Bermuda

"We should definitely eat more triangular food," she announced with certainty. "Most definitely".

???

"I had some Indian triangles at Alice's house and they were really good. Not the argy-bargies, the other things. The triangles".

Ah. "Would you like us to have samosas?"

"Yes. And other triangle things. I like the taste of triangles, I've been learning about them at school".

Ok. So, since I cannot deliver on any of the main things a mum should provide (calm, happy home for example), I have been giving some thought to triangles. Having applied my brain to this  -  easier to solve than other more intractable problems  - I have developed a theory that all foods can be classified as follows:

MUST be a triangle: this includes not just samosas, but following some brainstorming in the Malvern Hills (multitasking, me) also Laughing Cow, Toblerone, Doritos. Not that many things, as it goes.

OFTEN a triangle: of course, there are many foods that could theoretically be cut into a triangle, but some often or commonly appear in this shape. Examples would be Brie and other cheeses, slices of cake, pizza, and sandwiches. 

RARELY a triangle: In this category fall a lot of soft-ish, round or tubular things that could easily be cut into triangles even though they rarely are (Jaffa cakes, small pieces of things like banana, carrot, cucumber). And finally some foods that, although it would be plain wrong to cut them into triangles, could very easily be. For instance Battenburg cake, McVities Jamaican Ginger cake, hamburgers, marshmallow teacakes.

NEVER a triangle: this is the category I am enjoying thinking about the most. So far I'm thinking Pringles, Twiglets, spring rolls, sausages, hot dogs, Easter eggs, scrambled eggs, chocolate fingers,  broccoli, biscuits, rice krispie cakes, Hula Hoops, calamari.

We have been blind taste testing to see whether food cut into triangles tastes different due to the shape. I'm saying not, Terrible Tweenager 2 (oh god, my Mac doesn't have a hash key?!) is saying it's easy to tell. We are now entering a secondary discussion about fair tests, scientific rigour and objectivity in experiments.


Sometimes it's nice to lose yourself in the Bermuda Triangle of inconsequentiality. Sometimes real life is just too hard to cope with.

Butter Me Up

"I want us to be friends," he said. "I don't want us to fight".

Ok....I thought cautiously..... and went off for a weekend of spa treatments and walking and reading and having a nice time with my best friend. "Have a lovely time", he said, disconcertingly.  So I did. Facial, body-wrap, swim, steam room, magnificent walk in the Malverns, dinners, chats, luxury pedicure, the lot. Hell I felt amazing. Chilled out, pampered, utterly lovely inside and out. And he'd promised to make a family dinner for when I got back, to show the girls what great friends we were.

I got home about 6pm. It ticked around to 7pm, and no sign of any food. "What's for tea, then?" I asked, in a friendly fashion as is our new and unnerving way.  He looked at me in a confusion. "You said you'd make tea....," I reminded him.

"Shall I see if the girls want some toast?" he offered. I rolled my eyes.

"Did you wash the school uniforms?" I wondered.  He did put a dark wash in (school shirts??) but he didn't check first to see if their uniform was in there. A foolish beginner's error.

Didn't I understand how busy he had been? He had looked after the girls all weekend, taken them to Stagecoach, made fajitas, done two loads of washing (although one of them must have comprised 17 shirts, must go down shortly and check how they've come out...) He had been rushing around all weekend and felt like he'd hardly achieved anything, and had work to do and hadn't done it and was exhausted... didn't I understand? Why was I attacking him with my Ridiculous Questions and my Rolling Eyes?

"Welcome," I said, "to my weekend world". Then we had a huge row in which I screamed and raged and yelled and swore and banged about. And he looked at me coldly and said I was bullying him.  And I shouted that he was a total cunt.

And I actually thought for a moment I might kill him. But then suddenly I felt very very tired, tired in my bones, and I just couldn't be arsed. So I made some toast for my terrified, trembling, tearful girls and brushed their hair until their sobs were stilled, and kissed them goodnight and tidied up the kitchen.

I totally suck at being a wife and mother.

Pickle

The Period of Shittiness was followed by the Period of Resignation, and this too passed.

And now I realise I am in a new phase, one which will probably last me for many years, see me through to the time when all I live for is a hot cup of tea up top and a fresh Tena Lady down below. I hereby name this phase the Period of Bridget. 

It mainly involves being by myself a lot, eating meals that consist entirely of custard, or of Branston Pickle directly from the jar, and daydreaming about Colin Firth. It involves drinking every day, and trying not to smoke, and inevitably finding myself wearing the wrong thing at the wrong time (although actually I did that in earlier Periods too). It involves the appalling realisation that all the nice men are married, and intend to stay that way, and will be steering a wide berth away from my confusing new status.

It involves involuntary celibacy and self-hatred and chocolate. It involves binge-drinking sessions with screwed-up female friends which may end in giggles or sobbing or a sccary combination of both.  It involves deep headfuckedness of the worst kind.

And sadly for you, dear reader, it involves writing about it all. Look away now if you don't want to see the final result.

Do It Like A Dodo

"I'm like a bird....", warbled Terrible Tweenager #2, always chirpy.

"How. How are you like a bird? Exactly precisely how?" asked TT#1, sourly. She is still getting to grips with the devils of PMT.

"Well...... I can fly".

"No you can't".

"Ok, I can't, but lots of birds can't fly and they're still birds. Like penguins and emus".

"You don't have any feathers".

"I'm a baby bird. I've only just hatched. But I'm still a bird". Ever the optimist.

"You don't have a beak".

"Some animals have beaks that aren't even birds. Like a platypus or a squid. So having a beak isn't a proof of being a bird".

"You don't lay eggs".

"Yes I do".

They pause for a while, wondering how to proceed. Perhaps a bit of a Mexican stand-off.

"Ok. You're like a bird. What kind of bird are you, then?"

"I'm an iguana".

This is why your brain turns to porridge when you have children. Listening to this drivel. Trying not to scream that AN IGUANA IS NOT A FUCKING BIRD.

Irony

The Shirts section of my super-efficient three-section laundry trolley now holds twelve shirts, and is stuffed to bursting. He's gone away until Thursday night (3 more shirts...maybe 4 if there's a dinner). He's going to run out of shirts.

Hahahahaha....

Irony. Ironic. Ironing.

Torn



They’re struggling.

The thing that hurts me most is that they are not talking. It’s making them grow up quicker than I wanted them to, it’s taking away their innocence. I wanted to give them a stable environment until they finished school, and I’ve let them down, I’ve failed to do that for them. I feel bad that I couldn’t hang it together for all of us until that point.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“I’m fine, Mummy”, said one, eyes heavy with tears. “I wouldn’t know what to say”, shrugged the other one, feigning nonchalance.

“How about writing it down?” I suggested. “Writing it down can help you sort out your feelings, and writing it out sometimes gets things out that are stuck inside you”. One still shrugged, but the other one got out a notepad and pen. She wrote furiously, teeth digging in to her bottom lip until they almost drew blood. Handed it to me and announced she was going to have a bath and didn’t want anyone to disturb her.

Our family is being teared apart. The pictures of us as a family on the wall will be hit by a hammer and smashed to pieces. I thought we were the ice cream that never melted but now the boiling, burning sun has come out. Now I don’t believe in the Tooth Fairy, shooting stars or the Easter Bunny. I will stop believing those things until life makes me smile again.



We had a big cuddle. I said we would be smiling all the time and having a lot of fun, that Daddy and I would be great friends without fighting and everything would be ok.

Different, but still ok.

Jesus I hope I am right. I don’t how much reassurance to offer.

Film Review 2011 #02 and #03

"There are no knights in this at all, except for a toy one right at the start. So it should be called something else. It must be hard to make an action movie when you are old like they are. I expect they get lots of breaks".

"Gosh. I didn't even know Steve Martin was French.

"Why isn't the panther in the actual film? He looked like he would be from the cover of the DVD but he's only in the titles, it's a swindle, actually".