Notes from suburbia

After our second stop - in the lay-by of a busy road somewhere in North Wales (I think) where I fed The Baby - we made our way through the darkness along the neverending winding country lanes.  Occasionally The Husband would flick on the overhead light in the car to snatch a feeting glance of the map or handwritten instructions.  Sat in the back of the car, sandwiched between The sleeping Seven Year Old with his head on my shoulder and The wide awake Baby, I continuously pressed a button on my phone in order to keep it lit up to illuminate The Baby whilst simultaneously singing random lines from nursery rhymes that I could remember - all this in a bid to keep The Baby from becoming hysterical. We finally arrived at our destination in Cardiganshire, a delightful collection of farm cottages, where we had found The Friends who were to be married still awake and setting up for the following day.   It was 11.30pm.   After sleeping in the car, The Seven Year Old was, of...

It turns out there is something The Baby dislikes more than travelling in the car.   And that is travelling in the car when it is dark. As we discovered last Friday evening on our seven hour journey to South Wales.   “Why do it to yourselves?” you may well ask.   The answer being that The Husband was to be Best Man at two of The Friends wedding which was to take place on the Saturday.   There was no question, of course we were all going.    We stopped twice en-route, in a bid for us all to regain some sanity.   During the first stop – only an hour and a half into our journey - it came to light that The Husband is a closet McDonalds cheese burger fan – in a surprisingly big way.   Even The Seven Year Old was a little taken aback by The Husbands enthusiasm for ‘the cheeseburger’. After we’d all been fed and watered and had the obligatory ‘just in case’ trip to the loo, we returned to the car.   Once strapped into his car seat The Baby imm...

Cast your mind back to a couple of weeks ago, this was our Friday… The Baby is sleeping soundly on my shoulder – the only place he’ll sleep at the moment, which is really quite limiting at times.   The Husband is attempting to quietly (?!) demolish a built-in cupboard in the kitchen.   We are waiting in for a Gas Man to arrive to re-commission the gas fire in the living room.   We have – for now – let go of the dream of the log burning stove we long for.   The gas man promised he’d be here between 10am and 2pm.   It is 2.30pm. There is no sign of the Gas Man.   We phone him.   He says he’ll “be round in half an hour”.   “Why say a time if it’s unlikely you’ll be able to honour it?” chorus me and The Husband.   Eventually the Gas Man arrives and needs access to the gas supply in the chaotic cellar. He fights his way through the kitchen cupboard demolition and tentatively makes his way down the dim lit cellar stairs.   He takes care to ...

Yesterday we had a new mattress delivered.   We had a new mattress delivered not because the old mattress is worn out, no, it still has much life left in it...the reason we had a new mattress delivered is because our current mattress is too small for our bed. And has been for the past three years.   “Why would anyone buy a mattress that is too small for their bed?” you may be wondering.   In my experience, a person may find themselves in this predicament if the mattress came first, followed by the purchasing of a larger bed frame at a later date simply because a person has always yearned for a massive bed but couldn’t justify to themselves the buying of a new bigger mattress when they have a perfectly good one already – albeit the wrong size.   Ridiculous? Yes, quite. After three years of stuffing pillows down one side of the mattress to wedge it in to the bed frame in a bid to stop us from shifting around in the night, we have finally given in.   The reason fo...

...ee i ee i oh...and on that farm he had 30 seven year olds (brave man!!)...ee i ee i oh! The Seven Year Old is going on his first residential school trip today.   He and his class mates will be staying for two nights on a local farm.   He has been excited about the trip for weeks.   In fact he’s so excited that he’s been choosing to overlook the fact that he has a bad cold and has instead, been pushing to go to school because he’s so determined that he will be going on the trip.   When he came home from school yesterday he immediately wanted to pack his suitcase, “there’s no time to play tonight Mum, we have lots to do“. He woke up so early this morning, and was so completely full of beans, that you would have been excused for thinking it was Christmas Day.     As we walked up to school this morning we joined the other school trippers - a procession of seven year olds, backpacks on their backs, pulling their suitcases behind them. Along...

First of all, apologies to anyone reading this who doesn't work, or who works non-standard hours, as I imagine that much of the following will not really ring true to you – please feel free to dip out now, I will not be offended although I would, of course, really rather that you stay and read on.   Here’s a question – “don’t you find that Tuesday is a bit of a funny day?” Me and The Husband have, for some time, been in agreement that it’s hard to know what to credit a Tuesday for in general terms.   It’s not the beginning of the week like a Monday which invites you to hurl yourself in to a fresh week. Mondays can be a bit like the start of a hill climb when (in theory at least) you set off full of energy and gusto.  And a Tuesday doesn’t have the benefit of a Wednesday which, being bang in the middle of the week, brings with it a feeling of being really in to the flow of things now and that you’re already halfway through the working week. ...

I don’t know if it’s to do with approaching middle age – and no, I don’t for one minute think I’m already there yet at the grand old age of 40 – but I’m finding that me and The Husband seem to have taken to watching game shows on TV .    I can’t even put it down to The Husband being of a certain age as he’s a good seven years – and as he keeps reminding me two months - younger than my good self.   Yes, you heard me correctly – I am married to a younger man.     Anyway, I digress.   Let’s get back on track to the game show issue.   I think the reason I suspect this could be age related is that I remember from my childhood that The Female Parent was very keen on watching game shows.   She still is.   Growing up with this made me somewhat resistant, I didn’t see the appeal at all.   And so it is therefore all the more shocking to me to find myself actively choosing to watch such programs.   For some time we’ve watched ...

I’m sat on the sofa cuddling The Baby to sleep – nothing new there then – when The Husband walks into the room and says “I just touched a slug. I want to vomit”.   Now don’t go thinking this was a garden based incident where such hazards lurk and therefore a person is reasonably prepared to face such an encounter.   No my friends.   This was in our very own kitchen. On our very own work surface. Directly behind our very own bread bin.   Eugh. What with the recent sightings of mice, freakisly-giant-spiders, and now slugs who are invading our house we may as well be living in a tent.   In fact, they’d probably have less chance of getting into a tent. Whilst on the subject of slugs, I am reminded of one of my two lovely Sister’s in Law who has more than one slug story of her own.   The vilest story involves a cup of tea being reheated in a microwave.   As she drank the tea, The Sister in Law thought that the tea bag was still in the cup as with each si...

Mad Hatter:- “Would you like a little more tea?” Alice :-             “Well, I haven’t had any yet, so I can’t very well take more”.                    Alice in Wonderland Myself and The Husband are tea drinkers. In a big way.   We are both from families of tea drinkers – except for the female half of The Parents who is a rogue coffee drinker.   The Seven Year Old is just coming around to the idea of tea. He will occasionally take a straw, plonk it in my mug and take a slurp.   As yet, he can’t be tempted to a full cup.   I suppose you could say he’s a tea drinker in training. “Come to me oh cup of tea, And let me tell you of my antipathy To other drinks in the morning, They don’t stop this Daddy from yawning.” …is what I heard The Husband reciting to The Baby one day a few weeks ago.   “Did you just mak...

Friday.   Friday morning to be exact. As is the case for many families, school day mornings for us are often somewhat chaotic.   I chase around after The Seven Year Old encouraging him to eat breakfast, get dressed, clean his teeth (with toothpaste and for longer than ten seconds!) and pack his school bag. All the while, trying to time the feeding and changing of The Baby so that we’re all ready to leave the house before the school bell rings .   All in all, it can be quite a challenge.   Friday mornings are always particularly frantic in our household as there are so many extras to remember:- homework book, reading book, bun day money (and sometimes buns if it’s our turn to provide) and last minute practising for the Friday spelling test. Today we thought we were on top of things when, ten minutes before needing to gather our belongings to leave the house I realise it’s Children in Need Day.   “What difference does that make?” you may be asking.   Well, a...

The Baby has well and truly found his voice.   At times, if you couldn’t see the delighted smile on his face, it would be hard to know if he’s really happy or if someone is trying to pull his legs off.   He literally squeals as loudly as he can, just for the sheer hell of it.  In contrast, The Seven Year Old is choosing to use his voice less often.   He has recently started spending more time alone in his room as if he’s training himself up in preparation for the teenage years.   “He’s just growing up” says The Husband.   I know this is the truth but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for it. The more independent The Seven Year Old becomes the more I feel like I want to cling on to him.   And so, each morning when I drop him off at school, I continue my attempts to steal a kiss. This is greeted by him rolling his eyes and raising his eyebrows as he gestures for me to leave – not exactly embarrassed, more as if he feels a bit sorry for me.   The Baby, h...

The Husband, The Seven Year Old, The Baby and me all either have, or are just getting over, a nasty cold.   It’s rubbish when we’re all ill at the same time as there’s no-one really feeling generous or energetic enough to dole out the sympathy, at least not in the quantities it is desired. I’m pretty sure I’m the worse with this.   I tend to follow the example set by The Parents – the female half more specifically – who won’t even consider sympathy for illness or injury until it’s been established that you’ve done all you can to help yourself. This self help would mean the taking of, or use of, the appropriate medication.   Of course this could only ever be one of four Female Parent approved medications:- paracetamol, TCP liquid, Covonia cough medicine and Germolene antiseptic ointment.   Once, as a child, I was sent to primary school with a cold so severe that a teacher suggested to me that I may want to consider taking the rest of the week off.   It was...

Remember in a post a couple of weeks ago, we were awaiting the delivery of our new sofa?   Well, it arrived.   Just as me and The Husband had the old sofa wedged in the living room doorway with me trapped in the living room and The Husband trapped on the stairs.   Neither of us within reach of the front door.   The Baby, safely strapped into his chair, sat in the living room with me with a bemused look on his face surrounded by an extraordinary amount of previously ‘lost’ random Lego pieces that had become visible amongst the dust when we moved the old threadbare sofa . From the living room window I see the delivery van approach. After a fleeting moment of panic, and a big heave ho from The Husband, we were able to reverse back into the living room and stand the sofa up on its end in the corner.   “I’m beginning to wonder how we ever got it in here in the first place” I ponder unhelpfully.   The new sofa is brought in by two delivery men.   It glides...

Why is it that the second a person begins to think about eating a bit healthier all they actually want to eat is cake. And crisps.   And bacon sandwiches.   But not together.   Obviously.   Since having The Baby I occasionally launch into a moan to The Husband about the fact that the last of the pregnancy pounds are not melting away as easily as they did after having The Seven Year Old.   The Husband is very patient during these tirades. If it were me having to do the listening then I’d be tempted to point out that the weight would be more likely to decline if I wasn’t eating virtually my own body weight in marshmallows and ginger nut biscuits each day.   As it is, I’m choosing not to listen to myself.

Monday morning, and before we even leave the ‘castle’ reality kicks in.    We rescue the Gatehouse from the layer of family life that we have coated it with and we pack our many bags.   The Husband drives the two friends to the nearby railway station to catch their train home to London-town. He returns at 10am, the time we are due to vacate the building.   We refuse to be unnerved by this, after all, how often does anyone actually turn up at 10am to see if you have left a holiday rental?   Two housekeepers arrive.   Great. The Husband explains to the housekeepers that we have “a few” last bits to load into the car.   This is a gross understatement.   They decline his offer to come in, instead choosing to remain in their individual cars parked in the driveway.   The Husband arrives back inside to find me feeding The Baby ,and The Seven Year Old playing with his Star Wars Lego.   He finishes loading the car and explains to The Housekeepe...

The Husband, or should I say Henry VIII, serves up a delicious lunch of beef casserole – his own recipe - and bangers ‘n’ mash washed down with some of the red wine left over from our wedding earlier this year.   We eat.   We talk.   We laugh.   And there’s not an interpretive dance in sight...  “we’re too full from lunch” is the weak excuse. The longest standing of the friends – we’ve been friends from the age of eleven – is also, by happy coincidence a brilliant baker and today a visiting Queen.   She has brought along a sublime ginger birthday cake which we all happily devour. Prosecco corks are popped and the conversation flows.   The same visiting Queen has also brought along a framed photograph of a school trip we went on back in the day. We are pictured floating down the Ardeche river in the South of France having capsized our Canadian Canoe in spectacular fashion.   Much reminiscing and storytelling follows, much to the horror of Adam An...

Sunday morning arrives and we are greeted by either a heavy mist or a light fog, we can’t quite agree on which sounds the most dramatic.   One of The Friends describes the view from one of the many large windows as “rolling hills drenched with fairies breath”. Poetic?   Vomit-inducingly sickly sweet?   No, simply the beginning of another day’s ridiculous banter.   The same friend has been threatening for some time, in cahoots with another friend – I use the term friends loosely in this context – to perform an interpretive dance (?!) at today’s party entitled “you’re really old now missy”.   Recognising the empty threat, in place simply for comedy value, I retort by advising them that we are all looking forward to seeing it.   We go back and forth like this for much of the day. We spend the morning drinking tea and snacking on biscuits. The Husband and two friends prepare the party feast.   I take a long soak in the deep roll top bath – at least that’...

“A king is still a king when he’s wearing his pyjamas” says The Husband in reply to The Seven Year Olds suggestion that he is not king of the castle until he is wearing the Henry VIII costume he has hired for Sunday’s party.   It is Saturday morning and we are all piled into the copious double bed in the master bedroom having been woken at 7am by the tolling of the Gatehouse bell.   We later discover that the bell rings on the hour from 7am until 10pm with a few half hourly chimes thrown in sporadically for good measure.  The bell is housed at the top of one of the buildings four turrets.   The turret that is the closest to our bedroom.   Obviously.  The bell's  chime is quite loud making the impromptu 7am alarm call difficult to ignore.   This, together with the fact that The Seven Year Old is so happy to be here that on waking up he immediately explodes into excited chatter, causes me to brace myself for early mornings for the duration of our ...

We decide to risk following the “strictly private Tixall Mews” signpost that we have driven past only five minutes previously.   Our risk pays off and moments later we are on the driveway leading to the “castle”.   “Is this where we’re staying?” asks The Seven Year Old excitedly.   “It is indeed” chorus me and The Husband with huge grins on our faces.   We pull in through the gate and park in the archway as we’ve been instructed to.   The Gatehouse has, in effect, become a glorified car port.   We locate the door key from the coded key box whilst congratulating ourselves on remembering – somewhat miraculously for us - to bring a torch.   The Husband, with The Seven Year Old hot on his heels, tries to unlock several doors without success. Just in the nick of time, before The Baby screams for milk, we find the only remaining door whose lock hasn’t yet been tried with the key.   And we’re in!   Up the stone spiral staircase and we burst into t...

Tixall Gatehouse Photo from the Landmark Trust website 8pm Friday evening. We’re searching for the castle. The Husband has stopped the car to look at the map and accompanying instructions that have been printed from the Landmark Trust website. The Seven Year Old, The Baby, and me, sit in the back of car trying to be helpful by remaining silent.   Surmising that we are “very close” to the castle, The Husband stops the car by a gate to a field, abandons the map and leaps out of the car in favour of surveying the land.   In the thick darkness of the Staffordshire countryside, me and The Seven Year Old exchange nervous glances, we’re feeling a little exposed and vulnerable as we sit in the lit up car with the doors open not knowing that The Husband is only a few feet away.   “I can see it!” declares the Husband from the darkness.   From the back of the car we crane our necks expecting to spy the castle-like building far into the distance.   Bu...

Later today we will be leaving for the ‘birthday castle’.   There is much excitement in the air.   We have already packed our party outfits. It has been agreed that we will all be dressing in a way that befits the grandeur of the castle-like building in which we will be residing.   We are not restricting ourselves, or our guests, with a specific era or theme beyond the vague notion of ‘Turrets and Tiaras’. I am seizing the opportunity to wear one of the potential wedding dresses purchased in the build up to our wedding earlier this year.   Why, you may be wondering would we be talking in plurals when it comes to wedding dresses.   Pregnancy would be the answer.   More on that another time.   I am very happy to have the chance to dress like a princess in a gorgeous full length champagne coloured 1930’s style dress.   Of course, no fancy dress outfit should be too pretty or serious and so an attempt shall be made to comedy things up a little with ...

Today we will be taking delivery of our new sofa.   This isn’t the huge, velvet, squishy and wildly expensive sofa we fell in love with - to clarify, when I say ‘we’ I mean, '‘me’ – no, the sofa that is due to arrive today is the simple, stylish, practical sofa that we can afford.   More specifically, we are awaiting the arrival of the sofa that we can afford with more than a little help from The Parents who were becoming increasingly concerned by the state of the threadbare, sagging, tired sofa we currently own.   As a result, The Parents have generously pitched in to the new sofa fund under the guise that this will be my 40 th birthday gift.   This would seem more realistic if they hadn’t arrived to visit us earlier in the week bearing additional gifts. Providing all goes well with the new sofa delivery – ie. it turns up and is the one we ordered in the chosen colour - then we shall be left with the dilemma of how to get rid of the current sofa.   We...

…but I strongly suspect The Seven Year Old may secretly be a child genius.   After a steady start at school with fledgling–like confidence we now find ourselves in Year 3 – and yes it feels as if we are all there - seeing top marks in spelling and times tables tests being achieved.   Delighted to be doing so well, and finding things are coming a little easier, The Seven Year Old begins to see the benefit of completing homework and practising for upcoming tests.   He can now be found loudly chanting out the latest spellings without prompting - shame we can no longer take him out in public.

Today is my 40 th birthday. Hurrah!   Or not.   Depending on your perespective I guess. Is turning 40 really a big deal these day? Or is 40 really the new 30?   Words spoken only by a 40 year old maybe.   “So how does it feel to be 40?” ask The (younger) Friends.   Well, becoming 40 can put a girl into a reflective mood – it’s feels like a sharp reminder that life is short and needs to be drained of every last drop of pleasure and experience in a bid to make every second count.   C all it denial if you will but I’m refusing to even think about the wrinkles and saggy bits, much easier I think to remove all mirrors from the house.   Thanks to the genes from The Parents there are no grey hairs in sight as yet so that that’s helping with the issues of acceptance on the aging body. Strangely, this morning, I discover that 40 suddenly sounds a lot older than 39.   Although, not nearly as old sounding as the term I came across when pregnant with Th...