Monday 30 December 2013

Orange Rhinoceros

Christmas! Joy of joys, brand new toys, the celebration of the birth of Jesus, and the opportunity to create bloody boatloads of CARNAGE if you are one of the unfortunate residents of Axis Towers. The gruesome twosome had a fairly tepid kickoff to the season of goodwill to all men and evildoing to Mummy; the odd tantrum, some fairly unremarkable punchups over the Christmas tree, howls of dismay as one licked the other's mince pies and then put it back on the plate, an unfortunate incident involving next door's dog and a chicken drumstick waved, tortuously, just out of reach. By the time school broke up, Christmas had been cancelled and reinstated several times, Santa had rescinded presents on a percentage basis, and chocolate had been banned, for life, for both boys, approximately 15 times over each. 

Now that the Axis are a bit older, their interaction is far less dependent on me - apart from mopping up the blood, that is. This means they can do things together, without me or anyone else, and, as a result, seem to have almost developed their own little secret world. It's quite cute, most of the time. I mean, I don't think they're establishing any kind of cultish alternative society, but I'll keep half an eye on the Kool-Aid, just in case. 

As well as being part of fulfilling my parental duty to nose around in their business, eavesdropping on my sons occasionally affords me insights into my own, often less-than-perfect. Take, as an example, the day that I desperately needed to clean the whole house in half an hour, because we had visitors coming and I'd been at work. Clearly, a large and constructive part of the cleaning process involves yelling at the kids to pick stuff up, leading, obviously, to them flinging whatever they're currently playing with over their shoulder and poking around with the thing they should be picking up, before abandoning that too in favour of creating yet more chaos, until the whole house looks even more like it's just been burgled than it did before. I regret to admit that some choice insults left my lips in the general direction of my two little cherubs that day. Later on, once they'd fled the onslaught, I overheard them playing I-Spy. 

Pie: 'I spy, with my little STINKY eye, something beginning with M-M.' Kong: 'M-M? Is it Bumheads?' Pie: 'HEH HEH HEH! No.'

And so on, and so forth. What could it be? What devilish concatenation had the Pie concocted? Kong quickly conceded defeat and Pie revealed the answer: 'It stands for Moody Mummy!' Both boys fell about laughing. This was the same day that I discovered that, attached to a photograph of a large and particularly unappealing chimp, some child had put a Post-It note with the word 'MUM' writ large and an arrow pointing to said ape. I resisted the temptation to burst forth into room like a screaming Medusa and paused. I realised I felt slightly embarrassed; my behaviour had been unmeasured, unreasonable, and I had done the very thing I'd always said I wouldn't with my kids; terrorise them with shouting. OK, so they didn't appear particularly terrorised - but that's not the point. I'd been really going for it, yelling at them. I felt very sheepish and slowly made my way downstairs with a load of laundry for the machine, revisiting the mental list I'd compiled since the age of about 15 of things I'd never do to my own kids. 

I suppose everyone does this, and a lot of people laugh about it and say, ah, well, I didn't know then what I know now...meaning, I think, that they were unrealistic about their expectations when they ruled things out or in. I don't really feel that way. Without going into exactly what is on my list, I think I had the right idea. I resolve to try harder and be more patient with the feral little stinkers. 

One of the things that is on my list, however, is to do with Christmas. I've had some truly awful Christmases, alone, depressed, ill, grieving, drunk, or Christmases that were a load of work and no bloody fun. I tend to dread Christmas, and last year, this got to such a low that I sent the Axis packing off to their dad's, planning to spend it alone, under a duvet. Luckily, a kind neighbour took pity on me and instead I had the first enjoyable Christmas of my adult life. 

So this year, I realised that the three of us, now that we're firmly established as a single-parent family unit, rather than a broken family with one piece missing, could have, and deserved to have, a proper, decent Christmas. I bought a turkey, made stuffing in advance according to kindly neighbour's recipe, bored everyone to tears with interesting facts about roasting potatoes, engaged in the annual slagging off of the John Lewis ad, and dressed the Axis up as kings (ok, mobsters) for the church crib service on Christmas Eve (which was another, highly embarrassing, occasion, but not for now). On Christmas Day, the Axis scoffed loads of sweets and chocolates, ran around screaming, belted each other a bit, piled huge amounts of roasties and bacon rolls onto their plates at lunch, and fell asleep cuddling each other and me on the sofa to a Christmas film (well, not quite. A film about Mexican wrestling the house hero, Jack Black. Close enough). 

I wrested myself free and surveyed the damage. The floor was covered in gift wrap and there were several near-lethal Lego models scattered around unevenly for maximum foot injury potential. In the kitchen, there was an open bottle of squash lying on its side, dripping viscous orange onto the floor in a disturbingly large puddle. I felt my blood pressure rise, and opened my mouth - and stopped myself. No. No more yelling. Or at least not today. 

I wandered back into the front room, switched off the telly, and put that Johnny Mathis song on the stereo, quietly, watching the Axis in their semi-slumber. A large drop of drool was forming on the Pie's lips and was about to drop into the Kong's ear. In less than five seconds, all hell was going to break loose. But for now, happy Christmas, my beloved little ratbags. 

Wednesday 13 November 2013

Season's Bleatings

Ubermum swills the last of her wine around her glass, gazing mournfully down at it. 'It's got so bad,' she says, 'that we're doing a countdown...to the countdown.' Her friends, including me, groan at recognition of her plight. Even me, who has told the Pie that he cannot request a new games console for Christmas, because although Santa delivers the presents, he sends Mummy the bill.

Ugh, Christmas. Leaving aside the whole birth of our saviour thing, I find it a pretty joyless time of year, for various reasons. The creeping dread of the horribleness seems to start earlier every year, hence the fact that, last week, I was forced to admit that what I had thought was a bit of a prolonged bad mood was, in fact, probably full-blown Seasonal Affective Disorder. I'm no stranger to mood disorders, having happily miserable for several years, but somehow, I'm never ready. It always catches me on the hop. Even when, as with SAD, it can be marked, pretty much, on the calendar, I'm never ready. It bites me on the ankles and trips me up every time.

This time, though, is going to be different. I'm going to ORGANISE my way out of the misery! Yes! I'll devise a plan and STICK to it. Cos, y'know, I'm really, really good at that (ha). This isn't quite the same as the 'curtains approach' ('pull yourself together'). As, hopefully, most of you know, there is no point in telling someone depressed to snap out of it because they are actually very lucky ('but you have two beautiful children!' yes, I know, and I still feel fucking awful, so this must be serious). No, instead, I present an action plan for beating the bete noir before he drags me off again. You might find it helpful too, or not, as the case may be.

1. Get plenty of rest. As with colds, if you're tired, you're more vulnerable. And if you're half-asleep, you're more likely not to see the intricate Lego model Punto that the Kong has left on the stairs, step on it, skid halfway down the staircase and badly bruise your coccyx. I needn't dwell on the consequences that flow from such a grossly negligent act of Kong. Suffice to say, he has taken household responsibility for checking all stairs for Mummy-proofing from now on.

2. Don't get too much rest. Aha! The eternal conundrum! How much rest is enough? Well, if you're hiding under the duvet, thinking about how you should really get up, but you just can't, and you've been there for several hours - well, probably time to put one foot in front of the other and get up. Just to see what happens. Tempting though it is to sleep all day, doing so will only make the mood worsen. Gerrup! And do some exercise!

3. Eat properly. Note to self: This does not mean 'eat everything in sight'. No. It does not. It means three meals a day, healthy balance of protein, carbs and fat, lots of veggies, and, yes, ok, chocolate for the serontonin-boosting properties (which of course are multiplied if you manage to down a 200g bar of Whole Nut in one go).

4. Bury self in good book. Not to be confused with actual immersion in the church bible, which is roughly the size of our house. Instead, I have treated myself to three new novels from off of Amazon. Unfortunately, one is about a murder, one is a misery memoir, and the third is an instructional manual in something deadly boring. Ah. (BTW, I would go down the library, but I've sort of lost something of theirs, so I'm hiding. It's only getting worse, isn't it.)

5. New Project! Let's face it, around this time of year, everyone starts thinking about a new job. Even me, and I love my job (my boss might read this, although it's unlikely). So - ahem! - the way round it is to think of Something Completely Different. A new project. Resurfacing the garden, perhaps. Rearranging the kitchen. Starting a new business and making megabucks. Or finding a new, more efficient way to iron the Axis' pants.

6. Leave the bloody house, for Chrissakes I'm great for ducking invitations, me. That's not to say I get hundreds ('Private party at the French House? Ever so sorry, I've got to watch a rerun of The Bill on UK Gold that night') but recently, my default response when invited anywhere has been a flat 'no'. This has partly been due to the continuing extreme skintness that I'm getting increasingly sick of, partly because I Just Want To Be Left Alone, Dammit. People go out and do things and have fun and I moulder under the sleeping bag feeling miserable and doing nowt about owt. Hence, this morning, when Ubermum and Bongomum were hovering at the end of the path, a good 20 minutes after the kids had gone to school. They clobbered me into coming out tonight, even though I had planned an exciting evening of washing socks and eating yogurt on the sofa while wearing a cardigan with egg on the front of it. I fretted about all the stuff that wouldn't get done and then thought, it will be ok. This is what the bad parrot does not want you to think. The bad parrot keeps telling you all kinds of other things. But they are not true. Bad parrot can be relied upon to foxtrot oscar if you muse, loudly, on whether parrot pie would be better topped with shortcrust or puff.

7. Don't be browbeaten Use the phrases 'No' and 'I don't want to' more often. As in 'No thanks, I don't want to perform some thankless task that will probably only be done wrong and have zero impact' and 'I don't want to enter into a discussion with you about education policy because your crazy right-wing views are so beserk I'll provoke a self-induced hernia if I do.' Do lots of things you like, or that result in improvements, and don't do things you don't like, or that result in frustration. Avoid people who like to browbeat like the plague, they are no good for you and can look after themselves while you are not feeling great.

8. Do all your Christmas shopping online, finally buy the ex that lump of coal he's truly deserved for many, many Christmases, don't send any Christmas cards, admit that goodwill toward all men might just be pushing it a little bit this year, and order a curry from the local Indian takeaway for Christmas Day. And a trayful of pigs in blankets from Aldi, of course. For those of us who spend Christmas without our family, the whole season can be painted black, and it can last for months. Or you can choose to pretend it's just another day. I might try it that way this year, and see if it's any good. Jingle who?

Sunday 6 October 2013

Salad Days

Last week, I made a cake. Nothing special, just a vanilla sponge, sandwiched together with jam. At the sound of the K-beater being clicked into place on the Kenwood mixer, the Axis appeared like starved, slavering dogs, dancing excitedly from foot to foot in the kitchen doorway before even the first egg had been cracked. 'What you doing, Mum? Are you making us a cake? Can we have the bowl? Can I have the spatula and my brother have the beater? MMMMM yummy yum CAKE for US!' etc. After I'd scraped the creamy mix into the tin and bunged it in the oven, I handed over the bowl and two teaspoons to the lingering Axis. The Pie grabbed the bowl and set it down on the floor, kneeling down and leaning in, carefully and meticulously scraping every tiny spot of mixture from his side of the bowl, until he had enough to constitute a whole, delicious, vanilla-y mouthful. I watched, spellbound, as, at the very last second, just as Pie was about to put his hard-earned spoonful into his mouth, the vile Kong swooped down and - BOOM! - like a hideous, cake-bothering bird of prey, scooped the precarious ball of cake mixture from his brother's spoon onto his own, and slung it straight into his greedy, thieving mouth, cackling wickedly to his brother's howls of protest.

I knew he would, of course. I knew this would happen. Why? Because it mirrors, almost exactly, my own experiences with my brother, nearly thirty years ago. There is so much mirroring with those two and my own brother and me; the Axis have the exact same gap between their dates of birth, to the day, that my brother and I do, and I have no problem at all imagining them, spirit-children willing themselves into the world, in their primordial bubble, planning their order of arrival: 'You go first, yeah? And I follow two years later.' 'Make it two years, four months and four days, yeah? Three minutes to midnight, both of us, yeah?' 'Yeah! Same as her and her brother, yeah?! Heh heh heh.'

My own little brother got married last weekend, and I'm delighted/relieved that I was there to see it. In a family that's not generally characterised by sound choices of partner, he has managed to redress the balance by choosing someone fantastic. Pheeee-ew. It was weird, really; gave me pause to reminisce, and I realised how similar Broski and I are to the Axis.

The last physical fight Broski and I had was when I was 21 and he was 19; although I think it might have been a couple of years after that that he threw a £2 coin at my head, for various tedious reasons (it was his fault, obviously) and I screamed various curses at him and then, more than likely, smashed something. Throughout my childhood, he was there to exchange blows and pleasantries with; when I returned at Christmas after my first term at university, I attempted to thump him over some petty misdemeanour, only to discover the little sod had spent the time I was away furiously bulking up and working out, and his responding whack sent me flying across the room. Broski and I are fairly well known for our ability to start arguments in empty rooms; the night Daddio announced he was leaving me, Broski immediately materialised in solidarity and we got hideously drunk. At some point we were both on different floors of a relatively swanky/twatty place with several bars under one roof, starting different arguments with different people, at the same time.

I still remember him clearly as a baby, and I was always pretty delighted with him. He was a cute, chubby little thing, really; fat, dimpled arms and legs sticking out of his babygro like an overstuffed dolly; enormous dark eyes like chocolate, and a big laughing mouth, generally covered with chocolate, too. (When the Pie was born I was struck by the similarity. As a result, I often mix their names up, but never my brother and the Kong. Kong is completely different.)

Things I remember: matching horrible tracksuits, mine red, his blue, in about 1986.  Him singing the theme tune to 'Bergerac', repeatedly, in the back of the car on a family holiday around the same time (for the whole two weeks). Snoopy calendars printed out on old computer paper, the stuff with the green lines on the back, in our dad's office on a dot matrix printer. Our usually stern mum letting him sleep in her arms on the sofa as a two-year-old, after he needed stitches in his face on two consecutive weeks. Spending my entire childhood as a nervous wreck because he would creep into cupboards and wait, sometimes for hours, to leap out and terrify me. Me getting the blame the first time he got drunk (it had had nothing to do with me, typically). Laughing at him for dousing the front of his thick, curly black hair with Sun-In and having to spend the rest of the summer ginger at the front. His ability to recite the whole of the The Man with the Golden Gun and Crocodile Dundee II off by heart, having spent one summer watching them both about three times a day. Me getting in a rage with our mum for letting him steal my band t-shirts (that Therapy? Shortsharpshock T is MINE and I STILL want it back). Lots and lots of incidents that I daren't bring up without him getting in a huff, even now.

It's good, really, that I had this opportunity to think about and reflect on my brother. Like my own children, we are very much the same, but different. We have similar tastes in music, food, style (or lack of), but have different views on a lot of topics. We have not a clue what each other's jobs entail, nor have we for well over 10 years. He likes football and computers, I've tried to like football and computers but am much happier with books and cheese. My family are a pretty stroppy bunch (I include myself in that, although I expect some of you will disagree(ha!)) and there have been times where I've wanted to emancipate myself from the lot of them and change my surname to Bananahammock. Broski and I once managed to nearly achieve full-on nuclear fallout purely over text messages, without a single audible conversation being held - quite a feat, all things being equal. However, although I could give many examples to illustrate the point, I can't be bothered, really, so I'll just say this, which is what I say to the Axis after they've attempted to maim each other in some ghastly enterprise or other: Get on with your brother. You've not got another.

And, sentimental as horseshoe candy though it may be, I must say that twenty-odd years since he last stole my cake mix, I wouldn't want another, anyway.




Monday 15 April 2013

10,000 Hours

...that's apparently how long it takes to master anything, according to the old premise, referred to in an interesting article in the Saturday Review in the Times by Melvin Burgess, who went to the same school as me, and has praised his English teacher to the skies in several articles that appeared both when I was at said school, and - including in the article I read this weekend - thereafter. She never taught me. I hated school. And I can't say I'm particularly a fan of Melvin Burgess either, but maybe I should give him another go.

10,000 hours and a skin like rhino hide, apparently. I head for the spreadsheets (any excuse) and discover that if I wrote for three hours every day, it would take me nine years to become a master, according to this oft-referenced little formula. Nine years - that's nothing. Nine years ago now feels like yesterday. Nine years from now, I'll be 42. Tchaikovsky was 42 when he first had success as a composer (I seem to remember this fact, should probably Wiki it and confirm). Well, there or thereabouts.

10,000 hours...I bet you could walk 5,000 miles in 10,000 hours. 40 weeks of pregnancy is only 6,720 hours, so all those soppy people who think their children are their life's creative masterpieces - FAIL. Ah well. Nobody's perfect. Not on these sums, anyway.

10,000 hours, then, to master...anything. What, though? What can I master? Picking small stones from the grooves of trainer soles? Opening drinks and passing to the back seat while keeping both eyes on the road whilst driving? Making jam sandwiches while talking to/begging bank managers on the phone? None of these are marketable commodities. Perhaps they should be. Hmmm, how to make these skills pay...

Wednesday 27 March 2013

Who Am I?

Not the Jackie Chan film of the same name, no, although it is, of course truly wonderful. I love kung fu. As do the Axis, who demonstrated this fact with near-fatal aplomb the other morning when they should have been chowing down on their organic bran flakes (note to self: do not bother with organic, it only feels doubly irritating when the gruesome twosome splatter themselves, each other and the walls with the more-expensive gloop instead of the Lidl GMO stuff). I walked in just as the Kong was leaping, Karate Kid/Eddie the Eagle Edwards style, from the top of the dining table, directly onto his brother's head. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, which gave the Pie time to assume a suitably combative position, raise his hands high in the air, catch his airborne younger sibling and spin him round in the air like a plate. Much screaming and yelling ensued. I calmed down quickly, however, and recovered enough to interrogate the Axis without too much swearing.

"What the HELL was that?"

They looked at each other and shrugged. The Kong decided to pipe up. "It's who we are, Mum. We're superheroes! Arrrrr!" (Superheroes? Pirates? That's what you get for birthing and raising your kids in the West Country).

The boys are pretty confident in who they are. They don't see it as a problem to assume other identities when the mood takes them, either. For example, on picking them up from holiday club, I couldn't help but notice that the other children were all calling the Kong, 'Superman'. The staff at our local Sainsburys all address him as 'Batman'. A very dear friend of ours used to call him 'Little Loo Brush Head'. Bet you can't guess why.

Since they were born, however, I have had little or no idea who I am, or what is going on half the time. I'm lucky if I know which way is up most of the time. Added to that, in the three years since I've been the sole adult resident at Axis Towers, I have relied heavily on the support of Mr T and Wolverine for most of my life decisions. "Oh, Mr T," I sigh, "Will I ever find love again?" Mr T looks at me quizzically. "Don't gimme no back talk, sucker!" I ponder his response. "True, true. I do appreciate the concision of your appraisal of my situation. I suppose it's true that I have a preponderance to fall for men not on the basis of whether I find them attractive, but on whether or not they find me attractive. This reverse reasoning, or 'back-talk', as you so winningly put it, is completely self-defeating. But I can't seem to help it! Whatever should I do?" T scowls at me in contempt. "Shut up, fool!"

Mr T is right, of course. Several of my other friends have said as much. Wolverine is no more help. His face is permanently tightened into the clenched growl sported only by the chronically constipated. If I push the buttons on his back, I can make him growl, turn his head, and kick his arms and legs. He's the most biddable boyfriend I've ever had. "Tell me, Wolverine. Should I apply for this fantastic-sounding job? We'll have lots more money and I won't feel like such a loser all the time. But I don't know if I can do it. I'm just a de-skilled, depressed single mum now. It's been years since I did anything interesting and challenging like this. But I want to be at home with the Axis as much as I can, and I'll never see them if I get this. But we need the money, we're brassic. If I could clone myself, and send the clone out to work to earn money, that would work! What should I do?" Wolverine is furious, clearly, at the unfairness of my desolate situation. "Uuuuuuuurrrnnnnnggghhhhh!" he replies, and kicks both his legs above his head, causing him to flip over and land in the Playdoh Pizzeria. Luckily I manage to reach down and rectify him before he's turned into a Fiorentina.

I go to pick up a friend who has offered to help detoxify Axis Towers, and, while I'm waiting, gaze at the goldfish in its bowl in her kitchen. The fish gapes wildly at me, banging its head against the glass, looking horrified and pleading. Three seconds later, it has forgotten and is swimming around, seeing it all for the first time. Again, it leans into the wall of the bowl, performing its horrific pantomime, without any control over its destiny. You never hear, I think, of a goldfish that really wants to be mayor, or a writer, or anything at all, really, and I suppose it's just not possible. I felt a bit like that goldfish. In the bowl, swimming along, relying on the goodness of others to keep going, permanently petrified. Still, if your memory's wiped every three seconds, it can't exactly be a bad life, can it? The water looked pretty clean and comfortable. The fish was clearly well-fed. Perhaps it's a more enviable existence than we realise, I think. Perhaps, if you're really lucky, you get to come back as a well cared-for goldfish. Perhaps that could be me. I look at her swimming around the bowl. My friend's husband comes in, flicks the bowl with his thumb and tuts. 'Bloody fish. Think he's got dropsy.' I turn, alarmed. 'Really? What does that mean?' He mimics the poor creature. 'Means he's just gonna get really fat and, well. Kind of explode.' I bend to look again through the bowl at the goldfish. Disconcertingly, my, holographically superimposed on the body of the doomed pescean, face stares back at me through the reflective glass.

As Wolverine said, later tonight when I told him that story, Unnnnnnnghhhhhh. 

Saturday 16 March 2013

Cadenza, schmadenza

When I was young, I used to play the piano. For quite a few years, in fact, and our family piano now takes pride of place in Axis Towers, thanks to an act of unusual beneficence on the part of my father on my thirtieth birthday. It's the one item in AT that the Axis are forbidden to damage in any way - they are encouraged to play it, but if I see them lurking near it with sticky fingers, jagged toys, or even looking at it funny while eating or drinking, all hell breaks loose, and they know it.

Today was a particularly trying day - one of those days where you just know that the neighbours may well be on the phone to social services if it's the same again tomorrow, and I just pray that there's a nice foster family willing to take ME into care - and I felt completely frazzled. Pie, before bed, had gone upstairs to take his frustration out on his drumkit, and I, equally wound up and being particularly vicious with the cleaver to an innocent piece of squid, considered my relationship with the piano. Having been so deeply in love with it as a child, I now hardly ever touch it. Why?

It was always a bit odd, me playing the piano. I was relatively good at it, too. I liked playing classical music, the more technical and regular the better, something a lot of people I met as an adult couldn't understand. Many people - nearly always men - have asked me why I don't play jazz, why I don't improvise (a short spell in a swing band as a teenager demonstrated that although I could just about do it, I didn't like it, and I felt really silly doing it), why I like the 'old dead white man's music. Then they scoff at me, or ask me if I can 'play keys', or if I can start improvising. I can't. I won't. They can go fuck themselves.

I think it was reassurance; the knowledge that playing the notation exactly as per the sheet music would yield a successful result. If you can read music, you can look at it and hear it in your head as you go along. It's certain, guaranteed, anchored. I could disappear into my own private world and all the anger and horror and emotion I could never, ever tell to my parents came out on the keyboard. It completely negated the need to say anything to anyone, ever. I could express my fury at the world by walloping the shit out of a Khatchaturian Toccata or a really fast passage (played very badly) in a Chopin Mazurka. Funnily enough, since I've stopped playing, I've been in therapy of one sort or the other almost continuously.

I came back to it today, after, as I've said, a very trying day indeed. The Axis woke me with double hairdryer treatment at 6am ('MUUUUUUUMMMM!!!! I know it's not time to get up yet but my programme's been moved forward fifteen minutes and if you don't let me watch it now then we'll never see it again and that would be awful because you're always saying I have to make good choices and I'M HUUUUUNGRYYYYY!!!!') Pie's football match got relocated, the Kong refused to stand neatly with the other younger siblings on the touchline, having rumbled my 'let's see how many times you can run around this 400-year-old oak tree, Leo' ruse very early on, and both boys spent the entire day claiming to be extremely hungry but refusing every single meal put in front of them. Grr. Things improved slightly when my friend Paperclip took us to Bristol Dogs' Home, where the Axis managed to overexcite the dogs and themselves into a semi-rabid frenzy before being bundled outside with a terrified-looking pup named Heidi. Paperclip held onto the dog and we took her for a walk down the canal, but the poor canine looked  as if her eyes were going to pop from their sockets out of fear of the Axis. Gradually, however, she began to realise that their running commentary on everything can, like static on the radio, be tuned out, and was soon happily chomping away on the bacon bit dog treats the RSPCA had given us before we went.

That's when I noticed Pie was chewing something and looking quizzical. He saw me looking and his face instantly flooded with guilt. Now, the Pie is the worst liar in the whole of the world. Sometimes, I don't even have to ask him the question before he starts to confess. However, now he's in school, he's seen that other kids are far, far more skilled in the art of untruths than he, and he's decided to give it a go himself. Unfortunately for him, he's still completely pants at it.

Me: Noah! What the hell?
Noah: (chewing) Er...what?
Me: What are you eating?
Noah: (still chewing, embarrassed smile creeping over face) Er...what?
Me: You're eating dog bacon, you vile child! Aren't you?
Noah: Er...(attempts to swallow, gets pet treat lodged in throat, starts choking) Er...uhughugh...no I...ughuhguhguh...not eating...uhuhughghguh...anything...(turning blue)...

At this point I whacked him between the shoulderblades, and dislodged the offending piece of dog bacon, which flew out of his mouth onto the canal towpath squarely between my feet. I raised my eyebrows at him. He raised both his hands and attempted to muster surprise. 'How did that get there?' he said, innocently.

After I had rebuked Pie for blatant lying, unauthorised snacking, and stealing food from a homeless animal, and revoked all his TV privileges, my attention turned to the Kong, whose hand was sliding towards Paperclip's pocket, in search of dog biscuits. Suffice to say TV is now a thing of the past for him, too. When we got home they managed to break the DVD player. They both claim they didn't do anything, but I'm pretty sure the now-empty seedling tray that did have newly-sown runner beans in, and the compost near, around and probably inside the DVD, didn't happen by itself. Cue hideous bouts of screaming, shouting, crying and bad language from all three of us, ending with the Pie 'accidentally' upending his drink everywhere and being unceremoniously chucked into bed.

When I came back down I fumed for a short while, finding nothing on the telly that didn't just fan the flames of my displeasure. Eventually, I started thumbing through the small amount of sheet music I have left and picked up Bach's Siciliano, which I probably haven't played for about 15 years or so. Haltingly, hesitantly, my fingers found the notes again and the harmonies, long-embedded in my brain, begain to guide them. It's a very emotional melody, very sad and dramatic and introspective. Puts one in mind of one's inevitable demise, my teacher used to say. Deeply moving. I started to laugh.

What is this ridiculous reinforcement that we, as parents, perform on our children? I have a child who is boisterous and noisy and a bit of a loon, and I send him off to play the drums. Conversely, my parents had a child who was incredibly introspective, unnaturally melancholy, shirked the outdoors and sport in favour of Thomas Hardy, and so they sent her off to play the piano, to enter this world of emotion, hysteria, highly-strung-ness; overwrought sugarwork, Eisteddfods, petticoats and starchy, middle-England craziness.

I have to reset the balance. Pie can join Embroidery Club next week. And Kong can start his batik kaftan project while his brother's getting to grips with doilies. That should fix their wagon. And I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear either of them saying anything about guitars or trumpets or trombones. Uh uh. Parental engineering, here I come.

Thursday 14 February 2013

Valentine's Day Massacre

Not the most original title, nor the most enigmatic, but needs must when Cupid does not, in fact, drive, and romance is not so much dead but lying squawking bathetically beneath the remains of the Big Mac meal your truly hopeless self has attemped to smother your feelings in.

Valentine's Day, another singularly joyless festival for those of us who remain freakishly unattached. This year, the rot truly set in last week at the Co-op when, attempting to simultaneously prise free a baguette that had become wedged in the basket, pack three large bottles of lactose-free milk in a string bag and maintain control of the Axis, who were setting about the teasingly leaning Malteser pyramid with alarming dexterity, I was asked if I'd like to buy a raffle ticket. A raffle ticket? At the Co-op? Is it now doubling up as a school PTA? Not bloody surprising, as long as Gove sticks around, I thought darkly. 'Erm...why are you selling raffle tickets?' The unnecessarily expansive lady at the till was, for once, silent, marking a great change in her demeanour from last time she tried to assist me with my shopping ('Ooooh, Chilli Chilli Bang Bang pizza. Lovely and spicy. What've you got to go with that then? Some lager? Lovely. And what's this...? Ah. Gentleman friend coming over tonight is he?'). Growing scarlet at the memory of the landlord's son, lurking in the queue behind me and whistling 'Something for the Weekend' as I'd grabbed my purchases and ran, I too said nothing but followed her gaze, which rested upon an hideous pink wicker hamper, stuffed to the brim with what was either the entire contents of Alastair Campbell's shredder or a year's worth of used hamster bedding. Dotted around the mouldering debris were a half bottle of extra fizzy Lambrini, two plastic champagne flutes, a packet of savoury rice cakes and some cheese with a scribbled-out sell-by date. Half a Flake was also sticking out, in the corner. I didn't dare look around at the vile Kong as I was pretty sure I knew what had happened to the other half.

'Valentine's hamper. For two,' she added, pointedly, nodding conspiratorially at me. I cleared my throat, but my voice still came out in a slightly ridiculous squeak. 'Erm. Well, I won't have one. I've...er...got no use for that, you see.' Her head cocked to the side in sympathy. 'Ahhhh. And with those two so small, as well. Well, you do very well,' she said confidently. I smiled and nodded, slightly dazed, wondering what had just happened.

What do I do very well? It isn't work, that's for sure. My peers are all shooting off into the career stratosphere, while I, emphatically, painfully, am not. I am a lousy parent, always trying to sneak ways of escaping from the Axis and being mean to and about them. My house will never be burgled, because anyone looking in through the windows could quite confidently assume we'd been done already. I'm unfit, I like drinking far more than I should, I never have any money and I am exceedingly grumpy. Yep, why I'm still single is beyond me.

On the blessed day itself, I am recovering from a hangover induced by accidentally consuming the entire contents of Miss Whippy's spirit cupboard the night before while the Axis were at their dad's. (Miss Whippy is an ice cream maker of some repute, and a good friend of mine, whom I won't shame by naming). It had been some time since we had seen each other, and in the ensuing enthusiasm of reunion,  we had discovered that a rum and ginger beer sorbet went well with port, tequila, red and white wine and pomelos. The following morning, both close to death, Miss Whippy presented me with a gift. 'For you. Happy Valentine's Day,' she added, handing over two bags of milk chocolate eyeballs and a soap that looked like a goldfish. I was touched.

Several years ago, when we had first started going out, Daddio had very nearly disgraced himself by turning up over an hour late to our very first Valentine's Day dinner together. When he did finally show, I was pretty livid, even more so when he refused to explain himself. I supposed that he had gone for a couple of thoughtless lunchtime beers with a chum and inconsiderately missed his train. Somehow, we got through the meal, although I spent most of it planning exactly how I was going to chuck him. When we were leaving, he stopped me, told me to wait a minute, and ran back inside, returning with a large box. I was mystified. What on earth was going on? He handed it over, and told me to open it. Inside was a beautiful handmade teapot that we had seen in a shop in Bath the week before. I had admired it, as teapots are to me what shoes and jewellery are to most women, and, sighing over the hefty price tag, had left it. Daddio, who lived in Reading at the time, had got the train to Bath to get the teapot, but when he arrived, couldn't find the shop, spent most of the afternoon walking around trying to find it, and then, when he did find it, found it closed. He had had to ring the owner and beg her to turn up to sell it to him, just so that he could get back on the train to Bristol and give it to me. That was why he had been late. The teapot was beautiful and I was overwhelmed by the effort Daddio had gone to to get it for me. What a wonderful token of love.

Last week, the spout fell clean off and smashed.

Ah well. The Axis and I climbed Cabot Tower and looked out over the city. As they chattered and giggled and harangued the pigeons crapping overhead, I realised, fondly, that my two little cherubs are far better than any amount of hearts and flowers and romantic claptrap. That's love. That's what St Valentine was all about.

Happy Valentine's Day to all.

Tuesday 5 February 2013

No Church in the Wild

The vexed question of faith and religion seems to be ever-present these days, particularly at Axis Towers, whose inhabitants attend church, loosely and lazily, my belief in God being considerably more robust than my alarm clock. Daddio, a confirmed atheist, is none too impressed with this and is still pushing for membership of the Woodcraft Folk rather than the Scouts - fine with me, as church parade is, to my mind, a torture for all involved. In true obstinate, arrogant fashion, I've managed to perpetuate my belief that, er, my beliefs are no-one's business but mine and the Almighty's, and, consequently, I will do what I like. Happily, 'what I like' does not involve gunning down old ladies, selling class-A drugs to preschoolers, or committing obscenities in the street (I said in the street); so the worst I have to deal with are a few raised eyebrows and the occasional tut-tut at the surprisingly ample number of empties in the recycling box; the odd loud burst of profanity coming from the back garden; and the occasional insult of bad singing along to R Kelly or the Flaming Lips at 5am (sorry about that, next door).

The Pie is pretty ecumenical about faith, as he is in most things; he asks a lot of questions, drawing ever closer to a conclusion, thinks aloud about everything, seeks the input of others into his decision making process. 'Mum, who do you love more? Leo, or God?' Thus, he is thoroughly transparent, a developmental psychologist's dream. A,B,C; X, Pie, Z. The Kong, however, is a thoroughly different kettle of fish. 

One day, he wandered into the kitchen, a funereal expression lying heavy upon his exquisite features. 'Mum. You don't love me.' Horrified, I dropped the potato I was peeling and knelt down, sweeping my darling into my arms. 'Kongie! No! How can you say such a thing? Of course I love you. I adore you, little boy. You are my beautiful little lamb.' Undeterred, he shook his head. 'No. You don't love me.' My heart was beginning to palpitate; I could feel my eyes stinging lightly and tears rising to the surface. 'No, Kongie...why are you saying that?' The huge, chocolate-brown saucers of eyes, rimmed with the longest eyelashes in Christendom, turned up towards me. Solemnly, seriously, the Kong addresses me. 'I said, you don't love me. We prayed in church for our parents who love us. I said, my mum, if she will love me, she gives me biscuits. You said, 'No biscuits Leo', so you don't love me.' 

QED, evidently. Kong has apparently - hopefully - missed the point of what was being taught in that session. I suspect this might have been the same session where this was produced: 

  
What?! 

What is it? I ask the Axis. Pie looks at me as if I am a pitiful imbecile. 'Mum. It is a rock. With 'God' written on it. Honestly.' He throws his hands up in exasperation, shakes his head and walks off. 

By now I am thoroughly perplexed. Is there some sort of new dogma being taught in church? Am I missing something crucial? 

I've never got on well with the language used in churches and other religious organisations, to be honest. I can't ever employ the stock phrases, can't describe faith as a 'walk with the Lord', can't 'just lift myself up to you in prayer, Father'; it feels a cop-out to speak unnaturally and yet pretend it is natural. I know it works for some people; as with everything I can't grasp, I'm happy for those that do and don't find it odd or offensive for others to use it. It's just, when I do, I feel as if God is going 'Oi! Stop showing off.' Consequently, when asked, one Sunday, to come to the front of the church and discuss a course I'd attended, I ended up giving the ringing endorsement of 'well, you might as well give it a go. You never know,' before sidling off to appease the Kong with some malted milks filched from the vestry.

A lot of my friends are very spiritual people, yet deeply opposed to organised religion. I can sometimes see why. It can seem that the focus is very much on the minor rather than the major; that the personal morality of the individual, the victimless choice, is of more concern to the body corporate than it ought be. It's something to be wary of, and can, sadly, limit how engaged we become in our faith. I can't help but feel jealous of these people for whom everything seems to make so much sense, who can make a choice and be perfectly assured of its consequences.

I stumble through life with a great deal of confusion, to be honest. It's often a surprise to me that I function at all, let alone that the Axis are fed and clothed and relatively clean. I feel keenly the disapproving looks flung at me and my wild children on Sunday mornings, as we're not quiet and calm and biddable like the other children. I'm fed up of fielding questions about my lack of husband and it annoys me that so many people think my sex life is more their business than their tax arrangements are mine.

Perhaps Sunday mornings will be better spent doing things with the boys, rather than telling them to be quiet and sit down the whole time. I remember my mum coming to a similar conclusion when I was a little older than the Axis. But then she was always a bit odd, too.