Saturday, 23 April 2011

Easter without Cadbury's is like a 'lift the flaps' book without the flaps: pointless, and no where near as much fun.

Happy Easter everyone!!! *gutted* to be celebrating it without Cadbury's chocolate...life's so unfair.

Friday, 22 April 2011

The imprisoned adolescent within, leaps like out a ninja on speed...



Last week was one thing, leaving me with the desire to rip my own arm off, just so I had something to laugh about. But do you know what? This week has topped it. I have ‘willed killed’ one of chickens, the finger firmly points in my direction, and OH the guilt, I’ll bite ‘the finger’ off, it’s rude to point, and then that’ll ‘learn’ it…

I now find myself subject to barrages of questions about death from kids, I feel as though I should be sporting a judge’s wig, donning a cape and secretly Googling everything, so as to be armed with the appropriate responses. I thought I would share some of the questions, just to let you into my ‘we think mum killed the ‘effing’ chicken’, and we now have SOOOOOO many questions that we will ask intermittently and regularly whether it be with mouthfuls/doing teeth/just before we go to bed/first thing in the morning/whenever we want, cos we want answers dammit’

Here we go, questions and responses from Madame ‘I’ve-just-killed-my-own-chick-ipedea’;

‘Mum, does she still wee and poo now she’s dead?’ Me, ‘no sweetheart, the body’s stopped working, so she doesn’t need to do that anymore’. ‘Why isn’t her body working?’ ‘Cos she’s dead’ ‘why is she dead? Did you kill her mum?’ ‘No, I did not kill her (*doubts self*), sometimes these things happen.’ ‘What colour is she now?’ Well I chose to be honest, she was a weird deep-purpley colour. ‘Won’t she be hungry? Shall we drop some food in the hole you dug for her?’ ‘Not really worth it sweetheart, she doesn’t need food anymore’ ‘Can we cycle over her grave? Will it squish her?’ ‘No, it will not squish her, bit late for that now, she is as hard a prosthetic moob by now.’ ‘What?’ ‘Nothing. Yes you can cycle over her grave if you really feel the need.’ And this one, which made me laugh: ‘does Meg only come out at night now?’ A chicken ghost ‘boc boc boooooooooooooOOOOOOooooOOOOOoOOooc’ is how it would go.

I do hope I managed to answer their thoughts, it’s been like a cross between a ‘Whodunnit?’ (‘mummydunnit’) and children’s Mastermind, with the subject being ‘chicken death’, not my forte.

The dog found a jar of Nutella in the recycling, and he proceeds to lick it out with equally as much zeal as he licks his own b******s. Rude, but true. At tea time, he spews EVERYWHERE, kids don’t see it in time, and walk through it, then burst into tears as it’s just too rank for words, the dog walks through it, just to add insult to injury, and the phone rings. Alex gets the phone- cop out, so I save it for him to clear up, as honest to god, I do deal with most of the s*** and bodily excretions here, but dog puke? Nah, I have my limits, and I seriously would just end up clearing up my own as a result. So the buck (is this a male hare? I just passed him the kitchen roll in reality, not a male hare) is firmly passed to Alex.

hares, a frolicking...

This morning I have to go and register at various complicated companies in France. Normally roughly eighty-nine thousand separate enterprises deal with the same thing in France, and you are obliged to register with them all. My husband’s in the process of changing jobs and things, and whilst he’s out there doing that, I deal with the paper worky side of things-his P.A (unlucky b******d!). I walk into one of the relevant places today, the kids pick out a leaflet each and sit down to read, in some cases look, at. This is standard procedure, they’re all well briefed on etiquette in official French ‘never the right office, you have to go elsewhere, really? Yes. You’re sure, cos the last 4 places insisted it was you? Yes, we’re sure, now p*** off, Madame Du Bois (wood)’ places. The lady behind the desk calls out in her French stern ‘I’m behind a desk and I have ALL the power, mwahahahaha’ megalomaniacal manner, ‘Hey! Kids, no, they’re not toys, put them all back at once, they’re not there to be played with’, bear in mind, there is a queue, there are 4 of them, the building is boring as f*** to kids, and they have all taken one leaflet, and sat down beautifully to read them. I glare at the lady, and all of a sudden, the imprisoned adolescent within, leaps like out a ninja on speed, without warning, Kevin and Perry styley, I deliberately take one of each leaflet going ‘I want that one, and that one, and that one, and that one…’, there’s a fair few to collect, it takes a bit of time, then distribute them to my kids. HA! in your face lady behind the desk wench. Then tell the kids to rip them all into teeeeeny tiny pieces, and throw them like confetti. Alright, I didn’t go that far, but when it was my turn, OOOOOoo you could not feel the lurve, more like utter detestation from her, I stagger to the desk, forcing  myself through the force of the 'hate vibes', I had fckuked it, but I couldn’t care less, pedantic bint. That’ll show ‘em. And guess what? I wasn't even n the right place anyway, apparently, but I'm sure she told me that out of sheer spite.



Well, I must get on, lots more boring stuff to do, more animals to ‘will kill’, Mastermind chair to sit in, worst P.A in the world role to fulfill, leaflets strewn in car to recycle and a Treasure hunt to write clues for tomorrow. I think I am due some Cadbury’s cream eggs as my prize for making through the past fortnight-but do you know what? They don’t ‘do’ Cadbury’s in France-can you even believe it?

Happy Easter all of you! x

Thursday, 21 April 2011

I’m as soft as a moob

Before reading this blog, you are all obliged to read firstly, the blog from yesterday, just so you get the FULL trip…seriously, you’ll see why. Go read it, then come back. See you in  a minute!

Flicking chicken poo in your face is never going to be one of my icebreakers that I mention to new acquaintances, it will certainly be however, the reason why I have scrubbed my face with bleach, and the rest of my body, and I am not doing it just the once either. Nor will my icebreaker be that I then followed the sh*t hoying into face, with treading in the huge great pile of chicken sh*t I had just shoveled out of the house (the chicken house, I should add-just so as you’re sure!), and grabbing something covered in chicken sh*t to use that as a device to move something worse looking than everything I had just shoveled out the chicken house. It was one of the most rankoid and vile events, that I shall write about now, and then forget, forever. Now the reason why all this happened, is because I had to sterilise the chicken house. Why? Well, of course it has to be done regularly anyway, but I HAD to today, as yesterday after writing in my blog that I wanted to kill my chickens, well today, I actually did. Not intentionally, and I did not wring her neck (despite rumours in my house amongst the kids and the animals). Meg died of unknown causes, and very suddenly, and after the kids asked me, on hearing that Meg had snuffed it, if it was me, whether I had killed her, as yesterday I had been ‘going on about how much I wanted to kill the f*ck*ng chickens’. How guilty do I feel? The kids have gone to bed distraught (I even shed a little tear, well, she was my responsibility, she had her own character, and I am not hard as nails, in fact I’m as soft as a moob (Google it if your unsure)). I have left Alex out in the garden with his pick-axe, digging a hole in the garden to give meg a decent send off. He is back in, he’s managed to snap his pick axe in the act. Now we have the debate, do we bin her? Or dig the rock-hard ground with nothing but a feeble spade. Let me have a think, I’ll get back to the blog, I’ll sterilise myself with bleach again in the interim. So, I’m back, and kept on going, digging and digging and digging. Alex remarks afterwards that that was the first grave he’d ever dug.  Which I guess I was relieved to hear…


How bad do I feel though? I must have willed her dead. The distraught kids took a lot of consoling, as did Alex. Alright, he didn’t, he actually, after digging her grave, then hoys her in sipping a beer, going ‘see ya, Meg’. I was a little taken a back, I had expected to ‘place’ her gently in, and scatter a few flowers on the grave top. But there you go, that’s life, and the death of our first chicken.


But just to draw matters out a bit, here is the note that I find on my pillow tonight…Monty had left it for us:


AHHHH, and then look...



*GUILTY*


So there we go, R.I.P Meg, and I am going to go round like Mary Poppins on prozac, consoling my upset children and ‘petting’ all the animals, all day long. See you next time, hopefully with the same number of live-stock.



Wednesday, 20 April 2011

I will beat them all down with my giant flapping capacities, and stun them all.

Monty pulling his 'handsome' face.
There is literally world war III going on in our house as we speak; us against the mutant-ostrich-chickens. And god only knows how it may end. They have officially flapped over the acceptable chicken behaviour line: it’s one thing flapping onto the table and stealing your children’s food out of their little mouths with their nasty pecky beaks. It’s a whole other thing, when they are ripping out every last vegetable I and the kids have so painstakingly planted over the past week. In fact, things have got so bad, that tonight I am *power* blogging. No, not some cathartic, healing process I have been advised by my mutant-chicken-ostrich psychologist to do, not some ‘writing about your woes will heal you’ b******s. It’s like writing a blog in a similar way to a fast and furious walk is done would be called. A *power* blog. Not that my message is going to be of an ever-so deep and even more profound nature, as it usually is (!), but because after I have done this, I am then to go and replant ALL my vegetables, for the 12th (no word of a lie) time today. The (my dad’s away for a few days, so I’m fine to write the following word, but sorry to any relatives it may otherwise offend) F*CK*NG chickens are flaps away from having their necks wrung. I have been driven flapping mad (again, you see just how these flap jokes stretch…endless fun), and flaps on my heart (alright, that just doesn’t work, I was trying to replace ‘hand’, but obviously I just look like some weird pervert replacing it as I have, and I am too lazy to delete all the text I have just *power* typed). My point is friends: family, and I include ALL the animal kingdom EXCEPT if you flap. No, that excludes the bird race, and just cos chickens flap, does not mean I have to tar all birds with the same terrorizing tendencies. Now, did you know this? There was a chicken who got his head cut off, and proceeded to run a around a bit, he carried on running around a bit, for 18 months…Mike the chicken he’s called- Google him, it’s a real life story! (I’m into those at the mo!) He died, unfortunately, because his owners took him to a show (he was famous and everything!) and forgot to bring his syringe to feed him his food, and he thus starved to death. Idiot owners. Who’d a thunk it? As my grandpa always used to say. 

EEEEEWWWW rank, but you see, it's Mike the chicken- told you it was true!!


Who knows how this war will end? I may well wring their bloody necks, I may not, I imagine I won’t, I have never knowingly or deliberately killed anything, but then again, there is always tomorrow.

I am in my bedroom on the computer, I have to kneel in front of it, as we have it on a wooden chest, it takes me ages to prize myself off the floor, my nimbility is fast fleeing me, on a daily basis. I am like a 95-year-old ex horse-riding gymnast. Not that I have ever done either of those sports (actually I did horse ride as a child, so I’m telling half the truth, took me ages to get my head round the tapping the horse with the whip to make it go, pulling reigns to stop it, frequently doing it the wrong way round and speeding off like a rabbit being chased by one of our MENTAL chickens, when I was in fact trying to stop, any way, I digress, giddy up…), but I imagine your body must be pretty ‘worn’ after those sports practiced for a length of time.

Monty’s bedroom is above us, and he sometimes stays up late under his bed, in his den. It’s full of star wars Lego, which he is obsessed with. He sets up all his Lego men Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, Anakin, before he fell to the ‘dark side’ (as I believe my chickens have) Leia R2D2, well, I’m not going to sit here and name the whole cast (although I am only saying that because I have now exhausted my star wars names knowledge), they have battles with all the baddies, and he has all his ships that he and his dad have spent hours making, through tears (daddy’s), sweat and pain, again, all daddy’s. I can hear the faint dialogues between General Grievous and Mace Windou (I had to ask Alex his name!) the girls are convinced he is called Mace Window though. It’s ever so sweet. And I only mention it as I can hear him as I type, bless.


may the force be with you all this week...


I have had a load more (yes, the French paper work time is around again) French paper work to trawl through this week, make sense of and provide evidence yet AGAIN of our very existence on the planet. It’s so pointless and time consuming, and there is no *if you have kids, please feel free to take your time in responding, we do not mean to be the cause of more unnecessary stress, and fully comprehend that finding out all the 7000 tiny print documents we are threatening you with severe penalties if not filled out and returned within reception of this letter, as we appreciate that you have probably thrown in the bin or used as papier mache aids* get out clause. Bastards. So you can all wish me luck with that, as I have Mitzi not sleeping due to another ear infection, the second in 3 weeks after she had her grommets put in. it’s all feeling a bit too rubbish at the moment. *keeps it real*

 
And let’s face it, if I adopt my chickens’ attitude, I will beat them all down with my giant flapping capacities, and stun them all. The only way forward I think…so I end today by saying, here’s to flap attitudes, and conquering the war!


Tamsyn x

Monday, 18 April 2011

I just wanted to rip my own arm off, just so I had something to laugh about.

“F*ck off, chickens!” Charming! But justified to be fair. I hear this screamed angrily outside, Alex, is irate, not only have they ‘nested’ and thus torn up my freshly planted cherry tomatoes and strawberries in the veg patch, they are now on the flapping rampage for any masticated crumbs that maybe smoldering (oh yes, it’s been so hot, that I do worry the food matters scrunched into the floor of the car will self-combust) on the car floor, as he is looking for his ‘wax’. Not the hair variety, for his surf-board, just to clarify that. I have never to date witnessed food matters catch alight spontaneously, but there’s always tomorrow, I say.



Harmless bit of playdough fun (despite appearances)-can you guess what it is yet? Rolph Harris would be impressed. Oh, and that's green food colouring on her nose, and no, it did not come off for a day or so.




Talking of wee (go with me), Esmie was born with a reflux from her kidney to her bladder, in brief, the urine (such a posh, vulgar word, I think, like the ‘proper’ name for ‘front bottom’ and the male bit down below, I cannot even bring myself to write them. They’re just too haughty and rude sounding, that’s just my opinion), as I was saying, the urine gets sent down from the kidneys to the bladder, then one has a wee, and end of. With Esmie, the urine travels back up again to her kidney, so she is always at a risk of kidney/urine infections. She is monitored, and to date, everything has been A OK, so I am not neurotically worried, although i do have to 'be aware' as they insist on advising me over here. Last week she was not all that well, and the first thing I have to test is her urine. I drop off her little pot full of wee, in the morning at the clinic. It was quite an ordeal for all involved, suspending her with one arm over the toilet, whilst with the other hand targeting her wee with the pot, only I got weed on all over (inevitably) in the process. I hear wee is sterile though, so you know, there’s worse things that happen at sea (apparently). Fun stuff catching wee, I may take it up as a hobby, or maybe not, probably the most rank idea I’ve ever had, right there. So in order to remind me to collect her results that evening, I write ‘WEE’ in big letters on my hand. I go round all day with this ‘WEE’ stamped on my hand. And forget to collect the results. Thankfully, it all came back good. But this week has been one of those terribly disorganised, late for everything, going to meet someone 20 minutes away, when in fact I was supposed to meeting them down the road. Again, not fun, a time wasting event, that just is pointless and frustrating, leaving you with nothing but self-loathing feelings for being so, so incapable.  *Bursts into helpless tears*. Truly one of those weeks (no I’m not finished yet, to drum my point home), where I just wanted to rip my own arm off, just so I had something to laugh about.

It’s 8.30 pm here, and I have just finally heard the final dying cries of tired hot kids dropping to sleep through sheer exhaustion, and the fact that their ‘last drinks/wees/kisses/cuddles/didn’t feel that kiss and cuddle/back for more excuses’ are now being met with a turned ‘person with impaired hearing’ ear, and it has finally paid off. I have a lot to get through this week, and hope to goodness it is no reflection on last week. We’ve had lots of fun planting our veggies, tending to the garden, hanging out, being attacked by chickens, hijacked by badgers and the like, but the flip side has been bedlam. And I  won't be able to stand any excitement this coming week.


Easter weekend is fast approaching, and we have round 3 of easter eggs to get in-round one never saw it past the first night, round two were out the bag, hidden, and then eaten the same night. So I am holding off getting round three in till the bitter end. We cannot trust ourselves. We are the sort of parents who should never be trusted with their kids’ chocolates. This is a bad place to be in. I am ashamed of us, and will do better next week, promise! I have also unfortunately lost my voice (I am always losing stuff, but this was not even possibly my fault this time), so that’s gonna be challenging, the kids find it hilarious when I have lost my voice, pointing at me and laughing, like there never has been ever, anything funnier. Geers such as “ha ha, we can’t hear you mummy’ and as I try and whisper my response, they laugh even harder. It’s a cruel world, I don’t know how it’s going to pan out this week, I can but live in hope and buy shares in a foghorn company. TO DO list!

See you all again soon,

tamsyn x



Sunday, 17 April 2011