I'm Enery the Eighth I am.....

We went to Hampton Court on Thursday – me, Mackenzie, Charlie and Charlie’s mum Eleanor. An interesting blend of people to say the least – me weighed down with the worries of a close friend, Mackenzie who was hoping to see “people with their heads off”, Charlie who was having a major crisis about her relationship with New Rich Boyfriend Jonathan (he’s started avoiding her calls, ignoring her texts and not contacting her at all) and Eleanor who, despite having brought up Charlie and her sister Catherine, doesn’t really like children but wanted to buy some historical books and some Mead. Charlie’s mum is rather grand and rolled up in twin set and pearls which threw the rest of us slightly – all in jeans and comfy shoes. By quarter to nine (an early start was deemed important by Eleanor so we got there before “all of the students”) it became patently clear that we were lost. I for once wasn’t driving and Charlie wasn’t paying attention, she kept checking her phone to see if Jonathan had texted or called. Unfamiliar bits of London kept flashing past me (Barnes featured quite heavily) and we went round a roundabout three times.

We arrived at Hampton Court (a journey that should take about an hour or so) two hours and ten minutes after we had picked Eleanor up in leafy Sydenham. Mac was grizzly and demanding something to eat, a headache was niggling nicely in my cranium, Charlie was tearful and Eleanor was rigid with disapproval. We parked up and decided on a refreshing cup of tea. The Privy Kitchen Coffee Shop was heaving with foreign exchange students but Eleanor managed to secure us a table between the French and Italian contingent. “Where are the heads mummy?” my all-things-gruesome son kept asking me which prompted Eleanor to tell him all about beheading. And how it was done at the Tower of London. Not Hampton Court.

His face puckered up and I knew we were in for at least a Force Five rant. Charlie diverted the certain explosion by offering to take him to the kitchen where they “chopped things up and cooked whole pigs in a fire”. Which left me with Eleanor who was daintily picking at a cherry muffin. The French students were getting quite boisterous by now and were making jokes (I presume) about Henry VIII’s, erm, girth. Cue lots of gesturing and funny walks. Eleanor shot them a look that has surely set Anglo-French relations back by about twenty years. I suggested we join the others in the kitchen.

Mac was quite happily playing with some bellows when we found them. Eleanor wanted to move on to somewhere that wasn’t Below Stairs. We headed off to Anne Boleyn’s Courtyard where we happened upon some people dressed in Tudor costumes. Mac was tiring of wandering around, Charlie was building herself up into a good old rage and muttering “why hasn’t he called?” and Eleanor was swatting foreign students away as if they were flies. I was beginning to think that it was nearly 50 quid wasted. “Oooh, let’s go to the maze!” someone squealed theatrically. The looks on the faces of my companions led me to believe that it was me that had uttered those fateful words.

Apparently, it’s “the most famous maze in the history of the world”. Naturally, we got lost. An hour and a half we were in that sodding thing. It may be the most famous maze in the history of the world but I’m not going back in there ever again. Eleanor spent the entire time wondering what “foliage this is?”.

We left at ten to four after a hugely expensive late lunch at the Tiltyard Café – very nice but hugely expensive although Eleanor took it in her stride and didn’t even bat an eyelid when she got about £3.25 change from a twenty pound note. We’d visited all four shops – Barrack Block, Base Court, Garden and Tudor kitchens and came away with enough books, cushions depicting Henry and his wives, terracotta pots, pewter and copper kitchenware to open up our own extension of the Palace. Mac was happy with his sword and singlet and pretended to be a knight all the way home.

I rang David as we were negotiating our way out of the palace gates (they open up onto a main road, it’s very weird – but am guessing all were fields during the Palace’s heyday) to give him a rough estimate of when we’d be home. An hour later I rang him again to ask him how to get out of Barnes. It’s very nice there though.

Aw shucks....!

Thank you Kelly for your wonderful nomination! This has cheered me up - I'm having an emotional day today (a combination of impending Mother in Law visit this weekend, PMT, a friends sadness and a headache that started at 9am yesterday morning when we got lost on the way to Hampton Court - post to follow) so you may detect a bit of a wobble from me here!

I'd like to bestow this award to

Landcroft House for never failing to provide me with a "oh this, it's nothing, I just threw it together" recipe whenever I need one!

West Dulwich Life via What's for dinner tonight?........ditto!

Seriously you guys, you deserve a lot of credit for "my" cooking!

Drunk Mummy for providing the wine!

Dulwich Mum for blogging even when on a body board in Cornwall

Mutterings and Meanderings for making me smile and nod along in recognition

So everyone, visit here to pick up your award and maybe do some nominating of your own!

Lookie Likies

Saskia rang me this morning and asked me which famous person I thought she most looked like. What a dilemma: if I chose someone she deemed as “ugly” I’d never hear the end of it. So instead I asked why the hell she wanted to know. She’s joined a head hunting agency – to be hunted, not to do the hunting. She’s fed up with working for the well known high street store and wants to spread her wings. She’s got a 12 page questionnaire from the agency full of questions including “if you were a fruit, what would you be” and “if you were a superhero, who would you be and what would be your powers?”. And of course the question that has caused all the consternation: “Which famous person do you most resemble?”

Saskia is petite, dark haired and extremely pretty but for some strange reason all I could think about was how much she resembled my hairdresser Amanda who is, sadly, not famous. “Some people have said Courtney Cox Arquette” she said hopefully. I could hear her trying to coerce me into agreeing with her. I didn’t. She has a Cox Arquette vibe but not entirely. “Nigella Lawson?” I ventured. The sucking-in-of-air told me she was not best pleased. “In what way?” she screeched. I admitted it was mainly the hair. To soothe ruffled egos I agreed that Ms Cox-Arquette was probably the closest match. She hung up quite happily.

Then David rang to see how I was. I asked him the same question. “A sexier Kate Winslet” he said without hesitation. There are many reasons why I love this man, this is just one of them. Lydia thought that I had a whole “Liza Tarbuck think going on” and that she herself most resembles “that woman off the BT ad”. Ruby Over The Road thought for a while and said “a bigger Felicity Kendall” and was convinced she’d be a very good double for Gail from Corrie. I asked Charlie the fateful question when she rang to confirm our plans for tomorrow. She groaned and asked if I’d been talking to Saskia. Charlie had apparently told Saskia that she looked most like Lesley Joseph "as she is now" and had the phone slammed down on her before Charlie could tell her “when I was in John Lewis the other day, some guy swore blind I was Abi Titmus”.

So my dear friends, who do you think you most look like?

Pace of life

Being out of London for the weekend was such a treat, it’s a whole other world. By the time we hit the A21 we were surrounded by courteous drivers and, for half an hour, followed an old dear (and I mean that nicely) in her Metro as she did 24 miles per hour through to Lamberhurst. David was quite happy to poodle along behind her until we got to the bypass whereas I would have been gnashing my teeth. We’re chalk and cheese David and I you know. The hare and the tortoise, in fact.

While David, Mac and the dogs explored the house and went onto the beach, I headed to Sainsburys in Hastings for some more last minute items. Honestly, most of my shopping is “last minute”. I picked up some magazines, a pineapple, some steak, a disposable barbecue, some crisps, some Yop they had on a BOGOF deal and a bottle of wine for later. I did all this in record time, just as I do in London, rushing and racing, skidding round corners, harrumphing loudly if people get in my way. I was seemingly oblivious to the stares of the other shoppers (although I did catch one man standing opened mouthed as I raced down the wine aisle and plucked a bottle from the shelf without stopping – I must have looked desperate). Plonking the whole lot on the conveyor belt I found myself breathing heavily and being stared at by the locals. Five minutes later the conveyor belt had moved about four inches. The woman in front of me (trolley piled high with organic apples) seemed to know the Woman on the Till as they talked about somebody called Rose. Rose, it seems, had a knee replacement done on Tuesday and is desperate for an organic apple. By now I was tapping my foot and flexing my fingers in an agitated fashion. By now, if I were in London, I’d be back in the car.

The last item from Rose’s friends shopping was beeped through and then Rose’s friend began searching in her cavernous bag for her purse. I was practically growling at this point. I had my purse all ready and I still hadn’t had the divider removed from the start of my shopping. The woman on the till caught sight of “John and Barb” who were unloading their shopping behind me and enquired casually about “their Sophie and her university choice”. Rose’s friend found her purse and pulled out a credit card. Woman on Till uttered those immortal words “Nectar card?” which provoked more rummaging. Why not keep your Nectar card in your purse? I rang David while Barb ran through most of the universities in the country and said “I’m still in Sainsbury’s, it’s taking ages” and started emitting a low yowling noise. My laid back husband said it was alright and to take my time.

Rose’s friend hefted off with her trolley and Woman on Till (her name badge proclaimed her as Bridget) asked if I needed help with packing. I declined graciously, a fixed smile on my face.

Beep went the pineapple. Beep went my Hello. Beep went Mac’s Fimbles comic. There was a delay in the beeping as Bridget became engrossed in cover of Heat magazine. By now I was twitching. Beep went Heat. A space while Bridget wiped her nose on tissue. Okay, I’ll let her have that. Beep went steak. “Are these nice?” Bridget asked as she held aloft my onion rings. I assured her they were and waited for them to be beeped through, clutching my carrier. She was reading the product information. Barb piped up “they’re good for dipping in houmous”. Bridget expressed amazement and beeped them through. Beep went barbecue and beep went bottle of wine. I stood waiting, cards aloft while she blew her nose and searched for a mentholated sweet in her pocket. “Have you got a cold?” Barb asked. Bridget nodded pitifully and asked for payment. Swipe went my Nectar card. Any slower and she’d be going backwards.

I jabbed in my pin number so fast the machine didn’t register it. Bridget then started clucking in an alarmed fashion and rang for a supervisor. I was now hopping from leg to leg and was in serious danger of having a seizure. Supervisor popped over and did something with the key pad. I re-entered my pin number, as slow as I could considering everything in my body was racing. I toyed with the idea of popping onto the “Let Me Measure Your Heart Rate” machine but didn’t want to break it. Clutching my shopping I legged it back to the car and had to sit there for a full three minutes as everything (blood flow, heart rate, blood pressure and pulse) returned to a normal pace.

Why can't I slow down?

Rain rain go away.....

I've packed for sun, cold, wind and rain. Having just got soaked doing a last minute shop at Sainsbury's, I've upped the waterproof gear. All three dogs are in the car already and are steaming up the windows, David is going round checking all the windows are locked, Mac is trying to find Blue Dinosaur (without whom we cannot leave despite the fact that Blue Dinosaur has been more or less ignored since Green Frog arrived) and I'm wondering if we'll actually be driving or floating to East Sussex. My aunt (who lives in Ashford, about three quarters of an hour or so from Pett Level) is "under three inches of water and my back passage is soaked".

I hope that you're all okay where you are and that you have a fab weekend!

How clean is your house?

I've just watched possibly the worst ever episode of this excellent Channel 4 series - this guy in Wareham had fifteen years of crapola in his house, about a gazillion house and fruit flies, a cheesy toilet, enough crumbs in his bed to feed an army and every strain of bacteria known to man.

I now feel totally okay about having a slightly stained worktop that no amount of scrubbing will get rid of and dust bunnies under my bed. It does, however, make me worry about the dirt and germs that you can't see. This guy (who is incidently now looking for lurve now) shared his bed with lots of bacteria - they showed him what it looked like magnified like a million times. I could have sworn that I saw a bed bug in there (the size of a small horse under magnification) but David said that I was letting my imagination run riot again. Still. Tomorrow I'm going to Dyson all the mattresses, sterilise my entire kitchen and bathroom and de-flea the dogs.....even though they don't need it.

Question: how dirty does a house have to be to warrant a visit by Kim and Aggie?

Something for the Weekend

David enjoyed his “surprise” birthday party last night – even Amelia was moved to say “it was alright I suppose”. The food was lovely, including the barbecued rump (yum, I can still taste it!) and a good time was had by all. The presents were slightly, erm, random but that’s all part of the fun isn’t it? Amelia gave her pride and joy a cheque that made his eyes gleam and Ginny presented him with an aged bottle of scotch that was immediately locked in his bureau! The cake went down well, even though Amelia had “disguised” it somewhat with the use of strategically placed candles.

Saskia’s new boyfriend Mark is an anaesthetist at the hospital where she works – trust me, he doesn’t need drugs to send his patients to sleep. Within five minutes of his arrival he told me how “meat marination works” and listed the “cuts” of the cow in a monotonous voice. Saskia, however, had secured the jug of Pimms and was deep in conversation with Charlie Lydia and was paying him no attention.

Charlie’s Super Rich New Boyfriend is, as I first thought, an arrogant, erm, well, it rhymes with “banker”. He arrived in a screech of brakes clutching a bottle of champers (which he calls shampoo) and announced “Hi, ten minutes from the City to here in my brand new and rather snazzy Maserati” by way of introduction. Charlie wound herself round him and kissed him in a way that I wasn’t comfortable with Mac watching and cooed and simpered at him. He calls her “baby doll” and she calls him “horny boy”. Frank and Marjorie’s radar must have been working overtime. Their enthusiastic greeting spoke volumes.

Bea and Stephen arrived with some “simply divine nibbles darling” and the news that Enormous Au Pair had just been left in front of a DVD of The Office and a KFC Family Feast bucket. Their present of a super duper new golf club (it’s so good it almost goes and finds your lost balls for you) went down extremely well with both David and Matt who has already asked to borrow it for a tournament he’s in at the weekend.

Andy’s present, however, caused the most excitement – he and his “life partner” Adam have just (well, a couple of weeks ago) completed buying a house at Pett Level in East Sussex and it’s gorgeous. Right on the beach and with a pub not 2 minutes up the road, both Andy and Adam plan to decamp there for the whole of August and September and we were offered the chance to stay for the weekend. We’re going down after lunch on Friday with all three dogs who, at the mere mention of the word “beach”, went absolutely mad with excitement. As did Mac this morning who wants me to get the “big plastic ball out of the gridge mummy and check it for holes”.

We’ve started packing already!