Help!

Well, I'd just sat down at the computer to update you with what's happening in my life (we're not moving to Tunbridge Wells, more later about my victory) but I've just received a frantic phone call from Fellow Mum Dawn along these lines:

Me: "Hello?"
Dawn : "Hi, it's me, listen I need your help. In fact I don't need your help, I desperately want it"
Me: "Why, what's happened?"
Dawn: "I can't go into it all right now because Jonathan is here (this bit was whispered) but can you meet me at Blackheath Pets at Home at four-ish?"
Me: Erm, right, will have to get Mac ready first so......"
Dawn, interrupting, "Noooooooooooooooo! Don't bring Mac with you! Promise me you won't bring him!"
Me, fearing for her sanity and my son: "Okaaaaaaay, calm down. I'll see if.....someone can take him. Dawn, what's going on?"
Dawn, whispering again: "Woody is dead"

She didn't need to say any more. Woody is the class hamster that Jonathan was looking after over the school holiday. However, his death suggests that he wasn't doing it very well. And I don't think we're going to Pets At Home to buy a hamster coffin. I fear some subterfuge is afoot.

Disturbing times

David has found a house for us. In Tunbridge Wells. Five minutes (five minutes!) walk away from his mother's residential home It's perfect, apparently. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, huge garden/paddock, in our price range "but I reckon the guy will be happy to take a cut", needs little or no work doing on it, has room in the driveway for both cars AND the man's wife is called Joanna so it's fate. Apparently. Oh, and David thinks that it would be better to move there permanently rather than just use it as a weekend place.

You can imagine my delight and joy, on returning from queuing for play off tickets for four hours, to be told this - it was ten minutes before I could formulate words other than "what?" and "huh?".

Whilst out buying an entire pig for his mothers freezer (and half a cow for ours) David said he was hit with a blinding thought: why not move out of London? This was half prompted by the glorious fresh air pouring in through the open car window and the fact that Steve At Work has just decamped his entire family to Sedlescombe and "commutes in, takes just twenty minutes more than it would from Swanley" where they used to live.

I could brain Steve At Work.

And of course, once he drove past The New House (he's taken to calling it this already) he saw the man from the estate agents putting up the For Sale sign and demanded a tour there and then. Amelia is delighted, naturally and is already looking for removal firms.

When I regained the use of my mouth and brain function I pointed out to him (everso calmly I thought) that I would rather have my bits Brazilian waxed every day than move to Tunbridge Wells. He asked me why. I snorted in a very unladylike fashion and switched on the kettle before hitting him between the eyes with the following:

- I don't want to live permanently in Tunbridge Wells
- I don't want to move permanently anywhere
- I don't want to move anywhere near his mother
- I don't care if the "new" bathroom is painted sky blue, I'll go to B&Q tomorrow
- I don't understand where the HELL this has come from
- We can't take Mac out of school now he's settled
- The dogs are London dogs
- I'd miss Ayres too much (sad, but true)
- I would have to change the name of my blog and that's just plain wrong

Okay, so I didn't actually voice the last point out loud but I was thinking it very loudly in my head.

He answered with the following:

- Why?
- Why?
- I can see your point
- Okay, also see if they have a tile with a shell motif on it in toning colours
- It's a possibility we can talk about
- Better now he's not even a year in than later on when he's more established
- The dogs love the countryside (then turning to all three hounds and saying "don't oo?!" in a very irritating way)
- Don't be silly, there are bakers in Tunbridge Wells! (Blasphemy!)
- Why are you glaring at me?

We have left it somewhat up in the air. He hasn't actually said any more about it since Saturday evening when I sulked my way through the Eurovision Song Contest (I don't watch it as a rule but I was proving a point) and he pointed out that "that Turkish woman" looked a bit like the current owner of The New House. I glared at him for a full two minutes before he picked up his Dick Francis.

I have, of course, discussed it with my friends and family (all day Sunday spent on the phone and/or MSN Messenger) and their comments/suggestions are listed below:

Bea: "Darling, Tunbridge Wells? Don't do it. It's in Kent."
Saskia: "Convince him it'll be perfect as a weekend place only and that if you move out of London he won't be able to cope without all the pollution and he'll keel over"
Charlie: "You are kidding me? Five minutes from Amelia every day? Does he want to become an orphan?"
Janey: "Hah! Don't tell me mother, she'll be badgering you for your spare room"
Auntie Ivy: "Oooh, can I come and stay? My friend Elsie lives there but I can't stay at hers cos I'm allergic to her Foofy"
Janey, again: "Tell her the house is next to a cattery, she's allergic to cats"
Marjorie Stewart: "You can't move! Frank won't have anyone to flirt with"
Jack Next Door: "Good luck, let me know if you need any help in the garden"
Lydia: "Noooooooooooooooooooo, don't go!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I need you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Jane Opposite: "Tell him to eff off! Tunbridge Wells? Eff me, is he having a laugh?"

You can see my quandry can't you? Whilst I want to support my husband and entertain all of his little ideas blah, blah, blah I don't actually want to do any of that. Selfish? Yes. I admit it. I'm bloody selfish and all I want to do is revert to my five year old self and scream "Don't Want To!" at the top of my voice until he sees reason.

But I know I have to play the long game (use my feminine wiles, as Marjorie put it this morning) and make him think it's a Terrible Idea whilst making him think that he thought it was a Terrible Idea. If you see what I mean. I'm sorry, I'm rambling now.

Tunbridge Wells Ramblings. No, can't see it to be honest.

Tomorrow

My fate has been sealed. I've drawn the (very) short straw and have been "nominated" by my friends and family to queue for the Millwall Play-Off Final tickets. They'll be joining me though. At some point. At around 9.30am when my position in the queue is secure and they can just stroll up to join me. And to be fair to David, he would have gone himself had he not been conscripted into helping his mother stock up her freezer. It's not that I mind that much but I'm having slight reservations about beginning my mission at around 7.30am. Yes, in the morning. Which means at least a 6am start because the dogs will know it's Saturday and therefore my first task will be to take them to the park. Will Peckham Rye park even be open at that hour of the day?

Still. Charlie is here to babysit for Mac (and may even bring him down to find me and my merry band of fellow nominees if I'm "still there at like, half eleven") and she's lending me her iPod for the lonely hours ahead of me. "If you get on with it" she said as she shuffled it effortlessly "you know what to tell David you want for your birthday!".

Listen, at this moment in time I'd settle for a ticket to watch the Lions at Wembley!

Cold front

Is it me or is it getting progressively colder again? I mean, considering that this time last week I was dressed only in jeans and a T-shirt wandering around Lewisham trying desperately to find a Christening present that wasn't twee. Even Bank Holiday Monday gave us sunshine.....but since then I've got the chills.

Bea is very concerned and keeps asking me questions straight from the Swine Flu Symptom Book:

"are you shivering?"
"Yes"

"are you spending, erm, longer in the lavatory than usual?"

"No"

"Well, it's not that then"

Thank God for the Royal Mail who yesterday delivered my Slanket. It's heavenly and has barely left my body since it's arrival at quarter past eleven. I've even mastered walking in it, no mean feat as it's huge. David wants to know why I didn't get him one as he watched me snuggle up on the sofa with it last night. This from a man who complains of being hot in the middle of winter and doubles up as my hot water bottle on those cold wintery nights. Mac informs me that it's "got the same skin as Dino", waving his motheaten dinosaur at me. I noted the glint in his eye and lovingly took my Slanket to bed with me last night. It's lovely and warm and cuddly and just so......cosy.

Janey has got Slanket-envy and is thinking of buying one for Uncle Jim's "significant birthday" - she took the order details with her when she left this morning to go to "Bluewater for a dander" - she lives in hope that she'll spot Victoria Beckham/Daniella Westbrooke/Jude Law one day and instantly grab herself a celebrity friend. "Michelle, y'know, the goalkeepers wife, she knows that bloke off Eastenders, you know, the one who went into the jungle and all because she bumped into him outside the lavs". She tried to take it with her when she left "y'know, just to try it". I pointed out that if she ordered it before 3pm today, she could have her own Slanket by Monday. She sensed the reluctance to remove my cosy wrapping but only after a half hearted attempt to mug me for it on my doorstep.

Anyway, must dash because, although I'm wearing my Slanket as I type, I feel the need to snuggle up on the sofa. Combined with a steaming cup of tea and a custard cream, it's the perfect way to spend an evening.

Go on.....get your own Slanket at ShinyShack.com.

Once the party's over

I'm typing this as I munch my way through my "square" of Christening cake. I don't wish to be unkind but it's taken me ten minutes to get rid of a strip of icing sugar. Lydia actually apologised when she dropped our cake boxes off this morning "Don't eat it if you value your sugar intake or your fillings" she said wearily.

Saint Kate had had the cake made by a "WI friend" - two tiers of rich fruit cake topped by a hideous looking blue iced bonnet. I was quite chuffed when I saw people actively spitting it out.

It actually wasn't that bad. My outfit didn't clash with Saint Kate, Amelia spent the duration of the day sitting so close to Saint Kate that she more or less ignored me, my hair and nails looked fabulous (if I say so myself) and my darling child behaved impeccably. Even when he, Caitlin and Ian decided to hide behind a gravestone to see "who they could scare" they screeched very politely. However, Lydia's Great Aunt Alice had to be taken home early for a "lie down".

David woke up on the Sunday morning pulling worrying at his hair "It's too short" he moaned as he noticed the three inch gap between his hair and his shirt collar. I merely sniffed in a ladylike fashion and raised a newly plucked eyebrow. "If ever I tell you I'm going to the barbers" he whispered to me in the church "remind me not to let him get carried away talking about Arsenal in Europe."

The party went very well, the food was lovely (Bea got very excited when she saw langoustines in garlic and herb butter and sent Stephen up for "a platter") and the DJ played the room like a pro. He even had David up and dancing (see pic above, apologies for this, Mac took it, is very proud of it and "wants to show everybubody mummy") and even Amelia took to the floor for "New York New York".

Baby Freddie behaved extremely well (apart from throwing up in the font but the vicar thinks it was the "shock of the cold water") and a lovely day was had by all.

AND.......Amelia spent Saturday and Sunday night in a hotel paid for by Saint Kate. Hoorah!