Challenge Joanna

The very lovely and extremely fragrant Dulwich Mum has set me a challenge. This challenge does not require me to leave my house and head off to the nearest shopping mall with instructions to "spend, spend, spend" like her previous task but to do something that comes even more naturally to me: reading.

I must, apparently:

1. Pick up the nearest book.

2. Open to page 123

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next three sentences.

5. Tag people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

1 is easy as my latest book is right to hand (on the dresser next to the phone and a wodge of old receipts) and it is entitled Samantha Smythe's Modern Family Journal by Lucy Cavendish. Number 2 is extremely easy (even though I have only managed to read up to page 26 so far). Number 3, piece of cake. Oooh, cake. Sorry. Number 4 is coming up next and goes a little something like this.

They wipe their yoghurty little mouths on the curtains. They, especially Bennie, tear around the house and slam into doors which they then push open at high speed so that the doors jump up and down on their hinges and smash into the walls and take little chunks out of the plaster and then these little chunks become bigger and bigger until they look like deep ravines or scars in the paintwork. They perch on the top of the cushions on the sofa so that all the furniture is squashed and uncomfortable. In the summer, when they can't be bothered to walk the few steps it takes to get to the loo, they just urinate on the mat outside the back door. "What's that smell?" my mother once asked once.

Well. That sounds just like my house. Apart from the urinating. But there was that one time that Senior Dog started peeing the minute he stepped onto the patio because he'd left it too long to go out into the garden to "be clean".......anyway, Mac likes Frubes and he likes to spread it around. The sofa and the clothes that I happen to be wearing at the time being favourite places. He hasn't mastered the sharp corner on the top landing either and the laminate flooring is covered in scuff marks caused by him slithering round it on his way to wreak havoc in his room. The dogs also have this problem as they rush in to join him barking joyfully and careering all over the landing like Dancing on Ice rejects, claws gouging great scar lines out of the distressed oak. David shows no respect for cushions or indeed knows what they are for: he sits on them rather than snuggling them round him and nesting. And I've already explained about the strange smell as you step out of the kitchen.

And, to complete number 5 and therefore the challenge, I would like to tag Kelly (this should be interesting, judging by her latest post), Dulwich Divorcee, darling Rilly, Mya and Elsie Button.

I hope you all find time to pick up a book and get turning those pages!

The best laid plans

I might have known that my plans for Amelia's visit this weekend (dinner out on Saturday, Jack taking her home at 5pm on Sunday) would go awry, especially when she had a very definite view of how the weekend would pan out. Added to which, the unseasonable weather yesterday rendered me unable to anything but sit out in the garden marvelling "It's April!" every ten minutes or so. Anyway. As they say, the best laid plans and all that. I did manage to get out to Sainsburys without her but she was waiting for me when I got home and commented on my canned goods. "David likes a nice tin of mushroom soup" she said as she peered at a tin of custard. "You'd be better off making it from fresh" she said with a sniff as she banished my Ambrosia to the back of the cupboard. She took one look at the amount of veg, fruit and salad I unpacked and said sniffily "That'll never last the week."

Cleaning duty next and man did she have a field day. "You'd get far more purchase on that mop if you used both hands" she said as I half-heartedly ran a Flash liquid soaked mop over the utility room floor. "Oh, you buy this polish do you?" she went on as I whizzed round the living room with a duster. I didn't dare start in on the decorating, besides, I wanted to lounge around the garden in the sun while David and Mac were at The Den for the last home game of the season. "Oh Lord, they're out here" she hissed as we set up our chairs. Indeed, Frank and Marjorie were spread out on their lawn on luridly coloured beach towels, the whiff of Ambre Solaire on the breeze. "Hello campers!" giggled Marjorie and screamed as Frank tickled her. I got stuck into my book whilst my mother in law unravelled wool, found her place on her knitting pattern and started clacking away. "We're making toys" she said after ten minutes of silence. "For the Rotary Club summer fayre" she went on when I merely nodded my acknowledgement. Five minutes passed where the only sounds were clacking needles, the low hum of conversation from Frank and Marjorie and tweeting birds. Idyllic.

"I'm not going out with Jack tonight. Well, it's silly him paying all that money out when we can eat with you. What are we having for dinner?"

I put down my book and breathed deeply. I had planned nothing for dinner, hoping instead to get away with a Chinese takeaway while the geriatric sweethearts went out for dinner a deux. Amelia doesn't "do" Chinese takeaway and so huffed and puffed a bit when I told her. "Well, if you want to spend good money on something that you could make at home for pennies" she sighed and went back to her knitting. Ten minutes later. "I fancy some tea. Do you?" This was in fact code for "I want a cup of tea, in you go and put the kettle on". Five minutes later, tea made, I picked up my book, shot her a look and started to read.

"You'd best go and show me this takeaway menu then, see what takes my fancy". she instructed. By the time David and Mac got home at twenty to six I was on my second glass of wine.

To escape the madness I headed shower-wards. I love a good shower/pamper session and planned to make the most of my pardon by slathering myself in raspberry shower gel and then raspberry scrub, soaking my feet and just generally being a girlie. An hour later I descended the stairs, hair washed and conditioned, dressed in comfy lounging jammies and wafting the scent of the fruit that I can't bear to eat but adore bathing in. "How long has she been up there?" came a disapproving voice from the kitchen "How long does it take to have a shower?" she demanded of me the minute I entered the room. Jack Next Door was already in situ and smiled winningly at me. "I adore a nice long shower" he said with a wink in my direction. Amelia immediately softened "Do you lovey?" she said, beaming at him. David and I exchanged glances. "Not long to go darling, she'll be going home on Monday." he whispered as he went out to open the door to the delivery man.

Monday? "Monday?" I hissed as I followed him out into the hall. "Yes, didn't she say? She didn't want to drag Jack all the way out to Sevenoaks at that time of night so she said she'll get the train back on Monday morning."

Is it any wonder that I ate all of the King Prawn Balls myself?

Three green parrots at the Peckham Rye Cafe

I'd heard the rumours of course, that we had parrots living in the park but have never seen them. Until today. We were up the park at ten to eight this morning: me, David, Mac and the dogs while Amelia made us her "speciality" for breakfast.

And there they were. Green, glorious and gorgeous, perching in the cluster of trees by the now defunct paddling pool. A truly amazing sight and sound, the were conversing amongst themselves as I stood staring at them, open mouthed with three hounds running round me and a child leading his father a merry dance on his bike.

"Hm!" said David when I told him - of course, when we went back they were nowhere to be seen. Had I imagined them? I wished I'd imagined (rather than suffered) the gunk masquerading as porridge when I got home. Amelia's still in the kitchen chipping it off the saucepan and David has left for golf moaning that he can't "put one foot in front of the other".

Even the dogs turned their noses up.

Deep breathing

David is at a big meeting in Tunbridge Wells and is coming home via Sevenoaks where he will be collecting his mother. She's staying for the weekend. Which is why I've been sulking since yesterday lunchtime when he first mentioned it to me. Of course, when he rang her last night he'd barely got the words "Mum, did you want to come and st......" out of his mouth before she accepted. I heard her scream "yeeeesssssss!" from my position over by the dishwasher.

So now I've got to work out how to keep my mother-in-law occupied for the next two and a bit days. I've already informed her sometime paramour, Jack Next Door, and secured her a ride home in his car. At about 5pm on Sunday. Oh, and he's taking her out to dinner on Saturday night. "Just do what you had planned to do anyway" David advised. Easy for him to say - he's doing what he planned to do on Sunday, a game of golf with Matthew. "We'll be back at about three!" he said in an injured tone of voice when I mentioned it. Oh right, just in time for the Sunday Roast I'd have spent all morning preparing.

My Saturday will consist of Sainsburys, cleaning and decorating as planned - oh, Amelia's going to have a field day. Really, she will. She'll be able to malign my product choices, my lack of elbow grease and say, on a loop, "you've missed a bit".

Still, to be fair, I can't remember the last time she came and stayed for the weekend.

I'm sure it'll all come crashing back to mind the minute I clap eyes on her.

Up the Wooden Hill to Bedfordshire

I have been trying, for the past few days, to get to bed at a reasonable hour. Before 9pm, I mean, which is about the time that my darling sister is quaffing her third glass of champagne of the evening and Saskia is just starting a night shift. I love my bed, adore my duvet and count my pillows as personal friends. It hasn't happened today, as you'll see by the time of this post, and it hasn't happened for, oooh, quite a while.

I'm not quite sure why to be honest. I'm full of good intentions - Mac has been angelic at bed time since Saturday (am saying this quietly just in case) and has been in bed and asleep by 6.30 every night. David has taken to yawning profusely by 7.45pm and by 8pm I'm well on my way to realising my dream of early to bed. I can almost feel the soft scented undersheet beneath me as I toe twiddle happily. So what goes wrong?

On Saturday, after a restless Friday night because I'd got over-tired watching Benidorm, My Family and channel hopping, I woke up at twenty past seven determined to be back in my beloved bed in fourteen hours time. That night I didn't get to bed until gone eleven. Indigestion and a drama-filled phone call from Janey (Darren has apparently "gone off" her since Scarlett was born and she fears he is having a dalliance with "a trollop down the club") put paid to that. On Sunday I decided that, come hell or high water, I'd be snuggled down under the duck feather duvet by 9pm. Hah! David decided, at twenty past eight to have an in-depth discussion about what to do about the whole "second house hunting" thing. It was gone ten by the time I'd promised to get less carried away and more serious about the whole thing - I even promised I'd learn how to plaster my own walls if we got somewhere that really, really, really needed work done to it.

On Monday - my own fault - I got engrossed in my book after the last Coronation Street had finished. I could have continued to read the book in bed but didn't actually want to put it down to go up and shower and brush teeth and get changed and all that. If that makes any sense.

Last night, again, I got over tired. Half asleep and grouchy through Holby and promising to record Most Haunted and watch it later. I made the fatal mistake of turning over at 9pm and then got engrossed in the spooky shenanigans.

By now you're probably thinking, like Bea, that I'm a telly addict. I'm not. I have certain programmes that I have to watch/record and the others I can take or leave. Bea's answer to my problem is "watch less dross on TV darling and you can go to bed with a nice glass of wine and a good book" but asking me to do without Stenders and Corrie and Holby and "alternative" comedy is like asking her to give up Bollinger. Or shopping.

So tonight, with nothing on that I wanted to watch past 8pm I was determined to get up those stairs and to go to bed. David is out at a work retirement do, Mac my angelic child was snuffling in his sleep by twenty to seven and the dogs were whizzed round the block before David left for Orpington. Ten to eight, cup of tea left on the stairs, doors locked, windows shut, already showered and dressed in stunning jim jams I was breathing deeply and serenely. By the time I'd seen the credits roll on t'Street I was ready to zap the TV off and head upstairs in daylight. By this point I was grinning gleefully to myself.

But then I thought "ooh, haven't checked my emails today and Charlie was going to send me pictures of her new nephew". And while I'm on-line I must have a look-see at why my cyber pals have been up to in Blogland. Oh, and Facebook. And really must sponsor my friend on her Race for Life thing in July. And then there's Ebay, always good to have a look round Ebay.......and if I visit the Links of London site then David will find the address in the address bar thingy and be curious enough to take a look........and......and........and.........

Tomorrow. I've promised myself an early night tomorrow.

Indecent proposal

I have just been propositioned on Peckham Rye Common. In broad daylight. By the One O’Clock club that I went to as a child. Well. To be strictly honest, Junior Dog was propositioned in broad daylight by the One O’Clock Club but, as his chosen representative in the, er, attempted transaction I need a shower, a slice of Ayres carrot cake and a strong cup of coffee.

The dogs and I had just dropped Mac off at nursery and all three canines were champing at the bit to get onto a big bit of greenery. Well, Senior Dog could take it or leave it but the other two were sweeping him away with their enthusiasm so it was a merry band of dogs that ran around like lunatics for half an hour. After they’d investigated every sniff, chased every crow and watered every tree on the common I headed towards the One O’Clock Club side of the common so that I could walk them off, cool them down and generally get the mud off of their paws on concrete.

As we approached the path, a lady dressed in a Country Casuals wax jacket and raspberry coloured cords was attempting to control a gorgeous chocolate Labrador by screaming “Flora, come here at once!” at her departing figure. Flora looked to be a woman on a mission, charging up to a surprised looking Jack Russell, flinging herself on her back and displaying her nether regions. The bitch (and I mean that in a caring way) was obviously on heat.

This set all three of my boys off. Senior Dog, tired but always up for a romp or two, started bouncing up and down, Middle Dog yowled in what he thought was a “come and get it lady!” tone of bark and Junior Dog turned into the Tazmanian Devil. Flora was dragged unceremoniously back to the path whereby she decided to flaunt herself in front of her mirror image, Junior Dog.

All three of my boys are handsome in their own right: Senior Dog is a regal looking King Charles Spaniel with an aura of “oh I can’t be bothered” about him. Middle Dog is a collie/cairn terrier cross and looks like a grizzly bear but decidedly smaller. Junior Dog is a fine specimen of black Labrador, glossy and sinewy. And well up for what Flora was offering on a plate.

“Oh, he’s beautiful” said Country Casuals as she attempted to hold onto Flora, put her on a lead, prevent her from ramming her rump into Senior Dogs face and stroke Junior Dog at the same time. “Yes, he is” I agreed, preparing to take my leave of the strumpet and her owner. “Is he, you know, intact?” Country Casuals panted as she held Flora in an armlock and peered sideways at Junior’s Crown Jewels. I agreed that he was and attempted to drag all three dogs away from their very own lap dancer. Country Casuals peered at me over the top of her bifocals “I say, you wouldn’t be interested in breeding him would you?”

This is a topic that has divided both David and I in the past: to castrate or to breed. I have heard too many tales of dogs that have been “done” and it changes their merry nature. A friend had a spaniel who was so off his head (he used to run round walls like a Wall of Death rider) she was advised to give him the unkindest cut of all. It made not a jot of difference to his Wall of Death skills but he now did it while snarling and snapping and savaging anything that didn’t move. Friend Andy had a scatty Rottweiler (he cried every time the door bell rang and was scared of the dark) but, once he’d been allowed to do his stuff with a lady Rotty called Jezebel, he felt more at home in his skin. By this I mean, he barked the house down every time the doorbell rang but was not averse to Sunday morning cuddles under the duvet and tummy tickles.

I would have loved all my boys to become fathers, sure it would be the making of them. David was more worried that, when I was offered either the pick of the litter or payment as per the price of the puppies (which is my right as the stud fee), I’d come home with a puppy. So it never happened.

Country Casuals was still talking “Flora’s been hip scored and she’s a pure breed, only just turned one and, as you can see, is absolutely beautiful. Just like your dog there, he’s so handsome, they’d have lovely puppies” I was sold on it. And I could tell Junior Dog was gagging for it. Literally. He was choking as he strained to get to “his” woman.

I nodded quickly, banishing David’s fears to the back of my mind. I’d take the price of the puppy and put it in Mac’s bank account. I asked her where she lived and said that I’d get the contracts drawn up (again, have heard horror stories where the owners of the stud have been paid “the price we’re charging for the puppies, £150” and have then enquired anonymously a few days later only to be told “pure bred mate, the others have gone for £500 and there’s only one left”). It’s a mercenary business you know. Country Casuals was staring at me as if I’d gone mad. “I can come over later this afternoon, about five? I’ll bring his papers and if I could see hers that would be lovely.” I prompted, thinking that I’d have time to check the contract and anything else I should know out with the vet before I got her to sign anything. Junior Dog cost us £450 so Mac was in for a small windfall.

“What do you mean: contracts?” Country Casuals asked, now helping Flora to flaunt her rear at Junior Dog (who was foaming at the mouth at this point) and keeping her away from Senior and Middle Dog who were sulking and trying to get the attention of the One O’Clock Club lady who was sweeping the play area. “Well, I want it done properly, contracts, stud payment to be taken as the price of what you are going to sell the puppies for. I’d like to see her family line too, I’ve got his for you to see.” I pointed out, quite chuffed at my business acumen.

“Well, can’t we do it right here, right now?” Country Casuals said, rolling up her sleeves and looking around her. Kids played further along by the café, people were enjoying the weak sunshine while they drank their tea and a group of workmen were doing something by the lamppost with a pneumatic drill.

Well.

I was affronted and found myself swelling up with righteous indignation. “He’s a pure breed!” I said, jabbing a finger at Junior Dog who was lying down, exhausted with his longing for the wanton temptress Flora who was giving all three of my boys a “come hither” look. “So is she!” Country Casuals said as she bent down to her tarty animal. “Then you should want more for her than a quick bunk up behind the One O’Clock Club!” said I as I wrapped the three leads tightly around my hand. “Oh come on, it’ll only take half an hour” Country Casuals wheedled as she started talking to Flora in a baby voice “Now dawling, de naughty doggie is going to jump onto your booful liddle backie wackie and give oo booful bubbas!”

A half an hour bunk up behind the One O’Clock Club while we two look on and Senior and Middle Dog get a quick thrill. Is that all my boys, erm, stuff is worth?

“I don’t think so” I hissed between clenched teeth. “If you are serious about this then you need to do it properly but don’t even think about asking me again. You should have more respect for yourself and for Flora!” My dander was seriously up – I was outraged. As I stalked off (dragging Junior Dog behind me) and got into the car I had to sit for a while to calm myself down. Junior Dog, the poor thing, was looking seriously peed off on the back seat, especially as the other two appeared to be mocking him.

As we drove out of the park, Country Casuals and Flora were talking to a rugged looking man with a shaggy Golden Labrador. Flora was doing the Dance of the Seven Veils and Country Casuals was laughing at something Rugged Looking Man was saying. I wound down the window and yelled “TART!”.

Come to think of it, I’m now not quite sure if I meant Country Casuals or her hound.

Why?

Mac has been in a very questioning mood today. David took charge at breakfast so that I could leaf through Heat magazine with a cup of coffee in peace. I listened idly to the exchange going on over by the fridge as I slouched at the table. "What would you like for breakfast?" David asked Mac. I cringed. Never ever ask him that without limiting his options. I usually say "What would you like for breakfast? Toast, strawberry cereal or apple porridge?". He then happily chooses from one of my choices. Asking Mac an open ended question is like waving a red rag at a bull. I slid down in my seat as Mac pondered his response.

"Erm, some eggs please daddy and toast and mumlade and bacon and sausages and 'shrooms and apple." David looked over at me. I didn't see him do that, I sensed it. I was engrossed in the letters page.

"Okay, how about toast and marmalade then?" said the breakfast amateur. "No daddy, want eggs and sausages and bacon and bread and yoghurt and porridge." David laughed nervously and stuck his head in the fridge. "You can't have all of that, you'll burst!". "Why?" said Mac, thereby starting the first of many uses of that word today.

"Why are flowers pretty?" - this while we were in Sainsburys, along with "Why does fish smell fishy?". "Why do footballers spit?" as he watched one of Arsenal's finest do that thing that professional footballers seem to think is manly. "Why are books made of paper?" as we perused the childrens section of Nunhead library. "Why is daddy going to hide in the bathroom?" as David disappeared up the stairs. You can imagine how I was feeling by about ten to one. "I've got a headache!" I muttered as I rifled through the cupboard for some paracetomol. "Why?" piped up the voice behind me. "Because I've been doing a lot of thinking." I said as I threw two down my neck. "Why?". Deep breathing from me as I answered "Because you've been asking a lot of questions today." "Why?"

I knew the answer to that: "Because you're learning about lots of things and it's only natural to ask questions". "Why?" asked my wonder child as he patted the sofa seat next to him. "I can't sit down yet, I'm doing lunch" "Why?". "Because it's lunchtime!" "Why?"

I could go on but if I incorporate every single question I've answered today into this post then I'll get RSI.

I must just tell you this one though. I decided to turn the tables on him and answered "why?" to when he asked me if he "had to" eat the carrots in his Shepherd's Pie tonight. He rolled his eyes, put his hands on his hips and said "Because I don't like carrots that's why. Honestly mummy, you do ask some silly questions sometimes."