Keir Royale

What do you do when one week they say “Ooo yummy, is there any more?” to your bolognaise sauce, and the next week they say “Yuck, it’s disgusting, I’m not eating that” to the very same concoction of ingredients done in pretty much the same order as the week before.

Is it something in the air?

I think yesterday it may have had something to do with the Polos they’d eaten before tea.
I did warn them.
I said “Stop eating polos or your tea will taste strange.”
But they took as much notice as they normally do. None.

At the table, after half an hour of fairly pleasant reminders that cucumber, red pepper and carrot sticks are not enough to keep a child’s metabolism running on high, I got heavy.

“If you don’t eat a reasonable amount of your pasta and sauce, within the next ten minutes, there’ll be no pudding, no bedtime stories and maybe even no telly on Saturday.”

“Why have you suddenly got so cross?” asks Ben.
“Because I’ve been sitting here, finished with my meal for twenty minutes, and I’m beginning to lose the plot. I hate teatime.”

I’m sounding like a two-year old myself, but arguments at mealtimes just do that to me.

If I hadn’t endured months of arguments, Ben wouldn’t even be eating sausages, but now he asks for them whenever we didn’t have them yesterday.

He still won’t eat:-

So providing varied and nutritious food for him is no picnic. Usually I give up on the varied bit and offer up the same stuff, alternating every three or four days in the hope that one day he’ll say -

“Do you know what Mum? I’m a bit sick of broccoli and cucumber and raw carrots. Can I have some spinach and asparagus and brussel sprouts today please?”

Yeah, like one day Hannah will say -

“Mummy I don’t like pink any more. I want to give away all my Barbie clothes and buy some Goth gear. This is the last time you’ll see me smile for the next four years.”

I think I’d prefer putrid pink any day.

As for yesterday’s teatime - Hannah ate most of hers, but Ben opted to leave the table hungry, forgoing pudding and Saturday morning telly.

He still got a bedtime story.

Today we received in the post a book from Amazon.
So what, you may think.
Well this was a big, hardback book about quilting. It’s called “Shadow Quilts: Easy to Design Multiple Image Quilts” and it cost £16.98 plus postage.

The interesting, and perhaps worrying aspect of this delivery is that neither Mike nor I had ordered it.

So has a quilter with a cash flow problem been hacking into our Amazon account?

I called to find out.
Well, it wasn’t that simple. I typed my phone number into a pop-up on Amazon’s site and their computer system called me back, and kept me waiting until someone in their call centre – based in Ireland judging from the accent – picked up the phone.

She told me exactly when the book was ordered, and that as it was ordered using one-click, it was impossible for anyone outside our house and our computer to do it.
As the deed was done at about 5.30pm, my suspicions immediately fell on the people who’ve been downloading random toolbars and coating my mouse with unidentifiable glutinous substances.

The children.

I’ve explained to Ben that he should never click on “yes” when it offers him the option of “run” and he hasn’t done that since the first couple of times. But I didn’t think to tell him not to buy stuff from Amazon using one-click.

And what interest does he have in quilting? He’s normally googling spy equipment and handguns and complaining that we don’t live in America.

“If we lived in America, could I have a real gun?”
“No, you do enough damage with a pen knife.”

Perhaps it was Hannah? The pattern on the front of the book is vaguely pink, and she does enjoy making her Hama bead creations.
Quilting is surely the next logical step.

I’ve already set Google Safesearch to maximum, to try to prevent unpleasant images from popping up now that they’re getting more computer literate, but it seems I will now have to go through all the cookies and re-set them to require a password to be entered before signing in.

I have already disabled one-click.

But their inventiveness continues to amaze and irritate in equal measures.

What will they manage to do next, I wonder?

What’s so great about sharing?

I hate it – but I have to encourage the kids to do it.

It’s unnatural and unpleasant, and makes me cross.

I especially hate sharing my study – Mike eats over the computer, without using a plate, and leaves crumbs on the keyboard.
The children play CBBC games with sticky hands and leave the mouse all gucky, and they sometimes download interfering toolbars I have to remove, taxing my PC skills to their limit.

I hate sharing the house – I like things clean and tidy, but I live with three people whose attitude to this is that I’m obsessive.
My preference for clean, tidy houses does not extend far enough to compel me clean up the house-wide mess left by the three people I share it with.
So I end up living in a house that oppresses me with random STUFF.

I hate sharing my bed – Mike likes to leave the electric blanket on for hours, even in June, and then forgets to turn it off. I’ve pulled it over to his side so it hardly touches me, but that means I have to stay on one narrow strip of bed if I don’t want to braise myself to sleep.
And he snores.
And when I complain about it he says I snore.

I hate sharing the bathroom – I want a bathroom that makes me happy just to be in it.
What I get is a small pit awash with plastic toys which assault my retinas, and surrounded by walls besmirched with smudgy handprints.

I hate trying to reach a mutually acceptable decision on decorating/buying furniture/anything to do with the house. We can never agree on what I want, so I give up in disgust and end up with what he wants.
I enjoyed doing up My First House when I bought it, because I could make the decisions without considering anyone else’s point of view.

I grew up as an only child, which could account for this attitude, and Mike’s the oldest of 8, which could account for his similar reluctance to back down one, single, inch, ever.

But - if I lived on my own I’d have turned into the kind of person who plumps up cushions when people are sitting on them and who washes up in between courses.

So it’s probably best that I’ve been forced to c-c-c-compromise (I can’t even type the word, let alone do it) all these years.

Doesn’t make it any more pleasant though - can you tell I’m in a bad mood?

I presented a radio programme today, for the first time in .. oo.. probably ten years, and it was fun. It reminded me of how exciting radio was before I got sucked into managing lots of other people doing it.

I was on freesound fm for an hour, interviewing a few people about what they’re up to in Plymouth.

I haven’t set foot inside a studio for nearly three years, and this was a thrown-together kind of affair featuring faders that don’t start things automatically, no soundproofing and a squeaky door straight out of the ScoobyDoo sound effects department.
There were no news bulletins, jingles, idents or time checks to keep me on track.

There wasn’t even a clock. I had to squint at the computer screen to see how long I had left.

But as it’s all a bit of a casual affair, I didn’t have to hit the top of the hour (as they say in the Smashy and Nicey world) and I didn’t have junctions or whatsons or weather to worry about.

It was like my training days, back in the distant mists of time at RTM Radio.
Just me and a few people and a desk with knobs and faders, and some music to play when I ran out of things to ask.

Not many people were likely to be listening and one of the interviewees was a voluble friend I’d dragged in to chat about her latest theatrical project and to make sure I had at least one decent guest.

I’ve been listening to freesound fm on and off all day. It’s weird to venture away from the safe, sometimes irritating but familiar tones of Eddie Mair, Jenni Murray et al, and it’s struck me how much raw talent there is out there.

I’ve heard some bloody weird music, some extremely knowledgeable enthusiasts taking about music I’ve never heard of, and in Cha with Chas I’ve caught up on all the years of Bollywood tunes that I’ve missed.

You London layabouts have such diverse choices all the time, but down these parts it’s all a bit monocultural.

I’m doing it again next Tuesday from 1-2pm, and you can listen on line, should you fancy a larf.

I’ll try to make it sound a bit more professional next time - I may even chuck in a few time checks and idents and trail ahead to the next programme - like you’re supposed to do.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll just chat on to a few interesting people in any way I see fit…

Mopsa has memed me with a set of specific questions - much scarier than “tell ‘em ten things you can remember about yourself and make it snappy.”

What was I doing ten years ago?
I bought my first house in February 1997, and it needed a lot of work, so in June 1997, my notebook is filled with lists like “sand sitting room floor” and “measure for curtains”.
Perhaps life before children wasn’t all long lie-ins and spontaneous foreign travel.

What was I doing one year ago?
Much the same as now. Last year’s kitchen calendar says “Hash camp at River Dart Park” – so in fact I was doing exactly the same as this year, give or take a day or two, minus the heavy rain.

Five snacks I enjoy
Cheese on toast
Duchy Originals lemon biscuits
Kettle chips (with or without houmous)
Greek-style yoghurt with a dollop of Neals Yard peanut butter (I know it sounds revolting, but just try it)
and finally (oh dear) a bar of Cadbury’s Whole Nut, with a glass of red wine and some trashy telly

Five songs to which I know all the lyrics
Most of the songs from The Sound of Music (not too hot on that dull love duet Julie Andrews sings with Christopher Plummer)
Seasons in the Sun, by Terry Jacks, although I get some of the verses muddled up
Kooks, by David Bowie (in fact, most of Hunky Dory)
Bob the Builder, unfortunately. I don’t seem able to forget it
Guys and Dolls (I was in it, many moons ago, and the lyrics have stuck)

Five things I would do if I were a millionaire
Legally prevent Mike from using the money to buy Lincoln City Football Club and waste it all on buying good players
Buy a house with a garden big enough to kick a real ball instead of a Swingball, and with a garage in which to stash all of Mike’s belongings. Oh alright, he can keep his clothes in the bedroom, but that’s it
Save enough to pay for the kids’ schooling at secondary level in case they don’t get into an acceptable state school (sorry and all that, but needs must around here)
I don’t think there’d be much left after that

Five bad habits
Wanting to throttle people who don’t happen to do things the way I do
I can’t think of any others – perfectionism maybe?
I really can’t think of any others – Mike says my bad habits are too numerous and too revolting for him to say out loud, so I’d better not mention any of them either, or you may not visit ever again
Not being sympathetic enough when malingerers moan about their ailments (see what I mean?)
Telling the children off for doing things I did, or still do – eg helping myself to a chocolate biscuit without asking first and then lying about it when my mother catches me with crumbs spilling from my mouth

Five things I like doing
a nice long, gentle walk with Mike and the kids, stopping to investigate dragonflies, Dartmoor ponies and animal poo, and to eat our picnic
dancing
meeting up with old friends – which I do far too rarely
sitting at the Splash, staring out at the sun setting over the raging sea with a glass of cold beer and some of those old friends at my side, pretending we’re still carefree and could just go, anywhere, if we felt like it… oh, and the kids are on the beach mudlarking about, close enough to hear them chuntering happily, but not near enough to answer every call to “Look at this” or “Can you help me with this sandcastle?”
I think the fifth would be scuba diving or flying a plane. I’ve flown a plane three times and it was FAB. I learned to scuba dive but have hardly done it for ten years.

Five things I would never wear again
hotpants
dungarees
platform shoes
small triangles of stretchy cloth that tied at the neck and around the waist – can’t remember what they were called
tutus
I could go on…

Five favourite toys
iPod – which I think I may have lost, but don’t tell Mike as it was a present from him. He never reads this.
PC – on a good day when it doesn’t freeze every five minutes
bike – on a sunny day
juggling clubs – I can still just about manage your basic three club juggle
roller skates – so I can try to keep up with the children and make them laugh with my flailing arms and ungainly technique

Well there you go - more revelations but no sashes.

Over to…
- aha, I see Drunk Mummy hasn’t answered this particular call to revelations yet
- and SAHD, time to strip naked under the memetic flashlight
- Scruffy Mummy - get yourself off Facebook and tell us your secrets
- and Iota, I’m interested to know more

That’s it. Can’t check any more blogs for memes already done.

A bientot.

I’m officially Hot Stuff…

I’d like to thank my mother, my agent (if I only had one) my publicist (ditto) my children (bless them for their role in this venture - no doubt they’ll have more to say about it when they’re older), and everyone who knows me, whether it be via this marvellous machine or in what some people like to call Real Life.

Eh?

What’s that? Is that what it’s called when you get caught out in the rain?

Well, now we’re home, dry, warm, the children are in bed an hour earlier than usual and I have my wine in a glass glass and not a plastic simulation of a glass - I can say, with all honesty, if a little amnesia, that we’ve had a great weekend camping in Devon in the rain.

And when I say rain, I mean the kind of constant drizzle interspersed with heavy showers that only the South West of England can offer.

Stay at Home Dad, I’m sure, knows where I’m coming from.

It will be one of those weekends we’ll look back on, and remember only the brief moments when the sun peeked through the clouds to have a quick giggle, before disappearing again to do whatever the sun does when it’s having a laugh.

We pitched the tent in the rain, then made a mad dash back to fetch the children from school - where they didn’t say,
“Oh thank you Mummy and Daddy, for getting wet in the name of a fun weekend communing with nature, don’t worry that you’ve arrived two seconds after the teacher let us out.”

Oh no.

They said,
“You’re late. Where have you been?”

Some of the more sensible members of TVH3 had said -
“Camping? in this weather? You must be joking. We’ll drop by on Saturday if it’s stopped raining.”

Wimps and charlatans, all of them. Or perhaps experienced campers who know how long it takes to dry a wet tent once it’s been packed up and taken home on top of muddy clothes. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Friday evening - we were laughing. No rain, just wet grass and a field full of kids playing football/frisbee/tug-of-war/throwing those funny bomb shaped things that make a noise as they whizz through the air.
The forecasters had, as we suspected, been exaggerating.

Fast forward through one night of (at best) three hours sleep, due to -

a) skimpy foam mattress and irritating sleeping bag that doesn’t behave like a duvet
b) ear plugs which block out the sound of Mike snoring but magnify the sound of my own breathing
c) over-tired 7-year old in next tent having a tantrum at 4am
d) mother leaving the campsite in car at 4.15am to take distressed 6-year old with ear-ache home
e) dawn chorus obliterating good work of ear plugs
f) our own children waking at 6.30am “we didn’t know what time it was Mummy” ready for action

I spend much of Saturday, when the forecasters’ dreams come to fruition, in a haze of sleep deprivation - the like of which I haven’t felt since getting used to life with my first baby.

This temporary comatose state leaves me with a serious sense of humour failure.
I know other people feel the same way when they say things like -

“I never sleep well in a tent.”
“The birds were loud weren’t they?”
“I woke up once an hour, every hour.”

It leaves me wondering why some of these seasoned campers continue to do it.
We’ve been once before on this particular weekend of Hashing Hilarity, and the sun shone and it was fun and the kids enjoyed it and we thought, “Why not go again, never mind the rain?”

Here’s why not -

- the children left their tent unzipped, so they had the choice of clean wet clothes, or muddy damp clothes, for the rest of the weekend.

- when Mike and I put our tent up we must have done one side too tight and another side too loose, so we couldn’t zip it up, and when it rained the water poured into the middle section of the tent

- we had to form little penguin huddles under each other’s gazebos to socialise

- we came home after less than two days away with a week’s worth of washing

On the other hand -

- the children disappeared onto the “Anaconda slide” or the “zip wires” or the “place where that werewolf growled at me over the wall last year, you remember Mummy?” for an hour at a time, returning only when they were too wet or too hungry to stay away

- Mike had his first go at orienteering (in the rain) and loved it

- a teenaged son of a hasher set a treasure hunt for the younger kids, which we did (in the rain) and Ben insisted on finishing despite being soaked

- the children’s Hash went through tunnels occupied primarily by streams, across babbling brooks edged in mud, around fields peopled with confused campers wondering why so many runners were out (in the rain) with their children, then ended up on a pirate ship laden with sweets

A Hasher never has as much fun as when s/he is wet in the name of running.

There’s one more thing - when we pack up the car (in the rain) Hannah wants to be dry. So I suggest she sits in the car and listen to a tape. I turn on the ignition and press the button for the stereo. Nothing. The battery is flat - too long spent with the boot open and the interior light on.

So Mike puts out an all-person alert for jump leads, someone turns up with some and we’re on our way.

Now we’re home, not only have we returned with seven pairs of shoes to wash/polish/chuck out, but I also have a pink pair of cheeks pretending they’ve come into contact with some sun.

How did that happen?

A severe weather warning has been issued for the South West of England. I only tell you this, not because I expect you to commiserate, but because it’s this weekend that we’ve arranged to go camping.

It’s inevitable really, what with Glastonbury being this weekend an’ all, that we should be blessed with the right weather for ducks, but patently the wrong weather for a family of fair weather campers.

Actually I tell a lie. It’s a family of two fair weather campers and two over-excited “Oh it’s this weekend we’re going camping, I don’t care about the weather” campers.
I’m sure you can work out which is who.

It’s the annual TVH3 family camping weekend, and we’ve paid up front and personal. So we’re going, come rain (a dead cert) or shine (a vain hope).

Last year was great. Sunshine, a bit of cloud, lots of kids playing football in the middle of thirty or so tents, plus a massive communal BBQ and fireworks on Saturday night.

We got into trouble with the campsite owners for the fireworks, so I doubt there’ll be any this year. But still, we were hoping for a similar experience.

The outlook for tomorrow though, when Mike and I are going to nip up the A38 to pitch the tent unencumbered by two small people, reads something like this -

Unsettled. Further rain or showers, with some localised torrential downpours possible, but also with some bright or sunny spells in between.

I’m hoping they doth protest too much, following the embarrassing under-forecasting by Mr Fish in 1987. But we may get very wet.

Still, we’ve told the kids we’re going, Ben has already turned the house upside down looking for his precious, but temporarily lost, Swiss army knife, so we’re going to have to give it one night at least, before bailing out and heading back down the A38.

The only thing that’s keeping me on track, is knowing that we’re just up the road and can de-camp any time we’ve had enough… as long as the children have had enough too.

And what chance is there of that, when there are tents, torches, sleeping bags, other feral children and a swimming pool involved?

… to redecorate?

Is it like having kids?
There’s never a right time, you just have to go with the flow and wait for it to happen.
That way madness, and grey glutinous walls, lie.

What I mean is, at what age will my children become human enough to make it worth spending good money on paint which won’t instantly be defaced by sticky fingers sliding up stairways, and won’t be chipped off by small plastic toys flying off into the oblivion that seems to be an essential part of every game they play.

When we moved into this house the children were aged 1 and 3, and the place was immaculate.
White walls, cream carpets, stainless steel multi-bulb light fittings, and white tiles on the bathroom floor.

Now there are fingerprints and scarification from plastic toys everywhere below waist level, we have to replace a blown bulb every week or so, and the carpets are more grunge grey than silky-cream.

Of course it was easier to keep the place tidy, clean and untouched when we were both working and the children were at nursery three days a week.

But once I left my job to stay at home and “work”, little things like friends coming round to play started to seep into our well-ordered routine. And while two children can make a mess, three or four can create a maelstrom.

A year ago we redecorated Ben’s room. We didn’t mean to, but we bought him a high sleeper bed with a desk underneath for his birthday, and when we removed the old cabin bed we found he’d used the wall beneath it as a test site for a future career in graffiti art.

We removed all the stickers and scribbles, then when we painted that section of wall we had to paint the whole wall, which made the other three walls look faded, so we ended up spending an entire weekend repainting his room, relocating the things he keeps in it, and erecting the new (to us) bed.

Now, just one year later, we may as well not have bothered.

When we moved in I re-painted the walls below the dado rail a more bearable shade of yellow. Now they’re streaked with what could be marmite, jam and finger smears; but which could just as easily be mud, blood and something left over from a prison dirty protest.

I keep thinking they’ll soon be old enough to risk redecorating, but then I watch them scraping their way up the stairs, resting their feet on the walls and lobbing stuff about in an airport baggage-handler kind of a way.

I asked my next door neighbour, whose four daughters range in age from 15 to 23, when he thought I should go for it. And he said,

“Oh, when they’re about twenty.”

Well, I seem to have been nominated for something at this site...

Why not go ahead, make my day!