... when MuM is informed that she can have the night off, because her son wants to invite several friends to stay over in our small abode. "You can go and spend the night with your boyfriend", he offers, magnanimously. "Boyfriend? What boyfriend?". He is obviously keen to get me out of the way.
I admit, I have been complaining that I never get a break and muttering that I need to get away, but I was thinking more along the lines of ten days in the South of France, hanging out with Zoe, Clodagh, Kerry and other friends, old, new and yet to be discovered.
The thought of being practically ordered to go, and for one night only, made me feel slightly mutinous. Until Kai pulled out his trump card. "I'll clean the whole house, help you move that furniture you've been wanting to rearrange for ages, we won't eat ANYTHING! and Michael can come out with us for the evening. "And", he added slyly, "you really don't want to be disturbed by us when we finally come home in the early hours of the morning!".
"I'll think about it", I said, not wanting to capitulate too easily. Give them an inch and I'd end-up homeless.
Think, I did and it didn't take me long to acknowledge that it was too good a deal to pass up, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I called my friend, Daggi, invited myself over for the evening and night and graciously informed Kai that I was prepared to concede to his wishes.
Not that I'll get much sleep at Daggi's. Last time I stayed-over, we shared her bed (obliging hubby slept on the sofa) and her pre-teen daughter slept on a mattress on the floor. She regaled us with imitations of her two grandmothers, causing fits of hysterical laughter. Every time we tried to stop, one of us started-up again and off we went. Finally we settled down to sleep. At some point, Daggi's young son climbed into bed between us, as was his wont, not realising that I, and not his dad was snoring gently next to his mother.
It would have been no problem for me, but for the fact that I was sleeping "au naturel", having removed my pyjamas, due to the room being unaccustomedly warm. I like to sleep with the window open, no matter what. I could not sleep, so concerned was I not to wake this little boy and traumatise him. The shock of realising I was not his accustomed dad would have been bad enough, but the discovery that he was sharing a bed with his sister's naked English teacher might just have pushed him over the edge.
Finally, I did fall asleep. I know, because Daggi told me that her daughter asked her later if her 16-year-old male cousin had also stayed the night, 'cos nobody else snores as loudly as he does!???!
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
How Long Is One Day?
"How long is one day?", you ask,
And without pause to reflect,
I reply, "twenty four hours make
A day and a night."
"No, no", you say. "How long is one day?".
"Twelve hours are generally known
To make up half of one day", I say,
Wondering if whether this time I am right.
"But how long is one day?", you insist,
Patience gradually waning
As I puzzle and ponder but,
Try as I might,
No answer I give can answer your question,
Until you explain that so often I say,
"You can do that, you can have that,
Not now, not yet, but One Day."
People often ask me how long it takes me to knit a sweater. They might as well ask how long is a piece of yarn?
My day started with good intentions to do some much-needed cleaning, sorting and throwing away. The idea was to undergo a thorough Feng-Shui session, thus freeing myself of my usual chaos and creating space for my work. According to the book given to me by my dear and delightful friend, Martina, Lady Honeycourt, one cannot consider starting a serious business without being organised and, ideally, beginning the day with a meditation, no matter how brief.
All fired-up I was. Sneak in one more cup of coffee before settling down to wriggle and fidget on my meditation bench for at least ten minutes. Better than not at all. The kitchen is a mess! The boys cooked a Chinese meal late last night. Left the pans to soak. I know they should clean them and put them away, but I cannot possibly relax and enjoy my coffee with the kitchen in such a state. It won't take long, and I shall just have to forbid them to cook, ever again. Wait a minute! They cook for me, too sometimes.
An hour or so later, gleaming kitchen, pots and pans tidily residing on the newly wiped shelves ... couldn't possibly put them away until that was done ..., old, sprouting potatoes ready for the compost heap, empty bottles sorted for recycling, kitchen floor swept and mopped.
Coffee cold. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Start the day with a short meditation. On the way back to the sitting room I grab a pile of clean clothes and place them on the bottom stair, ready to take up later. Notice two pairs of jeans which need to be taken-up. Get the sewing machine out and place it on the dining room table for later. I'm sick of wearing my old jeans which hug my hips and leave my kidneys exposed to chills and possible death, not to mention the cramps in my hands from constantly pulling my jumper down in a vain attempt to conserve a modicum of warmth. Before you ask, I had no choice. Fashion has dictated for some time now that the waistband of jeans reach no higher than the belly button.
On returning to my patiently waiting meditation bench I almost stumble over the laundry basket, overflowing with dirty clothes. Pop them quickly into the machine. They can wash while I ruminate. That's Time Management for you.
Kai had the same idea, the previous evening. I remove his washing, look around for a basket, anything, to throw it into. Baskets and anythings already filled with my sons' clothes, awaiting their attention. Oh well, won't take long to hang these out, then I can get my washload going. Fill the machine, sprinkle in the soap powder, press the Start button. Nothing. It pops out again, repeatedly and mutinously.
I'm buggered if I'm going to allow myself to be ripped-off by yet another workman, and no way can I afford a new washing machine so, as you do, I fetch the toolbox and get out the screwdriver in order to dismantle the thing. The super-duper multi-attachment screwdriver is not in the toolbox.
I borrow Kai's S.D.S.D. which I gave him for Christmas. He keeps it in his wardrobe and, as his room adjoins Michael's, I take an extra moment to wake my youngest son and pass on a message to phone his therapist for an appointment. I get grumbled-at for waking him at such an early hour - midday! - and am informed that he hates me. "I know", I say, without rancour. Back down to the cellar, multi-functional screwdriver in hand. I manage to unscrew every screw, except for the last. I give up, for now.
Time to start my day with a short meditation. The sitting room is a mess. A variety of yarns vye with piles of paper, knitting patterns, bills, Marie Claire Idées, Vogue Magazines and Donald Duck comics for floor, chair and shelf-space . A quick tidy, and then I'll begin.
The winter yarns are now nestling happily in plastic bags on the shelves in the cellar. Lavender bags are poised, ready to fend off any marauding moths. The summer yarns are rearranged in wine crates imprinted with my name (special offer - irresistible) in the sitting room. The papers and magazines are - omigod! where did I put them? Never mind. Later. First things first.
All the while, my "memoirs" are bugging me to be written. "Not now, not yet", I murmur. They persist, alongside visions of crocheted flowers, knitted garments, gorgeous bags crafted out of a combination of beautiful fabrics adorned with knitted and crocheted ... flowers and dangly squiggy bits. Oh, and beads and fake pearls.
Time for a well-deserved break. Quickly jot down my thoughts or, rather, type them on my laptop. Must get a Dictaphone. Start typing. The phone rings. Someone with an unintelligible, unpronouncable name is pleased to inform me that I have been chosed to take part in a lottery draw. I hang-up. Type a few more words. The phone rings. 'Nuff said.
Dismantle the phone. The bench beckons. The boys are playing loud music upstairs. Can't meditate with that row going on. I'll just run up quickly and ask them to turn the volume down. Ignore the piles of clothing on the stairs. Hey! I know that song. One of my favourites.
Namaste.
And without pause to reflect,
I reply, "twenty four hours make
A day and a night."
"No, no", you say. "How long is one day?".
"Twelve hours are generally known
To make up half of one day", I say,
Wondering if whether this time I am right.
"But how long is one day?", you insist,
Patience gradually waning
As I puzzle and ponder but,
Try as I might,
No answer I give can answer your question,
Until you explain that so often I say,
"You can do that, you can have that,
Not now, not yet, but One Day."
People often ask me how long it takes me to knit a sweater. They might as well ask how long is a piece of yarn?
My day started with good intentions to do some much-needed cleaning, sorting and throwing away. The idea was to undergo a thorough Feng-Shui session, thus freeing myself of my usual chaos and creating space for my work. According to the book given to me by my dear and delightful friend, Martina, Lady Honeycourt, one cannot consider starting a serious business without being organised and, ideally, beginning the day with a meditation, no matter how brief.
All fired-up I was. Sneak in one more cup of coffee before settling down to wriggle and fidget on my meditation bench for at least ten minutes. Better than not at all. The kitchen is a mess! The boys cooked a Chinese meal late last night. Left the pans to soak. I know they should clean them and put them away, but I cannot possibly relax and enjoy my coffee with the kitchen in such a state. It won't take long, and I shall just have to forbid them to cook, ever again. Wait a minute! They cook for me, too sometimes.
An hour or so later, gleaming kitchen, pots and pans tidily residing on the newly wiped shelves ... couldn't possibly put them away until that was done ..., old, sprouting potatoes ready for the compost heap, empty bottles sorted for recycling, kitchen floor swept and mopped.
Coffee cold. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Start the day with a short meditation. On the way back to the sitting room I grab a pile of clean clothes and place them on the bottom stair, ready to take up later. Notice two pairs of jeans which need to be taken-up. Get the sewing machine out and place it on the dining room table for later. I'm sick of wearing my old jeans which hug my hips and leave my kidneys exposed to chills and possible death, not to mention the cramps in my hands from constantly pulling my jumper down in a vain attempt to conserve a modicum of warmth. Before you ask, I had no choice. Fashion has dictated for some time now that the waistband of jeans reach no higher than the belly button.
On returning to my patiently waiting meditation bench I almost stumble over the laundry basket, overflowing with dirty clothes. Pop them quickly into the machine. They can wash while I ruminate. That's Time Management for you.
Kai had the same idea, the previous evening. I remove his washing, look around for a basket, anything, to throw it into. Baskets and anythings already filled with my sons' clothes, awaiting their attention. Oh well, won't take long to hang these out, then I can get my washload going. Fill the machine, sprinkle in the soap powder, press the Start button. Nothing. It pops out again, repeatedly and mutinously.
I'm buggered if I'm going to allow myself to be ripped-off by yet another workman, and no way can I afford a new washing machine so, as you do, I fetch the toolbox and get out the screwdriver in order to dismantle the thing. The super-duper multi-attachment screwdriver is not in the toolbox.
I borrow Kai's S.D.S.D. which I gave him for Christmas. He keeps it in his wardrobe and, as his room adjoins Michael's, I take an extra moment to wake my youngest son and pass on a message to phone his therapist for an appointment. I get grumbled-at for waking him at such an early hour - midday! - and am informed that he hates me. "I know", I say, without rancour. Back down to the cellar, multi-functional screwdriver in hand. I manage to unscrew every screw, except for the last. I give up, for now.
Time to start my day with a short meditation. The sitting room is a mess. A variety of yarns vye with piles of paper, knitting patterns, bills, Marie Claire Idées, Vogue Magazines and Donald Duck comics for floor, chair and shelf-space . A quick tidy, and then I'll begin.
The winter yarns are now nestling happily in plastic bags on the shelves in the cellar. Lavender bags are poised, ready to fend off any marauding moths. The summer yarns are rearranged in wine crates imprinted with my name (special offer - irresistible) in the sitting room. The papers and magazines are - omigod! where did I put them? Never mind. Later. First things first.
All the while, my "memoirs" are bugging me to be written. "Not now, not yet", I murmur. They persist, alongside visions of crocheted flowers, knitted garments, gorgeous bags crafted out of a combination of beautiful fabrics adorned with knitted and crocheted ... flowers and dangly squiggy bits. Oh, and beads and fake pearls.
Time for a well-deserved break. Quickly jot down my thoughts or, rather, type them on my laptop. Must get a Dictaphone. Start typing. The phone rings. Someone with an unintelligible, unpronouncable name is pleased to inform me that I have been chosed to take part in a lottery draw. I hang-up. Type a few more words. The phone rings. 'Nuff said.
Dismantle the phone. The bench beckons. The boys are playing loud music upstairs. Can't meditate with that row going on. I'll just run up quickly and ask them to turn the volume down. Ignore the piles of clothing on the stairs. Hey! I know that song. One of my favourites.
Namaste.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Ring My Bell
Decided, finally, to buy a new doorbell today. A simple task, one might suppose, but you don't know my history of doorbells. I've lost count of how many I've bought in the last couple of years.
I knew I shouldn't have let the shop assistant persuade me to buy a good old-fashioned electric one to replace the good old-fashioned, ancient, useless contraption which no-one ever hears. I wanted a "Funk" bell (don't know what they're called in English, 'cos I never had to buy one in England). No wires, a couple of batteries and a selection of sounds.
I gave up on the recommended model after one of the wires poking out of the wall just snapped off, leaving nothing, not even the teeniest thread of wire, to poke and prod into the impossibly small space in the new fixture. Back to the store. Friendly, helpful service. Superduper "Funk" system catering for two apartments. Ideal. One for me, downstairs and one for the "boys", upstairs. With any luck, we might hear at least one of them when folks call.
Two hours later, still doorbell - less. All I wanted was a simple: "ding-dong". A lonesome "ding", or "dong" would have been fine, too, but that was too much to ask. Kai and I suffered through the whole range, from Big Ben to Yankee Doodle, to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, to a dog barking for goodness' sake! Most unconvincing. Smokey the cat didn't stir a whisker.
After setting the whole selection off several times by mistake, we managed to nail down our choice. As close to a "ding-dong" as we could get.
I shall spare you the details of our attempts to affix the push button bit to the area around the front door, although I did enjoy a brief jig to Yankee Doodle Dandy in an attempt to ease the mounting tension.
The offending thing is now residing on the hall window sill until further notice.
I knew I shouldn't have let the shop assistant persuade me to buy a good old-fashioned electric one to replace the good old-fashioned, ancient, useless contraption which no-one ever hears. I wanted a "Funk" bell (don't know what they're called in English, 'cos I never had to buy one in England). No wires, a couple of batteries and a selection of sounds.
I gave up on the recommended model after one of the wires poking out of the wall just snapped off, leaving nothing, not even the teeniest thread of wire, to poke and prod into the impossibly small space in the new fixture. Back to the store. Friendly, helpful service. Superduper "Funk" system catering for two apartments. Ideal. One for me, downstairs and one for the "boys", upstairs. With any luck, we might hear at least one of them when folks call.
Two hours later, still doorbell - less. All I wanted was a simple: "ding-dong". A lonesome "ding", or "dong" would have been fine, too, but that was too much to ask. Kai and I suffered through the whole range, from Big Ben to Yankee Doodle, to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, to a dog barking for goodness' sake! Most unconvincing. Smokey the cat didn't stir a whisker.
After setting the whole selection off several times by mistake, we managed to nail down our choice. As close to a "ding-dong" as we could get.
I shall spare you the details of our attempts to affix the push button bit to the area around the front door, although I did enjoy a brief jig to Yankee Doodle Dandy in an attempt to ease the mounting tension.
The offending thing is now residing on the hall window sill until further notice.
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