door.
20. Try and be nice because this is a favour after all. Do pleasantry about weather. Then demand that the Hat countersign all passports. No, not later. Now. Try and look calm and collected when actually in a screaming panic because for the first time ever Shark, Squirrel and Tiger have been left all alone. They are having breakfast and arguing about dinosaurs. The neighbours, who are moving out the upstairs flat, are instructed to help if Shark, Squirrel or Tiger falls downstairs. Reason that this should be OK as the neighbour who is moving out is a nurse for the elderly, so something should translate between Edna who is 87 and falls downstairs and Squirrel who is 7 and falls downstairs.
21. Rush back to children. Still eating breakfast. Now arguing about helicopters. Go to Post Office. Shark's application is rejected on the check service because in the photograph she has her mouth open. What's more, the Hat, frog marched out of bed, has made an error on her own post code and overwritten it, so now it looks like a letter that's not in the alphabet.
22. Say 'Right that's it. I've had enough of the ruddy passports. We're going to the safari park to have fun'. At the safari park, renew the annual pass where Grit is told the annual price increase was yesterday.
23. Drive home. Wrestle Shark into Post Office on the way and get her in the booth to have another 4 photos taken with her mouth shut. Legitimately shout to child in public, 'Keep your mouth shut!' In hindsight, this is the only satisfying bit of the entire process.
24. Drive over to the Hat's and push a new renewal application form for countersigning through the letterbox.
25. Go home, unload children and drink beer. Wait for the phone call from the Hat to arrange dropping off the countersigned form back home so it can be married up to the photograph with the mouth shut and the passport.
26. Wait in all the next day for the Hat who finally arrives five hours after suggesting she might. She is off to a party and says she cannot stop, but does so for 55 minutes anyhow. By the time she leaves it is too late to get to the Post Office.
27. The following morning, rush to Post Office while Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are eating breakfast and arguing about horses. Stand in queue. At the counter, be nice to old lady this time. Hand over 3 forms, 6 photos (3 blank and 3 countersigned) and 3 passports, and wait nicely for 20 minutes while everything is checked and bagged up into envelopes.
28. Pay £159 and smile.
29. Go home and wait for one of the following events: a) passports arrive in good time and there is no need to panic; b) application forms are rejected and returned and Grit goes down the Post Office to give the old lady a tongue lashing; c) passports are received, accepted, reissued and lost in the post.
Easy.
* Bum. See Grit's Day
1. Get the passport renewal application forms from the Post Office. Lie about going to Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. They think that pulling down 6 application forms from the Post Office trays is a good game. Then, withing two minutes, there will be a pile of application forms for motorcycle tax discs, travel insurance, OAP bus passes, E11 medical cards, and post office savings accounts stuffed into Grit's handbag by little helpers. None of these are needed. And neither is the help.
2. At home, get the renewal forms out the handbag, preferably within the same month. If there are any problems now in processing the application forms it is better to leave time at the other end so we can drive down to the passport office if necessary. At that point it is highly recommended to take Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. I have noticed that in any place offering any service we always seem to be dealt with quickly after arrival once Squirrel starts screaming. (Of course this does not apply to A&E where we still had to wait five hours for the eye wound.)
3. Read over forms. Get very irritated about the erosion of civil liberties in the UK because apparently it is no longer the Passport Office. It is the Identity and Passport Service. Pause in all work to lecture everyone about the inevitability of identity cards in the UK.
4. Tell everybody to shut up because I am talking. Say that it is extremely important to be aware in this country and anyway I must get the forms right and it is not possible if Tiger is shouting Baby! Baby! Baby! in my ear, because then I will write 'Baby' in the space where it asks for my relationship to the child.
5. Go looking for a black pen. Be several days about that job.
6. Start to fill in forms. Be terrified of making a mistake, thus make a mistake and spell surname (that has been spelled the same for 148 years) wrong.
7. Get stuck. To fill in passport renewal application forms you need everybody's passport. Thank goodness that Dig is organised on this one and keeps all passports together in a safe place, wherever that is. Slowly write out lots of numbers in all the little boxes as instructed. This is not so easy with someone who has numerical dyslexia and routinely writes 15 instead of 51. Thank goodness far-sighted Grit actually has 6 passport renewal application forms to hand because she knew that 3 would never do.
8. Get fed up. Filling in a passport renewal application form seems to be all about 'If you have answered yes to 4b and your child was born after 1981 go straight to Section 9'. In theory, this should be a straightforward instruction requiring a small mental exercise to do with route planning. It would be too, but Squirrel starts making a squeak-squeak-squeak noise which is as effective as stabbing a knitting needle through the screen of a tomtom sat nav. Take aspirin, tell everyone to shut up and leave for 24 hours. Do not lose black pen in this difficult time.
9. Take Squirrel down to the Post Office where there is a photo booth blocking the aisle. The photo booth is strange. There are no printed instructions anywhere. Grit wastes 10 minutes of life looking for them. No Grit no. The photo booth is not a useless piece of metal junk which deserves a good kicking. The photo booth is advanced technology and we live in the 21st century. Remember, written instructions are dead. The photo booth talks! But only after you've put the first pound coin in. Only there are no written instructions to tell you this. Grit, remember next time to just stop shouting, put your money in and the photo booth will talk to you and tell you what to do.
10. Wind up seat very high indeed because child's face is below photo screen. Apologise when seat comes off in hand. Say loudly, so that Grit does not look like a middle-aged vandal now smashing up the photo booth with a small child for cover, that next time we could bring a happy bucket to sit on like that time we went to the Netherlands.
11. Sit child on seat. Check there is no modelling balloon inadvertently sticking up at the back of her head. Check she is not wearing face paints, scarves, glasses, is not smiling, has hair brushed back and is not clinging to the booth. Tell her to sit upright and take that look of terror off your face because you can't possibly fall off the seat at your age.
12. Tie her legs to the seat with a long scarf to stop her thinking she is going to fall off the seat again. Say it is lucky I got the seat back on otherwise you would have had to sit on the spike.
13. Shut curtains and stand outside. Shout things like 'Can you see the button? The photo booth says press the button!' Child is confused. Grit, who can hear the instructions but not see the buttons once the curtain is shut, is confused. The answer is simple: try and do photo-taking by remote control. Bend over and stick out your British museum*. Stick head under the curtain to see the buttons, hear the instructions and see the screen while checking that Grit's head cannot possibly be in the photo. This is all very complicated and blocks the aisle.
14. Repeat twice more with Shark and Tiger. Do not waste time looking for the instructions or pulling the seat off.
15. Collate 6 photographs, 3 filled in forms, and 3 passports and cleverly arrive at the Post Office at 8.55am, before the 9am pensioner crowd and after the 8.30am work crowd. Smugly stand in short queue waiting for the check and send service which costs £7 per passport.
16. At the counter where there is a sweet little old lady, have all passports rejected because they need countersigning on the basis that a child's face changes.
17. Argue. Say that two of the kids are are identical anyway. Say that Shark is still Shark and her face hasn't changed. Become sarcastic. Ask things like what did they do? Become John Travolta? Old lady replies that it is better to have your passport renewal application rejected at the Post Office instead of wasting time having it rejected at the Identity Agency. Realise that being facetious, argumentative and difficult with the old lady who controls the rubber stamp isn't going to get anywhere and come home.
18. Drive to the Hat's. She will countersign the ruddy forms and sign the back of the photographs to say it is really Shark, Squirrel and Tiger and not John Travolta. Forget it is now 9.45am and the Hat will be in bed because she has been partying half the night.
19. Get the Hat out of bed by banging on the door.
20. Try and be nice because this is a favour after all. Do pleasantry about weather. Then demand that the Hat countersign all passports. No, not later. Now. Try and look calm and collected when actually in a screaming panic because for the first time ever Shark, Squirrel and Tiger have been left all alone. They are having breakfast and arguing about dinosaurs. The neighbours, who are moving out the upstairs flat, are instructed to help if Shark, Squirrel or Tiger falls downstairs. Reason that this should be OK as the neighbour who is moving out is a nurse for the elderly, so something should translate between Edna who is 87 and falls downstairs and Squirrel who is 7 and falls downstairs.
21. Rush back to children. Still eating breakfast. Now arguing about helicopters. Go to Post Office. Shark's application is rejected on the check service because in the photograph she has her mouth open. What's more, the Hat, frog marched out of bed, has made an error on her own post code and overwritten it, so now it looks like a letter that's not in the alphabet.
22. Say 'Right that's it. I've had enough of the ruddy passports. We're going to the safari park to have fun'. At the safari park, renew the annual pass where Grit is told the annual price increase was yesterday.
23. Drive home. Wrestle Shark into Post Office on the way and get her in the booth to have another 4 photos taken with her mouth shut. Legitimately shout to child in public, 'Keep your mouth shut!' In hindsight, this is the only satisfying bit of the entire process.
24. Drive over to the Hat's and push a new renewal application form for countersigning through the letterbox.
25. Go home, unload children and drink beer. Wait for the phone call from the Hat to arrange dropping off the countersigned form back home so it can be married up to the photograph with the mouth shut and the passport.
26. Wait in all the next day for the Hat who finally arrives five hours after suggesting she might. She is off to a party and says she cannot stop, but does so for 55 minutes anyhow. By the time she leaves it is too late to get to the Post Office.
27. The following morning, rush to Post Office while Shark, Squirrel and Tiger are eating breakfast and arguing about horses. Stand in queue. At the counter, be nice to old lady this time. Hand over 3 forms, 6 photos (3 blank and 3 countersigned) and 3 passports, and wait nicely for 20 minutes while everything is checked and bagged up into envelopes.
28. Pay £159 and smile.
29. Go home and wait for one of the following events: a) passports arrive in good time and there is no need to panic; b) application forms are rejected and returned and Grit goes down the Post Office to give the old lady a tongue lashing; c) passports are received, accepted, reissued and lost in the post.
Easy.
* Bum. See Grit's Day
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Getting started
This blog is a deposit for travel diaries, experiences, ideas and information about travelling with triplets. I thought a blog like this might come in handy for me to re-read and remind myself about the true horrors everytime me and Dig planned to go off somewhere with Shark, Squirrel and Tiger. It might also serve to remind me why I say 'Never again' everytime we go.
However, because Grit is also full of her own self importance I thought this blog might also come in handy as a way of sharing some of these travel-related subjects with other triplet parents who probably, like Grit, have looked at a shopping cart with two seats in it and wondered what to do next.
This blog is not is a daily blog of family life and experience surviving with triplets hanging onto your ankles. For that you'll have to go to Grit's Day.
And I would change the self description at the side for this blog if I knew how or had the time to find out how without Squirrel interrupting me all the time telling me she has accidentally poured Rice Krispies all over the floor. Again.
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