Aphids, art and powder rooms...

Hello my dears.

I trust I find you well and in good humour. You are generally a cheerful bunch of individuals, generous with your happy vibes and pleasant interjections. I miss you. I should come here more….I am preoccupied with the knotty problem of occupying a six year old bundle of energy for eight weeks.That’s fifty-six days. Two months. A mouth-dryingly, petrifyingly loooooooonnnnggg time.

Yes, it’s that time again. Sprog is about to start his monumental, summer break from school…and so life as I know it (ie.a bit of a doss) is going to change. I shall have to shape up sharpish. Get my ‘100 Superior Mothering Swindles:Amusing your Kids with the Littlest of Effort’ book off the shelf. But can I be arsed? It is a very well-thumbed tome. I think my favourite suggestion it contains is ‘ Set your child up in the garden with some paints and paper, then ask them to paint in the style of the pointillists, everything they can see that is green. In seven different shades of green.’ Pure genius.

I have declared a holy war on aphids. I am tickling them to death with my little tickling stick. At least they die happy, the greedy, bean eating little gits.

Sprog and Spouse are wrestling on the sofa, blowing fake-farts into their inner-elbows, then dissolving into fits of giggles at the ensuing cacophony. Ok, Sprog is. Spouse is just sort of humouring him, whilst keeping an eye on the two young gels hitting a tennis ball backwards and forwards on the TV. Wimbledon fortnight is upon us and I’m afraid we gorge ourselves somewhat, couch athletes that we are. The Belorussian player who is competing as I write, is irritatingly noisy. She whinnies like a distressed foal on every hit. I find it unsettling. Like I should be doing something to ease her anxiety. Like tell her to shut the fuck up.

Other exciting news is that I have started contributing to this new wonderful website. Those more observant among you, may have noticed the rather fetching glossy badge that has appeared on my blog. Isn’t it pretty? It lends a much needed air of glamour to this shit-hole of a blog.

That reminds me. If ever I needed reminding how far I have travelled from the glitz, sophistication and glamour of my previous incarnation in London – a casual remark from Sprog illustrated it perfectly this week. He was excitedly describing to me the costumes the children would be wearing for the Fete de L’ecole at the end of year concert. It all sounded quite normal. Transvestitism seems to be heartily encouraged in French schools – all the older boys dress up as ladies and apply full make-up. Sprog was describing that one of the boys looked hilarious…’Mummy, he was wearing some of those funny shoe things…you know…the ones with pointy things underneath them.’ For a moment a strange mental image of ladyboys in football boots sat in my head. Then, with horror, it dawned on me what he meant. The poor little darling was referring to high heeled shoes. Oh the guilt I felt. At six years old, he should know what a pair of high heeled shoes are.

Please do go and check out Powder Room Graffiti – it’s great fun. There are all sorts of great writers telling it like it is. And there’s me. Doing my usual thing….being a bit silly. But, hey. It’s what I’m good at. Go over and see, you will no doubt recognise some familiar faces and discover some new ones...

I’d better split now. Wimbledon has finished (the grunter won – so unfair!) and Glasto is on. Here’s a quick Mya review:

I have enjoyed the dancing of the vocalist in Friendly Fires – perhaps that’s not the effect he was aiming for, but my old acting teacher always told me that any reaction was a good reaction (supposedly to make me feel better as I recovered from mild concussion following a flying cabbage incident).

Lady Gaga. Fabulous. Move over Madge.Her arse (Lady G's) is like stone - can you get buttock botox?If you can, I want it. Now!

Lily Allen. Just move over.

Regina Spektor –wonderful.

That’s all I’ve seen so far. I must say, their mud is pretty lightweight amateur fare compared to the stuff we get around here.

Really, I’m going now. Mwah!

Mountain morning

I have just stuck my head out of the door to summon the cat. The perfume of the broome on the hills is incredibly potent at this time of day - it is one of my favourite times of year. The evenings are light and I can stay out in the garden until gone ten O clock. Mornings are the time for rushing around, getting through your tasks, so that you are able to crash in a heap in the afternoons when temperatures become crazy hot.I tried to find a picture of the yellow broome blossom, but I couldn't.You'll have to be satisfied with sheep instead. Wrong time of year, wrong size sheep and no cute little whiny lambs. Our woolly friends surround us at the moment. At night, we are lulled to sleep by the soft tinkle of sheep bells through the open windows. If it's bucolic you want, you've come to the right place.



Three more weeks of the school term left, and then the long vacance. There will be a lot of swimming. Beaches, lakes and ice-creams feature heavily in Sprog's plans. Relatives too, which is always a bonus.We might even manage a trip away, if we are lucky. Swanky (and cheap) destination of choice this year, is the South West coast of England. Quoi neuf? It's my favourite place on the planet, basically, with this place running a close second.

We have builders coming at some point. I can't be any more specific than that. French builders don't really do 'time scales'. Actually, that's unfair. They DO do 'time-scales', they just don't bother sticking to them at all. Which begs the question, 'What's the bloody point?' The building work in question is far from sexy. If it were an elegant new orangery for the east-wing, refurbishment of the infinity pool or a bespoke new kitchen, I might be getting excited. But it's more, yawn yawn structural crap - you know, just stuff to stop the place from crumbling around our ears. Expensive and invisible - totally dull. The only thing that adds a frisson of excitement to the whole sorry state of affairs is 'How the f**k are we going to pay for it?'

I don't often blog at this hour in the morning.It's perhaps a little early,I'm writing like a tit. Maybe I'll come back later this afternoon once my brain has engaged. Have a delicious, fragrant,sensory delight of a weekend.

Slacker returns in shock shoe shambles

I’m so sorry I’m late….

I was waiting ages for a bus, and then three came all at once (wouldn’t you know it?)…but then there was a stampede and I was trampled underfoot by stiletto shod data in-putters worried about premature curtailment of their temp contracts due to ‘punkchewallity ishoos.’

What a dire morning.

So, I had to return home to apply vinegar and brown paper to my gaping wounds...and then I got sucked into a TV documentary that Spouse was watching about the honey-voiced, Andrew Motion...whom I find rather arresting. So, I sat annoyingly on the edge of the sofa for some time, bleeding and spraying Jaffa cake crumbs all over the place. After about half an hour Spouse started doing his speaking clock thing. I can take a hint - I'm not completely insensitive.

Long sentence coming up, deep breaths everyone - can't be arsed to punctuate.

Unfortunately, that was one of a catalogue of medium-sized disaster/fuck ups that have been torturing the wits out of me and have led to my being separated for a whole month by some miles from any computer with an internet connection inserted into its rear.(No clever-dicks, we don't have wireless - where do you think this is? Basildon?) I was being held hostage – but I haven’t time to elaborate right now….let’s just say, the hospitality whilst hardly impeccable, could teach Travelodge a thing or two.

Yes, I know I've used the hostage excuse before, but on that occasion aliens were my jailers. These guys were different.The level of savagery was beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. They tortured me with Chris de Burgh music and broke wind in my face. The farts were easier to bear. But they told me that in the current economic climate, hostage taking was having to adapt to market forces. I thought I was probably worth more than a satsuma, a dried up Biro and a wheel of ripe Stilton - but I was happy just to be released. Everyone has their price - and it seems I'm quite cheap.

So, here I am now, prostrate before you. Begging forgiveness for my errant, neglectful ways…I am off now to flagellate myself with the whip of penitence…yes …you’ve guessed it….I’m going to watch a school concert. I will arrange upon my features the rictus smile known to all mothers on such occasions. And I will be poised to punch out the first person who says ‘ Who’s the weird kid facing the wrong way?’

Catch you later, my lovelies!

Fill up my comments box (ooer!) with all your news. I’m interested…no really…I am.
I AM. Stop it! I am.

No gifts please

I came to the blog this evening, contrite, apologetic and guilt-ridden. Being a lousy blog-mutha with an atrocious memory...I had committed the unthinkable crime...I had forgotten that most important of anniversaries...my darling little blog's second birthday.

What a bitch! How could I?

Well....it was quite easy to do, actually. I'm not coming to the blog much at the moment, I have lots going on.But that doesn't mean I don't still love you, blog. I do. I just need some space. That's bollocks actually. I'm just busy. I have a family, a large, shabby, falling-down house, a veg garden that needs digging and sowing, walls that need painting...sleep...I seem to need a lot of sleep at the moment...hope I'm not up the duff...and I'm writing, writing ,writing in between times. So, bloggykins, please forgive me, I'm so sorry I forgot your birthday. I'll make it up to you, I promise. I'll buy a box of chocolates for you - I'll eat them for you, then I'll write a loving description of how delicious they are.

I've just checked. I didn't overlook the birthday. My first post ever was on 28th April 2007. Ha!

Who's sorry now?

Hag or crone?

Because I am essentially a spineless cowardy-custard, I have, as yet, failed to take action against the fouler or foulers of my doorstep. I admit to having rather wicked fantasies involving apero invitations and filo pastry nibbles, piped with a mystery truffley filling...would anyone like to lend me the use of their oven?


I'm knackered....so I'm just going to ramble. Feel free to bugger off now, if you've got some sardines grilling or some paint drying somewhere..

It's the easter holidays. I'm not religious...I'm ashamed to say, it just spells 'Kinder' to me. Two exhausting weeks of childcare, cut in half by one mad weekend packed with enough chocolate to bring us all out in hives...no money, so no activities...well not of the 'real' kind according to Sprog. A 'real' activity would be something like a couple of days at Playmobil land, or whatever it's called....or a spell at Futuroscopic....or whatever the fuck that's called....you can tell I'm really interested in these places...or paintballing confused old-timers... or a day's Karting...now I wouldn't mind doing that, if we could afford it. But I'm not sure Sprog meets the height requirements anyway...so we have to content ourselves with 'crap'ie. 'free' activities like going on nature walks, bike rides, tree climbing, painting, sheep monitoring, bird song workshops,Dad baiting...oh it's so dull to be a six year old country mouse...if only he had a Nintendo DS, life would be worth living...well it would be for me, at least. I might get something done.


We went visiting pals this afternoon. I was sitting outside in the sun for too long and am now a rather fetching puce colour.I have been trying to find a high protection facial sunblock that doesn't make me look like Marcel Marceau - but I don't know if one exists. Urgent action needs to be taken to arrest the demise of my poor complexion. Any suggestions welcomed.

The brown stuff...and it's not chocolate

Oh, glorious, glorious printemps! We welcome you open-armed. The trees festooned with blossom, the birds a-singin' and a-shaggin', the irises shooting up like great purple phalli - it's all very fizzy and springy and lovely here. Apart from the large coil of shit on my doorstep. I am not speaking in metaphors. A rather large poo-shaped heap of...well,poo...has appeared outside. It’s not actually, right on the doorstep, although, if I were to stride out of the door I would be ankle deep in a second or two. When I say ‘someone’, obviously, I don’t mean a human. At least I hope I don’t, for their sakes.

So, I have taken to squinting through the keyhole, hoping to catch a glimpse of the turd litterer. Yes, I know. This makes me sound slightly unhinged. I’m comfortable with that.

I should relax about this.I live in rural France. Faecal matter is their daily bread. Now that is a metaphor, perhaps a little clumsy and Nutella-esque – but I think you get my meaning. Even if I set up a webcam for 24 hour doorstep monitoring, if I caught the culprit brown-pawed and confronted their owner with the evidence, I would only get a gallic shrug in response.

‘It’s a dog. It shits. What can I do about it?’

The very mention of picking it up and disposing of it responsibly, is met with eye-rolls and muttering. I know. I’ve tried it before. The woman asked me if she was supposed to put it in her pocket? I told her I’d prefer she did that than my toddler son put it in his mouth. I got the familiar ‘You mad fucking
English weirdo’ look, and she wandered off, with her shitbag of a pooch.

But it's not just outside my door. It's everywhere. How can I marvel at the beautiful blue sky when my eyes are forever glued to the ground on crap-avoidance duty?

I think I might start going around the village, crapping outside people’s doors. You know…make a point…and a mess. Start a debate. What do you think? Is it a plan?

Sunday musings, delusions and dangerous sports

Today has been nice. I didn't get a lie-in, but Spouse did.Admittedly, not ideal. That said, if I get dragged from my nod-pit first by the Sprogster, I can play the martyr for a few hours. So, when Spouse finally emerges, well-rested, showered shaved and spouting things like, 'the rejuvenative qualities of an extra couple of hours sleep compare favourably with a visit to Champneys,' he is on the back foot right from the get-go. I can request favours. Be a little more demanding than usual...extract a few cakes, promises, kisses,household appliances.

Oh, and he's never been to Champneys. But I didn't want to be all curmudgeonly, so I let it go.

This afternoon we took a long walk. We tramped through moss covered labyrinthine forests, scrambled over rocks and under fallen firs. We startled a deer - but it scared the SHIT out of us first! Spouse and Sprog held their pilgrim's staffs aloft and shouted things like 'Behold warriors, the salver of enlightenment awaits at foot of sacred oak yonder.'....while I satisfied myself with manic gnome impersonations and doing surprise ambushes onto their backs from overhanging branches. And ended up chewing lichen.

Oh what larks!

Flora and fauna interlude - anemones in delicate shades of mauve and pink lined the pathways.Wild hellebores nodded their unwieldy heads, like miniature, lime-green, processional monks.I didn't smoke any plant material today, although I'm aware I may be giving quite a different impression.At the dew-filled pond we had a short chat with a charming unicorn on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. He said he was looking forward to a good match and that he had tickets for the member's enclosure. Howzat?

And when we got home, after we'd traipsed six muddy boots all over the kitchen floor, drank hot tea and ate gooey lemon cake, we were well knackered. So, we lit the fire, turned on the TV and collapsed in a heap.

Athletics from Torino.

Perhaps it was just because we were exhausted from our exertions and resented having our noses rubbed in it by such perfect physical specimens. I am one of the world's greatest optimists, but I don't think I could ever, EVER, understand what motivates any sane person to take up the pole vault. I am quite certain that even in my warped, irresponsible and regularly fucked-up reality,I have never been tempted to take up the pole vault.Have you?