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.
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