A Feat of Gin

It has alas, been rather too long since I last posted anything.  I would like to say that this is because I have been being tebbly tebbly busy and important, but actually it's mainly because I've been going out for lunch and dicking around on Facebook and buying cushions on EBay.  However, as I have now expanded to my full width and can't fit my giant arse on the sofa to look at Facebook in comfort due to all the fucking cushions, I have returned to you, my sweets!

Last weekend we ventured forth from The Enclave, to the ancient and venerable city of Stirling, there to attend a Gin Festival, no less! 

What a splendid plan, we thought!  What could possibly go wrong on a day where we would start drinking unlimited quantities of neat gin at 3pm?  Clearly, absolutely nothing at all!

Filled with joyous anticipation, we collected the Friends, and trundled northwards.  As the rain was pissing down, Mrs F and I hatched a cunning plan to give the grumpy husbands and their notions of moderation the slip, and demanded we be dropped off at the hotel where the vats of gin were, lest our hair was spoiled by the rain, while they, lacking hair as they do, went further afield to find somewhere to abandon the car for the night.

We were handed little bags as we went in, containing bumf and a tea cup.  Rather bizarre we thought, but nothing daunted, we pressed on, pausing only at a charming vintage tat stall to purchase some charming vintage tat before horrid husbands could appear and complain. 

Feeling very clever by then, we flung ourselves with joy at the first gin man, something called Boe Gin.  "Tea cups"  said the Gin Man.  We looked at him blankly and he explained the tea cups were to taste the gin in!  Gin in tea cups!  We were too delighted, and even more so when he filled our cups with a very strong G&T!  What was not to love!  Though the gin itself was unremarkable. 

We wandered on, still gulping our enormous cup of gin, to the next stand, which bizarrely was a Port stand.  I told the nice lady I didn't like port, but she disagreed and told me I did, and gave us pink port with tonic and strawberries, and white port with elderflower tonic, and tawny port with ice, and I agreed tha' akshly yesh, I liked port ver' mush.

We proceeded, hardly swaying at all, to Edinburgh Gin, where we had Rhubarb and Ginger Gin (too gingery); Elderflower Gin (meh); Raspberry Gin ( we already knew we liked that, as Mrs F and I had drunk a whole bottle a couple of weeks before) and finally their 57% proof Navy Strength Gin, which the man made us drink neat and was horrid and peppery and burnt like fuck.  I did however learn why it is called Navy Strength- because in the olden days, all the spirits given to the sailors had to be over 57%, so even if they spilled it on the gunpowder, the powder would still ignite*.  Oh damn this modern age and those pesky Health and Safety rules...

Next we wandered, possibly weaving slightly, to Strathearn Gin.  They had four gins and a very talkative whippersnapper.  We grew tired of waiting for the whippersnapper to stop chattering and pour us some gin and helped ourselves liberally to his selection, none of which we liked.  When he finally stopped yittering and turned his attention to us, he told us off for tasting them in the wrong order and spoiling our palates. 

We laughed scornfully** and tottered to a very nasty place with a burly bearded man who gave us a revolting gin made from hops.  We initially judged him for refusing our tea cups and dispensing his vile gin in little plastic shot glasses, but once we tasted how unspeakable it was, we were glad of his parsimony.  I have blocked the name of his distillery, I was so distressed by the experience.

At this point, as we squinted into the glasses, wondering if we could just hand it back and say "Yucksville", the husbands found us.  They had been sampling gin in another hall, but as they had decided to shun the tea cups as being a ridiculous foppishness, they had only had tiny taster thimbles of gin, as opposed to our large cupfuls.   However they appeared at a most opportune moment, as we were able to trick them into drinking the rank gin and run away from them again, pausing only to demand cash, in case we found more Lovely Things*** to buy.

And run we did, as fast as our inebriated little legs would carry us, straight into the arms of Rock Rose.  Mmmmmm, Rock Rose.  We liked Rock Rose.  Rock Rose Gin is made by an incredibly handsome young chap, all sort of dark and tousled and Heathcliffy, with big soulful eyes.  He forages the Caithness shores for his botanicals, doubtless striding a moor or two in a distraught fashion if he can't find the right gin making things.  Mrs F and I brandished our tea cups most coquettishly, and batted our eyelashes, while asking as many intelligent sounding questions about gin making as we could think of****, and trying not to giggle to each other like love struck school girls. 

It was unfortunate that the lady on the stand with him was his wife.  She forages too apparently, but I bet she doesn't do it in a dramatically romantic manner.  The wife revelation was rather sobering, and we drained our tea cups and fled, but not before agreeing that the gin was almost as divine as its maker- very light and crisp, with a delicate, floral flavour***** The husbands however, declared it too floral and girly, but then again they disapproved of our shameless flirting almost as much as Mrs Rock Rose.

To the next room, and Brockmans Gin.  Blackberry flavoured, or something.  We didn't feel the love, and he was not handsome and was a bit too Cock-er-ney for our refined tastes.  The husbands liked his gin though, but they were wrong.

The next stall had a most handsome young chappy, but he had a bevvy of women clustered around him; we judged them shameless hussies and did not deign to be in their desperate company and passed on to Burleigh's Gin.  The distiller was not so young, but rather debonair, and he was a jolly decent chap and for form's sake****** we asked him the ver' intelligent gin making questions we had asked hot young Rock Rose.  His gin was fucking divine.  Really, really, really amazingly good.  He had three: London Dry, Export Strength and Distiller's Cut.  They were all smooth, delicious and moreish, even neat, but by far the best one was Distiller's Cut.  It was the only one that was actually nice without tonic, without even a hint of a burn, and it had been made specifically for Martinis, a drink I always thought was a socially acceptable way of saying "I am a raging alcoholic who enjoys necking neat gin".  Made with the Distiller's Cut though, a Martini would actually be rather nice, in a shameless drunkard sort of a way.

Having sampled Burleigh's at length, we noticed the totty on the other stand had been deserted by his trollops and hot footed it over there quick smart, the husbands trailing resignedly in our 57% proof wake.  Pickering's Gin, this was.  Alas, he was yumtious, but his gin was not.  Peppery.  Bleurgh.  He makes it in a converted dog kennel in Edinburgh for some reason. 

At this point, the husbands gave up their attempts to urge restraint or avoidance of sexual harassment charges upon us and left us to our own devices to sample the remaining gins, which were Darnley's View- vile and dispensed by a very bossy and angry lady; and Makar Gin, made in Glasgow's only gin distillery- unspeakably awful, tasted like it had been scooped out the Clyde, though it maybe wasn't necessary for Mrs F to say that quite so loudly in earshot of the distiller.

We took an executive decision to return to Rock Rose, to enjoy both the view and the gin.  Our hopes were raised as we passed Mrs RR, heading away from the hall, and Mrs F shouted "Quick, RUN, she's left him alone."  We dashed to Rock Rose as quick as our gin soaked little legs could carry us, and were just settling in to the eyelash batting routine again, while he, clearly taking us for serious gin afficiondos, droned on about the distilling process, when Mrs RR, clearly having heard our battle cries, reappeared to defend her husband's virtue from the gin soaked Jezebels.  At the same time the husbands appeared and ignoring our demands for more gin, bore us off to dinner.

Dinner, all things considered, was fairly uneventful.  I demanded to take all the leftover steak home for the Terror, and the waitress was slightly nonplussed when Mrs F summonsed her with a demand for limes to take home, as there were none at the farm, but they duly provided us with three.  I'm not entirely sure why we thought it would be a good idea to sing The Hounds of Love (well, I say sing, we just sort of bayed) in the bar afterwards, waiting for the taxi, but the husbands shushed us quickly and only muttered a little about us being 'a bit much'.  We repaired, complete with foraged limes, back to the farm, there to drink more gin and make salacious noises about Rock Rose Boy. 

At some point another taxi came and took the DC and I home.  Most remarkable of all, I wasn't even slightly hungover the next day, which suggests gin is actually a health drink and I should partake of a lot more of it!

*I have carefully retained this useful fact, in I ever find myself on a eighteenth century ship.  I have been reading far too many Outlander books.

** Sniggered pissedly

***Tat

**** -Do you like making gin?
         -Is it hard (snigger)?
         -Can we have your babies?

*****Yes, we could still taste, and no, our opinion was not solely based on lustful thoughts about the distiller.

****** The husbands had caught up with us and we were attempting to pretend we were only interested in gin and were not Whores of Babylon.

Cassandra's Tuppence Worth On Independence or Everyone Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't I?

So apparently, there's some sort of referendum thing happening next week?  Just joking, the news of the vote on Scottish Independence has even penetrated my self absorbed little bubble, mainly by spoiling Facebook because everyone is posting boring political links instead of amusing pictures of cats and Buzzfeed quizzes that may or may not reveal my hidden depths. 

 

So I'll hold my hands up and say straight off: I'm a No vote.  Initially, I was a No vote simply because I don't like change, and also I was very worried there might be no Waitroses in an independent Scotland.  Also, just voting No was much easier than actually having to think about things.

 

But this has been a long and nasty campaign; and one that has forced me to actually do my own research*, and think about what being Scottish, or being British really means to me, and what independence would offer- for me, for my family and friends, and for Scotland and the United Kingdom.

 

I wasn't born in Scotland.  I wasn't even born in the UK.  I only have one British parent and I hold my British nationality through him.  I didn't spend my early years in Britain, but I've lived in Scotland for the best part of 25 years.  I spent most of secondary school in Scotland and I went to a Scottish university.  My children were born here.  I made my husband move here when we got married, because I loved Scotland and this was where I wanted to be, and to bring up my children.  The Scotland that has been poking it's head above the parapet over the last few weeks though, isn't a country I want to be part of.

 

I've always thought of myself as British, rather than Scottish.  Perhaps it's a throwback to living overseas as a child.  Certainly, in those days, it was England we returned to as 'home', not Scotland.  I have one dim and distant memory of visiting Scotland when I was six, for my great grandmother's funeral and recall it as a Narnia-esque world of ice and snow.**   But when we came here to live, in my teens, I found it a generous and welcoming place, despite my posh English accent*** 

 

By and large, it's always been like that.  It's a small place- the population of the whole country is just over half of London's, and wherever you go, there's a good chance you'll meet someone who knows someone who knows someone, or is from the same place.****  It's not all shortbread and tartan love- the sectarianism is a hideous and massive problem and there are areas of dreadful poverty and depravation, as there are everywhere in the UK. 

 

Up until now though, I'd always thought of Scotland as a pretty laid back, tolerant place to live.  Where, apart from the fucking bampots who think football equates to religion and that either of them actually matter, most people were prepared to live and let live, and everyone was pretty chilled.  A country where I can step out my door and take a photo like this:

This Scotland that I know, and have come to love; a country that was reminiscent of a slightly chaotic uncle who was a bit over fond of the sauce and inclined to tactlessness, but was ultimately well meaning*****, seems to have been replaced by another, far nastier entity.  A Scotland that seems a cross between an angry petulant toddler determined to throw all its toys out the pram, and a professional victim who refuses to take any responsibility for its actions because it wants to blame everyone else.

 

I dislike so many things about this campaign.  I am terrified by the Yeses' consistent dismissal of facts and figures as 'scaremongering' or 'bullying'.  I'm not terribly wild about the Nos' lack of passion for their cause.  Signs and banners have been defaced on both sides, which is just childish and petty. 

 

The thing that has angered and upset me most though is the sheer unfairness of it all.  This referendum is not just about Scottish independence.  It's about potentially dismantling the United Kingdom, yet England, Wales and Northern Ireland get no say in the matter.  Allowing sixteen and seventeen  year olds to vote has been decried as a dreadful idea, by both sides, and by those sixteen and seventeen year olds, who find it's causing factions and peer pressure at school. 

 

Worst of all though, is this notion that everything that is wrong with Scotland, is England's fault.  That everything that is wrong in Scotland could be fixed by breaking away from England, because England has been doing its level best to OPPRESS Scotland, for no other reason than because it can. 

 

England is 'The Auld Enemy'.  For most people, for so long, a joking and affectionate insult.  Like calling your skinny sister 'Fatty' or your strawberry blond brother 'Fanta Pants'.  Deeply insulting from anyone else, but from you, when said with love, just a family joke.  But this campaign has changed this.  England now is actually the enemy.  England is the alleged cause of all Scotland's woes.  Even, according to some total and utter fuckwitted fucktards, England is an 'invading, occupying force' in Scotland (the fact Scotland actively sought the Union, so England could bail them out of their financial straits has been somehow overlooked).  Apparently, nothing that is wrong with Scotland, is Scotland's fault.  England did it all.  Scotland wasn't even there; a big lad did it and ran away.

 

As part of this union, Scotland joined an Empire that spanned the world and shaped history.  If it had never become part of the United Kingdom, would Scotland be what it is now?  Would the Clyde have been deepened and widened, so it could become the ship building centre of Britain?  Would Glasgow be the second city of the Empire, if Scotland hadn't been part of the United Kingdom?  Clydeside may be dying, but without the Union, it would never have existed. 

 

A massive selling point of the Yeses, is that in an independent Scotland, we'll have the government we voted for.  Will we?  Given half the country is against independence, how will we all have the government they want,  if the SNP succeed?  The thing about democracy is that there's always someone who doesn't have a government they voted for.  I had thirteen years of it.   It's not that big a deal.  It's certainly not worth destroying Britain for.  

 

There's so many more things  I want to say.  So many points I want to make.  But it comes down to this.  I don't want to live in a country that can't forge independence without taking responsibility for itself.  And I don't want to live in a country that has demanded independence at all costs, because it wants it, like an angry toddler demanding its dummy, and it'll thrweam and thrweam and thrweam until its thick otherwise.  And I most of all don't want to live in a country that can only rally independence votes by insulting its closest neighbours.  I'm happy to be Scottish.  But I'd rather be British.

 

* I read the Facebook links

** And shouting and violence due to my sister locking herself in the bathroom while my parents were at the funeral and the family friend who was looking after us having to break the door down.  Totes Scottish!

*** Still have it.

**** Except Dundee.  Dundee is a bad place.  Don't go to Dundee. 

*****  I may have confused 'Scotland' with Prince Philip.

 



Perth Show

Last week, we went Proper Country!  Mrs Farmer was taking her Lovely Horse to Perth Show and suggested we accompany them. 

Now, I knew Perthshire is fritefly posh and awfully double-barrelled.  I was in halls at university with a boy from Perthshire; the first line of his address that didn't contain a part of his surname was 'Perthshire'.  He was devastatingly handsome, and Maddy and I referred to him as 'Beautiful Charlie.' 

He used to pop by my room late at night, complaining he couldn't sleep, and I would make him camomile tea and we would have deep and meaningful chats.  Until Maddy found out, and put a stop to it, by buying him his own packet of camomile tea and firmly telling him that now he wouldn't have to bother Cassandra any more.  Cow. 

It was probably for the best, my extremely egalitarian father still hasn't forgiven me for the time I brought an Old Etonian home; he insisted on loudly referring to the poor blameless boy as 'The Chinless Wonder'.  He'd have disinherited me if I'd married Proper Poshness.  But then again, I would have had a castle and an Aga, so probably wouldn't have much cared!

I digress!  Back to Perth Show!  I jumped at the idea of mingling with betweeded horsey folk all day, and dashed to TK Maxx to buy a new hamper, deeming my old one too tattered to be worthy of Perth. I packed enough food to feed most of Perthshire; donned the Dubarrys; swathed myself in every pearl I owned, and piled emergency Barbours, children, hampers and The Terror into the Mighty Honda and beetled off up the A9.

Along the way, I passed many signs advertising the horse trials at the end of the summer, at Beautiful Charlie's ancestral pile, and wondered if perhaps our eyes should meet today, across a ringful of prancing horses?  Of course, the fiendish children, the Terror and my wedding ring would rather put a dampener on any Jilly Cooper style frolics.  Then the sat nav beeped a warning of impending speed cameras, and the Beast farted and the Terror bit him, and I wrenched my mind from impure thoughts to concentrate on the road and shouting at the children again.

Arriving at Perth Show was bliss.  Admittedly the hamper was very fucking heavy and we had to carry it for miles, and the Beast moaned and the Terror was actually foaming at the mouth with excitement, but once we located the Farmers and their splendid trailer and stood around beside the horse, being horsey, it was divine! 

Dubarrys and breeches and tweed and girls galloping around on great big horses with their hair in shiny buns as far as the eye could see!  It was just like Riders!  I was almost foaming at the mouth with excitement too! 

Saff put the years and years of riding lessons I have forked out for in the secret hope she will one day marry Poshness to good use, and did horsey things with Mrs Farmer, while I stood a goodly distance away and said helpful things like "Nice horsey" and hoped no one would ask anything equine related of me, at which point I would have to admit I am scared shitless of the big fucking bastards and know nothing about them.

Eventually we had to leave the safety of the trailer and make our way to the ring (eyes peeled for Beautiful Charlie all the while).  Ringside, I forgot all about His Beauteousness, as firstly the horses here were very bloody big and scary and charging around with their enormous sodding great bollocks bouncing in the breeze, towing craggy faced, tweedy women, who were actually laying about them with a whip shouting "Clear the way."  I edged closer to Mr Farmer, whimpering slightly.  He attempted to comfort me by explaining it was a stallion class coming out.  I was not comforted.  Jilly had said nothing on the subject of insane stallions and their uncontrollable bollocks (apart from Rupert, obviously). 

It got worse!  Mr F wandered away to talk to someone, probably about cows, and Mrs F's class was delayed.  She thrust the rope at me and breezily said "Hold her, will you, while I ask the steward what's happening."  Saff, my only hope of salvation, had taken the Terror for a walk in a futile effort to calm him down, and I was alone, holding the Lovely Horse, responsible not only for her, but also for the Beast and Farmer Boy, who were intent on getting kicked by some or other mad horse, and still surrounded by enormous great stallions dashing around like something from the Charge of The Light Brigade.

Wailing to the boys to stop standing behind giant horses, I gingerly patted the Lovely Horse, and mumbled my stock phrase of "Nice horsey, good horsey".  She bit me.  I did not drop the rope, though I considered crying.  She then set off in one direction, while the boys went in another.  I hoped against hope to be rescued, ideally by Beautiful Charlie, but Mr or Mrs Farmer would do.  No rescue, either romantic or prosaic happened.  I tried to pretend I was Tory at the first show, when Jake asks her to hold a horse, and she does it, even though she is scared.  It didn't really help with my two pronged issue of boys heading in one direction and horse heading in another, and all of them ignoring my futile pleas for them to stop and come back.  Finally the fucking horse found its friend, and I pretended we had meant to go over there all along.  Mrs Farmer returned and I flung the rope at her, then nobly volunteered to take the boys round the show to see what there was.

What there was, was mini quad bikes.  It cost me £40 to entertain them there for the next hour, but we were far from the horses, so it was totally worth it.  Hunger drove us back to the trailer, and the vast picnic, where we found a jubilant Mrs Farmer, insisting on pinning a plethora of rosettes about her person.  Mr Farmer made a rude comment about where she should pin them, adding if she could get the ribbons to twirl in different directions, he would be very impressed.  For shame, such smut amidst the tweed!

Picnic over, disaster struck!  I was left in charge of the horse again!  Farmers wandered off to look round the show, and Saff, who had found a horsey friend, volunteered to take the boys off to the amusements again.  NO!  No, don't leave me with that devil beast! 

But I was left.  The Lovely Horse was at least tied up this time, and I stayed well away from its bitey teeth.  I arranged myself elegantly on the ramp of the horsebox, draped my pearls more becomingly, bribed the Terror with sausage rolls and waited for Beautiful Charlie to appear, stop with a start and say "Cassandra?  Is it really you?  My God, you're even lovelier than you were when you were 18!  I've never stopped thinking about you, come away with me now to my enormous great castle and vast acreage and many Agas, I cannot live without you!"  At which point I would tragically renounce him, explaining I must return to my husband and children, and alas, his acres and Agas would have to find someone else.  "Don't be sad Charlie, you must think of me no more.  Find another, Charlie.  Adieu."  Probably.   Or maybe I'd just abandon the horse, who was having a terrifyingly copious piss by now, and the children, and gather up the Terror and ride off into the sunset.  Anyway, Charlie failed to appear and declare himself, so I just dicked about on Facebook till the others returned.

That evening, we were going out in town, to meet friends.  As I handed the DC my empty glass for the umpteenth time, and slurred "Gin me" and he trotted off to the bar, I decided I hadn't done too badly.  I may even have mumbled "I luff you, thingy" as he steadied me to the taxi.

On The Bonny Bonny Banks!

So the original day out, that I had spent two blog posts leading up to, was now so long ago that I can't really remember what happened, except that I burnt the sausages on the retro mini-barbecue and was declared 'A bit much' for hanging bunting around the cove where we had settled for the day.

Instead, we have the joy of today's happy trip- warning:  it has blood; it has mild racism; it has the attempted murder of more ducks.

The summer holidays have been passing in a blur of swim camp, outings, barbecues and general japes and frolics ahoy!  Not all the blur has been caused by Pimms and Sauv Blanc, but a fair amount has.

Today we betook ourselves up to the bonny bonny banks of Loch Lomond (I don't know if we took the High Road or the Low Road, as far as I know, there is only one).

Parking was a joy as ever, with me swearing profusely at the children to "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" and terrorising foreign tourists out of the way in my Mighty Honda, gesticulating rudely and shouting "J'ai un quatre par quatre" at them.  Normally it's only the Great Unwashed and old people I need to terrorise out of the way, but these bloody Games going on in the Big Town have filled the entire country with foreigners who don't understand the Fucking 4x4 rules*- Mad Ann in the Shop confided in me loudly this morning "Between you and me Alice, we've been run off our feet with strangers.  And I mean strange."

Car park subdued to my rule; Mighty Honda abandoned parked under a tree; many hoards of children chivvied to the fucking adorable deserted cove Maddy and I found many years ago; vintage deckchair erected for maximum pretentiousness; sandwiches dispensed; dog lost; dog found; dog lost and found several more times, I settled back to enjoy the sun.  I had even brought a book.  As soon as I opened it, all hell broke loose.

The Beast, who had been wading out towards the island off my Cove, along with Saff and the Hellion, somehow 'bashed his knee on a sharp rock' and started screaming about BLOOD!!!!  I had not anticipated entering the water and was therefore delightfully clad in an array of floaty florals, and had to hurtle from my deckchair and plunge into the water to rescue him. I realised as I tucked my skirt into my knickers that my phone was still in my pocket, so dashed back to shore and threw it at Farmer Boy who had declined to go into the water yet.  I flung myself back in, retucking skirt in knickers,  the fucking piece of shit £1.50 Primark flip flops broke when I attempted to wade in them, and all whilst bellowing at the fucking Terror, who thought it was a super game.

This then was the scene that awaited the jolly French family, who decided to colonise MY FUCKING COVE!  Really, if you need any more proof of Uncle Matthew's conviction that all foreigners are fiends, it is surely that they decided a good place for a picnic would be beside an insane screaming woman, flashing her pants, four vile children and a delinquent dog.

As I patched up the Beast, who continued to scream until I slapped a plaster on and the offending blood was hidden, at which point he was miraculously cured, Saff yelled "Mummy, the Terror has finally learnt to swim."

He had!  I was so proud, he had previously never gone deeper than his ankles, skipping around the shallows like a skittish maiden aunt, but he had finally taken the plunge.  He swims with determination, but little grace, uttering an unattractive snorting noise as he does, which just adds to the theory of dogs being like their owners!

None of this dissuaded the French though, so I must confess we embarked on a ruthless campaign the Duke of Wellington would've been impressed by.  The Terror was a most excellent weapon in our guerrilla warfare, as were the small and unpleasant boys, and even the morose teens.  I commend the French on their staying power in the face of our onslaught, but eventually they broke. 

They withstood the marauding dog and my loud, constant and futile attempts to call the marauding dog back.  They were stoic in the face of the bellowing small boys playing cricket very badly and noisily.  They endured the morose teenagers deciding to join the game of cricket by shouting abuse at the small boys.  But the Terror cracked them in the end.

Obviously disappointed his marauding had not been better appreciated and keen to show off his new found swimming skills, he plunged into the depths of the loch in pursuit of a large duck and her brood of ducklings.  Eventually the angry quacks roused me from my book (I had obviously tuned out the children screaming and shouting about this, as I tune out most of their bloody racket).  Feeling that letting the dog chase her with the ducklings in tow was rather unsporting, I called him off.  Remarkably, he obeyed, which makes me suspect he had literally got himself into deep water and was wondering how to get out of it without losing face. 

This did for the Frenchies, resignedly they packed up their goods and chattels and trudged off.  Le Pere Francais gave a half hearted "Au revoir" as they passed.  Five minutes later, victory secure, we decided we'd had enough and went home too.


*Rule 1- I have a fucking 4x4, so you can all just fuck off out of my way.
  Rule 2- Yes, I am fucking parking here actually.
  Rule 3- Fucking 4x4s only give way to bigger fucking 4x4s.  And tractors.

Japes and Frolics: The Prelude.

Having cleared all the Useful Things out of my car and swapped it with the DC for his sterile Volvo, containing No Useful Things Whatsoever, it was time to get ready for the splendid Outing, with many friends, that had necessitated the Great Car Swap in the first place.

This was the First Official Outing of the Summer Holidays, which meant many things had to be located which had not been seen since last summer, including, but not limited to, sun hats, picnic blankets, fishing rods and nets and my totes fucking adorable hamper.

Much swearing, sweating and stamping around in the attic, a large and cavernous space with only two temperature settings ('colder than a witch's tit' and 'hotter than fucking hell'), finally yielded the picnic blanket, the pink and blue fishing nets (gender stereotyping?  Moi?  Yeah, whatever), and the recollection that the totes fucking adorable hamper's handle had broken at the end of last summer when I violently swung it at the DC in a fit of fury because he had questioned whether I 'really needed' to take it with me on an adventure.  I had shoved it in the attic in the hope that it would magically mend itself over the winter.  It didn't.  You just can't get the fucking elves these days.

Down from the attic I commenced stamping round the garage and shed in search of the many other missing lovelinesses, whilst bellowing at children to locate sun hats; apply sunscreen; stop fighting; leave the dog alone; put pants on; put clean pants on; don't put pants on the bloody dog etc.

With everything finally located and assembled, including charcoal, fire lighters, matches, tongs and the ingredients for a delicious barbecue, I paused, puce and perspiring, beside my giant pile of necessities, to survey my offspring.  The cherubs, whose only task had been to find their hats and put on some sunscreen, and not kill each other.

"Where are your hats?" 

Saff launched into a long and convoluted explanation about why she couldn't wear/ didn't need/ had her human rights breached by a hat, which caused me to lose the will to live half way through and start sobbing in defeat.  I attempted to disguise being bested by Saff, by turning my attentions to the Beast:

"Well, where is your hat?"

"Lost"

I took a deep, calming breath.  I resolved as I took the deep and calming breath that it would not go the way of so many other deep and calming breaths and be used to power an infuriated bellow.

"Darling.  It can't be 'lost'.  Mummy put it in your drawer with the rest of your summer clothes.  Go and look properly."

"Nah.  S'no point.  S'lost."

Deeper breath.  "Darling.  Go and look for your hat right now before Mummy gets cross."

"I told you, it's LOST!"

"GOANDLOOKFORYOURFUCKINGHATRIGHTNOWYOULITTLESHIT!(deep breath)IHAVESPENTALLMORNINGGETTINGALLTHISREADYFORYOUANDALLYOUHADTODOWAS (deep breath) FINDYOURFUCKINGHAT!!"

The Beast looked back at me with an expression of wounded innocence and injustice.
"I have looked Mummy.  I really really have.  But I can't find it.  I think it's been eaten by the Sock Swamp."

Argh.  My heart sank.  My son's natural habitat is best described as 'squalor'.  At the best of times, even the kindest description of his bedroom would include the word 'fetid'; a bubbling morass of Lego, loom bands, dubious pants and solitary socks.

Recently however, a combination of his general foulness and my general indolence have led to a worsening of conditions.  With the whole end of term madness upon me, I was unable to face sifting through the piles of Lego, Pokémon, Moshi Monsters and dirty clothes to bring any sort of order to bear on the room, and he couldn't care less.  Thus, I closed the door and allowed him to go feral behind it. 

The result of this was The Sock Swamp.  Eventually, the room descended into a state even the Beast found slightly daunting.  His solution was not to tidy up however, but to simply declare the further half of the room dead to him, and to kick all unwanted items down to that end and insist he just wasn't going there any more.  This is now The Sock Swamp.  I'm pretty sure there's things growing in there.  I've heard Noises. 

Faced with the choice of a hatless child or investigating the nether depths of The Sock Swamp, it was a no brainer:

"Get in the car darlings!  Who needs hats!"

 

Working At The Carwash.

The holidays loomed.  Seven long weeks to be filled with japes and frolics.  Seven long weeks in which I must resist the urge to beat my children to death with the Complete Famous Five for complaining they are 'bored'.  Seven long weeks to be nagged about going to see 'How To Train A Sodding Dragon 2'.

It could be worse.  I could be my friend Susan, whose car has died an irrevocable death.  Her husband has decided they will buy a brand new one, but this will take weeks to arrive.  Seven weeks actually.  The exact length of the summer holidays.  Bastard.

With her plight in mind, I threw myself upon the mercy of the DC and asked if we could swap cars for a week, so Susan and offspring could accompany us on our japes.  For some reason, my darling husband drives around in solitary splendour in a large, seven seater Volvo 4x4, while I trundle around frantically piling many children and dogs into my Mighty, but only 5 seater, Honda.

The DC graciously consented to this swap, on the grounds I 'clear all that fucking shite' out of the Mighty Honda, and promised not to fill his Monstrous Volvo with equal amounts of shite.

My husband declares himself permanently baffled and appalled by the vast amounts of crap that fill my car.  What he is unable to grasp is that some weeks, his wife, her dog and his children spend an unfeasible amount of time in the car, shuttling between school runs; music lessons; tennis lessons; play dates;  golf lessons; various other extra curricular activities I force them to partake of with one eye ever upon the UCAS form, or whatever they call it these days, and mercy dashes to the vet and Majestic Wine. 

Due to the amount of time we spend in the car, there is a lot of stuff in it.  There are few scenarios to which I could not produce some useful contribution by rifling around for a while in my boot (as long as no one minds a little mould on the useful things).  I'm pretty sure if there was some nightmare apocalypse tomorrow, my children, the dog and I could leap into the Mighty Honda and take off up into the hills and live on the contents for several years. 

The DC on the other hand tries to avoid letting the children in his car; has banned food in the car (if I banned food in my car, we'd all starve), and regularly pays some lovely Polish men to hoover it all out.  He promised if I took all the crap out of my car, he'd pay the Poles to clean it all out too, and make it shiny and nice.

Loath as I was to lose all my 'useful things' out the car, I was starting to suspect he had a point.  The nice Majestic Wine boy had visibly recoiled from the interior when putting my booze in, and a Mystery Smell had appeared, which no amount of Febreeze could shift.  Last time I had a Mystery Smell that bad, I had to write the car off by driving it through a wall to get rid of it.  As that is generally not a recommended method for dealing with stinky cars, I decided I must comply.

Armed with several bin bags, I emptied out my Useful Things.  Amongst other things, I removed:

• An unopened bag of lentils dated 2010.
• A yoga mat, used twice, that I was loath to take out of the car, as it would involve admitting I had failed in my plan to become a serene, thin, yoga person, due to discovering it involved a bit more than lying down and breathing deeply.  As long as the yoga mat remained in the car though, there was a possibility I might go to another yoga class and become that calm and skinny person.
• 17 boxes of raisins, in various states of consumption.
• 14 packets of oatcakes, also as above.
• More evidence of McDonalds Happy Meals than supported my 'only very occasionally' claim.
• An ancient and battered copy of Prince Caspian.
• Seven odd socks, and one matching pair.
• A bag of Thornton's Special Toffee, fused into a single solid lump, and bearing shameful teeth marks suggesting that this had not stopped me trying to eat it.  .
• Various CDs all bearing titles like 'Nineties Hits' and 'Now That's Really Nineties Shite' and 'That's What I Really Call Nineties Shite' etc, all with Richard Marx and Vanilla Ice on them.
• An original iPod Shuffle.
• A 2nd gen iPod Shuffle.
• An actual current iPod Shuffle.
• Four umbrellas.
• Six pairs of pants- assorted owners.
• 27 hair bobbles.
• Too many half drunk bottles of mineral water to count.
• Crisps packets, many and varied.
• A ghost story Saff wrote at primary school (she's in Fourth Year).
• Eleven First Class stamps (result)!
• Five packets of dog treats.
• One almost but not quite empty bottle of Hermes perfume.
• Many petrol receipts, that I immediately put in the fire instead of confronting how much the Mighty Honda's thirsty habits really cost.
• Nine biros (that'll be why I can never find any pens in the house).
• Three packets of cable ties.
• A ball of string.
• Fifteen unopened mini packs of tissues.
• Some apple cores (possibly the source of The Smell).
• Two pairs of impossibly high patent heels, one black, one red.
• Six lip glosses.
• Three tubes of hand cream.
• Hello Kitty and Moshi Monsters plasters.
• Sudocrem (my youngest is EIGHT)!
• A liberal sprinkling of sesame seeds though out, due to making an emergency stop whilst attempting to embrace healthy eating.

The clever Poles did a sterling job though, the Mighty Honda was returned gleaming and pristine, all traces of Mystery Smell eliminated.  I didn't like to confess to the DC that whilst he was away, I had managed to break the seat in his precious car.  So I didn't, and will continue to deny everything if confronted.

Funland- the Finale!

The Very Important Funland Day dawned.  The Very Important Chair had ordered me to attend the Very Important Gala Day and help with the Petting Zoo, to atone for my disgraceful behaviour at the Piss Up.  I agreed, as I knew I was going to be dragged there anyway by small children and if I was helping I could be much more judgemental about how much better it would've been, had I organised it all.

I had not realised this would involve me being forced to cram my considerable norkage into a violent pink polyester t-shirt three sizes too small, but I put it on anyway, as a dear friend was having a bad day and I thought a photo of my comedy tits in a comedy shirt might cheer her up.*

My orders were to arrive early so I could be 'briefed'.  Apparently it was not possible to partake of Funland without a 'briefing'.  Despite arriving early, no briefing was forthcoming, I was just pointed in the direction of the Petting Zoo and told to take the money.

I had envisaged a Petting Zoo as being a collection of fluffy white clouds in a variety of sizes.  Bunnies, and lambikins and miniature goats and other cute baby animals. Maybe some gambolling kittens and other cuddly shit.  I was wrong.

The 'Petting' Zoo consisted of tarantulas and snakes and cockroaches and lizardy things and great big enormous fuck off dragon things.  I recoiled at the entrance and declined the offers to Pet the Zoo.  There was also a duck, but the duck could not be Petted as it was a Vicious Duck.  I assume it was included in the Petting Zoo to attack Bad Children.

I survived the Zoo, without getting bitten by a tarantula or a duck, but was thoroughly savaged by the VIC when I was handing over to the next shift and it turned out I was supposed to charge the parents coming in as well as the children.  My disgrace was now of epic proportions.

Due to the black cloud I was now under, when we came to set up for the dance in the evening, I was only entrusted with putting the posh soap and smelly stuff in the loos.  I also commandeered the keys to the Bog Roll Cupboard, and cunningly hid a private stash to be distributed to chosen friends when the night wore on and the loos were bare.  Then, as I was still deemed incompetent, I went to the kitchen and ate canapés and talked to the sexy chef till it was time to go home and get changed.  The VIC was crosser than ever that she was now hot and sweaty and angry, and I was full of canapés and unchastened by my punishments.

The dance began gloriously.  There were cocktails, and I found room for more canapés.  I insulted the whippersnapper vet by calling him a whippersnapper, in one of those unfortunate scenarios when you only realise that the thing that is funny inside your head, is not funny outside your head, when it is already outside. 

The VIC kept coming and shouting at us to mingle, so we did, we mingled right into a corner with a bottle of whisky we had found.  Then we mingled back out again, and I told some very boring people that they were very boring, so now they will never talk to me again.  Which is good, because I'd been trying to achieve that result through tactful means for years, and actually all I needed to do was drink whisky!

The piper vanished from his piping duties and was found in the broom cupboard with a lady who was not his wife.  We lost the first band for a while as well, a pair of comely young wenches who were finally tracked down also chatting up my sexy chef. 

I think there was an auction.  I'm pretty sure that's why I spent half an hour holding a clipboard in a self important fashion anyway.  It's possible I was just pissed and being a twat. 

I suddenly became very popular around midnight when the bog roll ran out and word got around I had a private supply. 

I lost my shoes.  Several times.  Each time, I found them with joy and declared we would never be parted again. 

The next day it was discovered that after the dance, Youths had come out of their lairs and taken down all the Funland bunting around the village and wrapped it around various parked cars.  Apparently this wasn't funny.  The VIC stamped her tiny feet in Rumpelstilkskin-esque rage and burst into flames.

* Hope you appreciated it darling.

Of Festivals and F*ckings.

 

That afternoon, as the light rain I had predicted began to fall, it was time to set off for the joy that is the local Beer Festival.  Why we insist on going each year, I'm not sure, given I only drink poncy foreign beer in girly sized bottles and the DC only drinks lager.  I think I am under the impression it is a good country thing to do.  I think I am only under that impression because they have some hay bales to sit on. 

 

Nonetheless, nothing daunted, we deposited the Beast with the TQ, ordered the Terror to his basket, pretended we hadn't seen that he had ignored us and set off through the increasingly heavy rain.

 

The Beer Festival was dismal.  There were many men in red trousers.  I hate men in red trousers, they are twats.  There were also an unnecessary amount of bushy beards, and not nearly enough tweed.  I felt extremely smug that I had by far the nicest wet weather clothing, adorable as I was in the Dubes and the Barbour cape (I love my Barbour cape; even though when I proudly showed it to Mrs Farmer, she shuddered and pulled her battered and ancient Barbour round her a little tighter, and sighed at me in resigned disappointment). 

 

Hay bales and looking totes adorable in no way compensated for the beards, the red trousers or the fact I was standing in the rain, in a pub car park, drinking warm, flat cider, when not 100 yards away was a perfectly serviceable tavern, with a roof, and walls, and an inn keeper to whom I could shout "Hendricks and tonic, my good man, ice and cucumber if you would."  However, as you had to pay on your way into the 'Festival' which entitled you to a certain number of quaffs of swill, I persevered, despite being jostled by bearded red trousers, for I am cheap.

 

I was relieved when I had had my quota of flat, warm piss and could repair to the pub for a restorative G&T.  There was only time for one however and then it was time to go home and feed the Terror.  The DC had been given a free pass for the night, as Saff was away on another D of E expedition, and the other mothers were coming round for more margheritas and gossip (they didn't want to play poker for some reason, even when I promised not to compare myself to Victoria Coren Mitchell again).  

 

Terror fed, vats of margheritas made, the other mothers arrived and we politely embarked on the gossip.  Around 8pm, pathetic texts began to arrive from Saff and another feeble child.  They were wet.  They were cold.  They were utterly miserable.  They couldn't light the stove to cook the many noodles she had rejected last time that I had made her pack again.  There was a puddle in the tent.  A terse text enquiring why the fuckety FUCK there was a puddle in the tent revealed they had accidently pitched their tent in a ditch.  At this point we lost all sympathy, turned our phones off and made a conscious decision to get as shit faced as possible so we couldn't go and retrieve them even if we wanted to. 

 

This proved to be an excellent decision as under the influence of a litre and a half of tequila, inhibitions were cast aside and any pretence at being nice, impartial or discreet was abandoned.  Oh deary deary me!  Apparently the whole village is at 'it' ! All shagging each other like bunnies, in between carrying out complex feuds (usually related to the shagging) and shop lifting Prada purses

 

The DC lurched in some point and joined in the gossip with glee, revealing tales of drug dealing and money laundering (while I sat there thinking "Why haven't you told me this before?" and also "We could have stayed in town for drug dealing and money laundering and I could go to Waitrose EVERY SINGLE DAY"), before sliding off his chair and vanishing. 

 

The others stumbled home around 3am.  I followed the snores and found the DC comatose, fully clothed, smack bang in the centre of my bed.  I kicked prodded him a couple of times, to no avail, so I left him to it and retired to the spare room with the Terror, to ruminate on the night's revelations.  The Terror, emulating his hero, the Alpha Dog, also insisted on snoring loudly all night.

 

The next day, despite his hangover, I insisted the DC dug out the remaining pampas grass in the garden, lest any of the village shag monsters got the wrong idea about us.

Funland In The Big Field- part 2

The day after the piss up, hangover biting hard, was the eve of yet another Funland.  This time it was the PTA Fun Day, a misnamed event if ever there was one.  A smaller field was the venue for this fun, which at least meant less chance of the Great Unwashed descending on it.  On the downside, apparently I was supposed to organise it.  I have organised too many of these 'Fun Days' and my enthusiasm for Hook A  Fucking Duck, Hoopla and The Cunting Cake Stall has waned ever more each year. 

This time, the weather forecast threatened a variety of delights, depending on which runes you looked at.   If you went with the prognosis of the Local Character, who puts forth his wisdom via a Facebook page, has no meteorological credentials at all, but whom everyone seems to think infallible, despite his predictions almost always being wrong, then we were in for showers of frogs and plagues of locusts and various other epic torments of a biblical nature. 

If however you looked at one of the many useful apps now available, or indeed simply relied upon the British Broadcasting Corporation's forecast, light rain was predicted, after lunch. 

Despite this, the others of the PTA clung stubbornly to the Great Floods and Pestilence predicted by the Character.  Radar pictures were dismissed as White Man's Magic, for Lo, the Character had spoken. 

Thus it was, that several of them converged on me in the playground on Friday afternoon, wittering about the Bouncy Fucking Castle, and expressing a desire to cancel it.  As I was a) hung-over to fuck, and b) no longer actually gave a shit about the Bouncy Fucking Castle, I declared the Bouncy Fucking Castle Dead To Me and stalked off home to attempt to bake cakes for the Cunting Cake Stall and hope a little G&T eased the terrible pain in my head.

Miraculously revived by the healing powers of gin, I produced many cakes, dug out my special PTA box containing the bunting, the string, the sellotape, the blue tack and the scissors that are invariably needed at every single PTA event and that no one else thinks to bring and that I have written 'CASSANDRA' on in indelible marker so no other fucker can steal them, and had several more gins to get me through the Friday night joy of the DC catching up on his gardening programmes.

The next day dawned, as I had said it would, bright and sunny.  Arriving at the Slightly Smaller Field, I was met by the PTA Deputy Chair, in a mood as thunderous as the storms the Character had predicted, having a proper paddy about the lack of the Bouncy Fucking Castle.  All I need say about the Deputy Chair, to explain his character to you, is that he is an estate agent.  SUCH an estate agent. 

I pointed out that he was one of the wittering bastards who had wanted to cancel it, and if everyone had listened to me then there would still be a Bouncy Castle, but he was not to be placated.  I imagined ramming the 46 plastic yellow ducks for the Hook A Duck up his smarmy estate agent's arsehole and felt a little better.  As he had been such a twat, I put him on the candy floss machine, as it is a bastard of a job, involving getting sugar stuck in places where sugar should not be stuck.  Or yellow plastic ducks.

So there we were, our sullen, resentful little band, the ducks bobbing merrily, awaiting their hooking; the cakes listing to starboard, ready to be purchased for a sum completely out of proportion to their crappy rustic appearance due to being 'homemade'; the coconuts shying and the smell of burning sugar and flesh drifting over it all on a cloud of expletives, as the Deputy Chair burnt himself on the candy floss machine again.

Shortly, many feral fiends arrived to partake in the Fun, by bleeding their parents dry.  At some point the DC arrived and thrust the Beast at me, before setting off to walk the Terror. This meant I was also bled dry, as I thrust pound coins at The Beast and sent him on his way, as I fished another blue and gasping toddler out the Hook a Duck pond, and refused them a prize as falling in and semi drowning was Against The Rules. 

The Fun ended at lunchtime, hurrah, and I dashed home, all bunting, sellotape, blue tack, string and scissors accounted for; realised I had forgotten the Beast, dashed back, scooped him up, bought his silence with a lollipop I found in the glove compartment (best before May 2012) and finally returned home to find the DC looking pale and traumatised and the Terror looking slightly battered but wearing that expression of smug bliss which means some other creature has been brutally dispatched by his bloody paws. 

It turned out to be a weasel.  A fucking weasel.  Unlike the rabbits and pheasants that are his usual prey, the weasel had fought back quite hard.  The poor DC had been in a quandary, wondering which was worse: to attempt to intervene between a small but vicious dog and a weasel trying to kill each other; or to run away and pretend it was nothing to do with him, and then face my wrath when I returned home to find he had abandoned my poor dog to his fate! 

The Terror had solved the problem by ripping the weasel's throat out, and then proudly presenting the limp, twitching remains to the DC, blood dripping from his fangs, and a gaggle of Swedish walkers approaching over the horizon, about to be witness to the carnage.  The DC fled, towing an indignant Terror behind him, livid that his lovely present had been so summarily rejected. 

I was a bit livid too, The Terror has never given me anything he has killed, he keeps them for himself, but he has a bizarre crush on the DC, who he seems to regard as the Alpha Dog.

A Prelude to Funland or Why Cassandra Isn't Invited To Events With Free Bars.

Each year the enclave holds a Gala Day, followed by a dance in the evening.  This is Very Important, and in no way to be compared to Funland, and anyone who doesn't take the Gala Day and the accompanying dance Very Seriously Indeed will be tarred and feathered by the Very Important Gala Day Chairperson and drummed out the Enclave.  There's definitely a Spider Baby at the Gala Day though.

Despite my utter inability to take anything seriously, I signed up to help arrange the dance, mainly because I fucking could and to show all the lazy fucking underachievers of the enclave what one can do if one only puts one's mind to it, like the miserable bitch who recoiled when asked if she'd like to sign up for the PTA and gasped she wouldn't possibly have time, she had two children, you know. 

It turned out to be the most mind numbing tedious thing I had ever done, mainly due to the Very Important Chair, who desired us only to tell her how fabulous she was and express wonder at her exquisite taste, miraculous organisation and how she was practically perfect in every way. 

It wasn't all bad though.  I bonded early on with another committee member who intimated by shared looks and raised eyebrows that she too was failing to take the Very Important Dance as Very Seriously as she should, and we sniggered behind our hands each time the Very Important Chair babbled of  'shabby chick deecor for the marquee' or pronounced 'homage' as 'oomidge'.  Cruel yes, but the meetings were long and dull and we had to make our fun where we could.

After months of biting my tongue and refraining from screaming was it really that fucking important if the table runners were a shade darker than the fucking tickets, our reward came in the form of the Pre Funland Piss Up, aka the 'Corporate Evening' (I don't make the proper fucking names up, ok), where all the sponsors and helpers are entertained by the committee members to a right royal knees up, held at the local distillery.  What I hadn't realised when we were all taken aside by the VIC to make sure we had clean hands and had brushed our hair and be given a little pep talk about how we weren't there to get pissed, was that the distillery were providing all the booze, free, gratis, and unlimited! 

Naughty New Friend and I exchanged yet another look.  Thirty six years upon this earth have not yet taught me to regard a free bar as a pleasant bonus and not a challenge, and I was thrilled to discover she felt the same way.  Also, it seems rude and churlish to say no when there are delightful girls going round with trays of drinks, and it is a hot evening and so your wine is evaporating very quickly and they keep offering to take away your nasty empty glass and give you a lovely full one! 

By the time the VIC made her Very Important Speech, my Naughty New Friend and I were hysterical with our own hilarity and holding each other up as we collapsed with laughter. 

I compounded my disgrace a little later when I was holding forth to various great and good worthies from the local rugby club.  I was vaguely aware that I was possibly being a 'bit much' as I loudly regaled them with some of the filthier jokes I have learned over the years of working in a male dominated industry and having a sick sense of humour, and I incurred the wrath of the VIC who came over and suggested I should 'circulate' instead of 'hogging these chaps' who she 'would chat to now' .  The 'chaps' shouted "No, leave her, she's funny- you circulate." and the VIC, who rather fancies most of the enclave has a sort of head girlish crush on her, circulated off on her heel. 

Sadly, they called time on the free bar, and we had to return to the enclave and its hostelries.  There was some question of how we would make our way back to the enclave, and talk was had of the bus (public transport, quelle horreur).

Naughty New Friend had a better plan.  Dashing out to the side of the road, she flagged down the first car driven by someone who looked vaguely local, hopped in and demanded they took us to the pub.  Basically we car jacked a granny, so great was our horror of public transport.  Bless the granny, she took us, and I shall never curse a Honda Jazz driver again.

The pub was a mistake.  My last clear memory was the VIC watching us drive off with granny, mouth like a cat's bum (thanks again to St Jilly for another splendid phrase).  After that it is a bit hazy.  There was definitely a heated debate about Scottish independence, which I took part in whole heartedly, despite having forgotten all the clever and rational arguments about why it is a bad idea and thus backing up my anti- independence stance by simply shouting "NO, YOU'RE STUPID".  Luckily everyone else was also very drunk and putting forward equally well reasoned and coherent arguments.

The pub ran out of drink, distressingly early given the fun we were having, but far too late given the hangover I had the next day!

I tottered home, to be found by the DC slumped on the front step, searching through my handbag for my key by the light on my phone.  It is definitely the last time he will ever find me in such a state though- I have bought a little motion activated light for my key. 

Funland in The Big Field. Part 1.

Somehow, without me quite noticing, summer suddenly appeared to be in full swing, and with it the merry go round of joy that is the series of events that all fall under the heading of Funland in The Big Field (yes, I bloody love Father Ted, and yes, generally they all feature Freak Pointing in one form or another). 

I was quite annoyed about the unexpected onset of summer as once again I had failed to become magically thin, grow proper nails or arrange a grown up method of removing the full pelt I grow for warmth in the winter months.

 

The opening of Summer is marked by the first and most important Funland in the Big Field, the local agricultural show.  There are tractors and cows and sheeps, and gloriously bejodhpured girls trotting briskly from the pages of a Jilly Cooper.  There is also the hideous corner where they put the gypsies and their amusements (most unJilly like gypsies too), which is all the hateful children are interested in.

 

Mrs Farmer, in a cunning masterstroke, proposed she would take the Beast and Farmer Boy to The Big Field first thing, along with various cows and sheep, and possibly a tractor.  Thus she could show them the many varieties of sheep and cows available, and what larks they would have. 

 

Then later, she suggested sweetly, I could pop along and meet them and perhaps amuse the boys for a while, whilst she did farmery type things.  "What ho!" I thought.  "That seems a good deal, shove a plate of porridge down the Beast at silly o'clock, hand him over and nip back to bed for a couple of hours, before a leisurely afternoon perusing country type things and perhaps purchasing a few adorable tweed items."

 

Mrs Farmer also, for her heart is black as night, remarked I should bring the Terror, for he would have 'such fun'.  Even better, I thought, for the Terror, despite his horrid ways, does accessorise tweed beautifully!

 

Thus it was that I piled Saff and the Terror into my Mighty Honda just before lunch and set off.  About two miles from the Big Field we encountered the enormous traffic jam of plebs attempting to also have Fun.  I texted Mrs Farmer to inform her we would be late, she replied with a blasé "Yes, the sun makes the Great Unwashed come out." 

 

I was distraught!  I did not want Great Unwashed!  I wanted Tilly, and Milly and Clarissa cantering into the ring;  I wanted stout ladies in knickerbockers wielding black labs called Jarspar; I wanted jolly good old sorts balanced on their shooting sticks reminiscing about things they had shot in far flung colonies; I wanted floral blankets and wicker hampers and shady hats; I wanted someone from Merchant Ivory to appear forthwith and seamlessly blend my two visions into one, like they were in my head!!!!!  Merchant Ivory do not do Great Unwashed!  What was I to do?

 

I ploughed on regardless, not least because there was nowhere to turn the Mighty Honda, and also because I felt it was probably bad form to abandon my son to the Great Unwashed.  Once I had finally arrived at the Big Field, I was directed through many and many smaller and smaller fields until a man shouted "Park there".  Back to the Big Field we trudged, past the Clarissas' and Millies' and Tillies' horseboxes, regretting the choice of ballet pumps and thinking longingly of the lovely Dubarries languishing in the porch at home. 

 

Mrs Farmer had sent a confusing text as to their location, ordering me to come hither as she was already doing farmery things.  We walked many miles past stall after stall all selling various varieties of lurid tat.  My antennae were quivering for tweed, but not a hint.  My soul began to die.  Actually it was already dying due to the Unwashed, who were spilling everywhere, shovelling hamburgers into their gobs and towing Pitbulls and Alsatians. 

 

Annoyingly, the Great Unwashed Canines were far better behaved than the Terror, who had worked himself into a state of frothing psychosis with excitement at the many many things to kill.  "Horses!  Dogs!  Fat people!  What to bite first?  Ooh, manky hamburger, gulp!  Sheep!  Big fuck off cow!  I could totally take a big fuck off cow.  SAUSAGEINABUN!!!  YEAH! GULP!!!!" 

 

I finally found Mrs F and the boys, whereupon she revealed her fiendish plan. They were foaming at the mouth with excitement almost as much as the dog, and she remarked they were "keen" to go on the rides- would I mind taking them, while she farmered it up?   

                                                                                             

Feeling some small consolation that she had admitted she was on the verge of heat stroke in her Dubes and had expressed envy for my ballet pumps, I set off for Gypsyland.  It was hell.  Loud.  Awful.  Unwashed upon Unwashed.  Gypsies.  Rampaging children.  The one highlight was when a stupid Unwashed with a Chihuahua on a string fell upon the Terror, cooing "What a cute doggie."  My darling Terror fell upon the Chihuahua and almost swallowed it whole.  She beat a hasty retreat clutching her nasty rat and shouting "Devil dog!"  Hell, yes. The Terror does not take kindly to being called 'cute'. 

 

The best part of £30 later, the boys finally declared they felt nauseous enough to leave.  Oh the joy with which I fled Gypsyland!  Returning to the ring, where some very large cows were parading, we rejoined Mrs Farmer, now a lurid shade of puce, but clinging to the Dubes and her tweed like a trooper.  As we slumped to watch the parading cows, a hearty gent approached the boys.  "Hello chaps!  Picking up tips?  Now remember what I told you earlier!" 

 

"Who the fuck is that?"  I asked Mrs F.

 

"Errrr.  The vet."

 

"What vet?  Not from our vets?"

 

"Yeeeessss.  He's the head vet."

"I've never seen him, I've only seen whippersnappers and been charged a King's ransom for the privilege.  £5 to ADMINISTER an injection!  As well as a consultation fee, and the cost of the drugs!!!   Plus VAT"  I was just getting on a roll when I remembered how we got onto the subject.

 

"How does he know the boys anyway?"

 

"Weeeeeell, I had to go do farmery things, while you were in the traffic jam with the Unwashed.  So I left them with the vet."

 

"You did what!  What were you thinking?  He'll bloody bill for that"

 

"I know.  He'll probably actually bill us both."

 

To add insult to injury, I then received a text from a friend offering access to the Sponsors Tent and unlimited Pimms.  How I cursed the Mighty Honda.  I could bear it no more, I gathered the boys and the Terror, remembered to locate Saff along the way and fled home for gin

A Local Shop For Local People

Yesterday the sun shone.  And I had to go to the supermarket.  I had to go to the supermarket rather than the Local Shop, because we had no lavatory paper, due to the DC being at home for a few days, and no gin, due to a visit from the Farmers. 

Although the Local Shop sells both these items, due to the idiosyncrasies of their 'colourful' staff, I cannot purchase either of these things in there.

I can't buy loo roll, because the assistant known as Mad Ann became convinced many years ago that I am someone called Alice, who has terrible problems with my 'waterworks' as she calls them.  So every time I enter the shop when Ann is there I am greeted loudly as 'Alice' before being quizzed at length as to the state of my waterworks today.  Any attempts to deny that I have a problem 'down there' (her other discreet euphemism, to be bellowed at the top of her voice, and accompanied by a knowing nod towards the afflicted area), are met with a sigh of "You're so brave, Alice dear." 

To buy bog roll from Ann would be to endure an even more detailed barrage of questions about the waterworks.  I can, however, buy gin from Ann, who hands it over with a sympathetic pat of the hand, clearly believing it is medicinal. 

Somewhere out there, is a woman called Alice with troublesome waterworks who is probably quite relieved now just to be known as Cassandra the borderline alcoholic. 

So if Ann is on, I can buy gin but not lavatory paper.  If however, it is another assistant, the one we call Giant Boy, I can buy loo roll unremarked, but any attempt to purchase alcohol is met with a salacious wink and a lascivious remark of "Looks like you're planning a good night, what time shall I pop round eh?" 

Knowing he says this to every female customer who crosses his path, in no way make this less creepy, or makes me less inclined to shout "NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER!!!!"  and go home and scrub myself with Dettol.

I can buy nothing from the third assistant, the unimaginatively named 'Tiny Boy' as he seems to have had an traumatic experience with every item in the shop, which he will insist on recounting to you.  Even buying a tin of Green Giant sweetcorn from him almost reduced him to tears, as he informed me "My mum said if I ate that, I'd grow up big and strong.  I didn't" 
I can't even begin to imagine what tales he could tell about gin and bog roll. 

So rather than planning multiple visits at various times of day to complete my purchases unremarked, I trundled my 4x4 supermarket-wards.  As I mentioned the sun was shining, and I had forgotten that Town people react to this differently to Country people, even those only affecting to be Country. 

In the Country, we swathe ourselves year round in many layers of tweed.  Our boots are plentiful and not cast aside lightly.  Perhaps after a week or two of a heat wave, we may remove the outer layers of tweed, and possibly tentatively swap the knee boots for an ankle boot.  If we feel very daring, we may eventually go bootless altogether and brave an adorable ballet pump.  Finally, we may strip off as far as our shirtsleeves.  But no more.  More than that would be madness.  Madness.

In the towns though, they have no such decorum.  At the first hint of sunshine, it appears everyone must strip down to their knickers, regardless of their girth, and parade around shamelessly.   Acres upon acres of wobbling flesh were flopping around the aisles of Tesco in varying alarming hues, from an icy blue white that would better suit a cadaver, through various shades of Oompa Loompa orange, and somehow, given the sun had only been out for around 45 minutes, that glorious lobster red glow, better known as 'The Briton Abroad'. 

When you factored in the array of really bad tattoos; the strange notion some people have that the sun coming out means they can fit into clothes three sizes smaller than normal, and some ladies' habit of casting aside their sturdy undergarments and going au naturel, 'White Dee' style and it was too much to bear. 

I abandoned the trolley, and fled to Majestic Wine, where there is a nice boy who knows my name is Cassandra, has never asked me personal questions about my lavatory habits or made inappropriate advances (I wouldn't mind actually) AND he carries my booze to the car for me.

I came home with  two bottles of gin, a litre of Pimms and a case of wine, but no loo paper.  They will just have to shit in the woods or something. 

Cassandra and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (with apologies to Judith Viorst for shamelessly nicking the best title of anything ever)

 

I woke up at 3 am on Tuesday morning, with a throat that felt like I had swallowed razor wire.  I realised immediately that I should have recognised the warning signs that I was sickening for something, because I made myself a jug of Pimms on Monday evening and then thought "I don't really want that."  I always want Pimms.

I took some of the emergency hangover Nurofen from my bedside table, kicked the Terror until he shifted across the bed enough that I could semi stretch out and whimpered pathetically to myself as I went back to sleep.  When I woke up again at stupid o'clock first school run time, I longed desperately to roll over and sleep some more, before waking up to find a cool hand soothing my fevered brow and a cup of beef tea being proffered (I'm not sure what beef tea is, something disgusting and Bovrilish I suspect, but it is always given to invalids in the Victorian children's novels from which my entire medical knowledge is gleaned).  Perhaps Cousin Helen would appear to offer wise words on how to be a proper invalid. 

Alas, it was not to be, I had to drag myself from my pit and feed and transport many hulking beasts around the place.  My feeble coughing and croaking went resolutely unnoticed, except by the Terror, who sensing my pain, instead of bouncing out of bed and tearing round the garden, decided to loll decadently in the warm and cosy bed I had been forced to vacate, to really rub salt in the wound.

All vile hell fiends finally dispatched to various schools, with various complaints and whinings along the way (including demands as to whether it was 'the right sort of ham' in the packed lunch sandwiches- WTF is 'the right sort of ham', it's fucking ham, it used to be Peppa Pig and now it's been brutally slaughtered and processed and shoved between two slices of plastic white bread because that's all my darling children will eat, regardless of the judging from the school.  At least its not fucking Nutella.  Apparently if any parents even PAUSE in the Nutella aisle in the supermarket, whole swathes of the school will immediately fall down dead, thus Nutella is deemed more of a threat to the school than crack cocaine and it is Not Allowed.  We receive several hysterical communications a year reminding us to be ever vigilant against the creeping menace of that evil chocolatey hazelnut gloop, which frankly just make me want to give them a big fat Nutella sandwich and say "get a grip".  Smug Blonde Mummy still has not lived down the shame of giving her child a snack bag of dried fruit and nuts after school, while they were still in the playground, which meant she had Brought Nuts Onto School Premises.  She was immediately put in the stocks and had organic carrots sticks and humous thrown at her till she mended her evil nutty ways.  I digress) I attempted to crawl back to bed.  However, the Terror, having enjoyed a delicious long lie, snuggled in my fucking goose down duvet, on my fucking Egyptian cotton sheets, was feeling refreshed and revived and in need of fresh air. 

Thus, since when the Terror decides he wants a walk, he does not take no for an answer, I tottered from my sick bed, and shuffled forth.  Now, we are either very lucky or very unlucky to have a section of some sort of path called the West Highland Way running close to the house.  Apparently it is very long.  It is lucky in the sense that our section (as I like to think of it) is fenced off from all the fields, and thus there is no livestock for the Terror to attack.  It is unlucky because it is frequented by large flocks of Germans in lurid  Goretex and sensible shoes, and the Terror doesn't like Germans.  OK, he doesn't like anyone who gets in his way, but its mainly Germans who do this. 

As I was unable to face wrestling with his bloody minded fangs in the woods or on the hill, I trudged along the WHW instead.  Within five minutes we came upon the first pair of sturdy Germans.  There was, as always, more man made fibres than should be allowed, and the shoes were of epic stoutness.  They were also walking jolly slowly, two abreast on a narrow path, and they were not narrow of girth, thus I could not pass. 

The Terror has a morbid fear of being trapped behind other people, or dogs, I think it offends his belief that he is the Alpha Dog of the Known Universe; thus I politely said "Excuse me".  They ignored me.  I loudly said "Excuse me."  They ignored me.  I rudely shouted "Can you get out of my way please".  Still they plodded along, as if I was not there.  Finally I gave up my attempts to contain the Terror, and allowed him to snap at their hulking heels.  They turned around and glared, but STILL wouldn't get out of the way. 

Eventually, I had to employ my solitary phrase of German.  It is an excellent and useful phrase and I have never ever encountered a situation where it has not worked.  From path blocking walkers, to the irate German lady in Madeira who mistook me for a member of the hotel staff and kept shouting something at me, it has always had the desired effect.  Thus I bellowed "Ich aber durchfall!"* and they stopped and looked around in horror before hastily ushering me past.  Result!  Who needs to learn a whole language when one useful phrase covers all eventualities?

Once home, I shut the Terror in the house and went off to meet another mother about Saff's joint birthday party.  We attempted to formulate a plan where we could stop them all (except sensible Saff) getting trollied.  We concluded we probably couldn't, but we did wonder if we could keep Charlotte Baxter's Pimms if we confiscated it. 

Returning, planning an epic afternoon of self pity and woe, and Lemsip, as Cousin Helen and her beef tea had failed to materialise to offer me insights on how to be a lovable invalid, instead I found the Terror had decided to empty the bin and shred the contents.  Bastarding bastarding bastarding dog. 

By the time I cleared that up, it was time to collect the Beast from school, so off I shuffled yet again, only to find that the fucking dog had removed the new bin bag and shredded it too.  I thought dark thoughts about fur lined mittens, as I glared at him hard.

That night, I had to take Saff to the orthodontist.  The orthodontist is also a mixed blessing, as Saff's Bugs Bunny teeth mean the NHS is fixing them, so I get to feel quite smug about the many many many thousands of pounds we are saving.  On the other hand, as the NHS is fixing them, I have to drive her many many  many miles, through bleak Soviet style post industrial wastelands to the NHS hospital to have her braces tweaked. 

I cope with this by locking the doors, and shuddering a lot and singing RA-RA-RASPUTIN loudly to ward off the horror (I don't know why Rasputin, it just seemed to sum up the Sovietness of it all; also it is the only vaguely Russian song I know). 

As I feared what fresh hell the Terror would unleash in my absence, I loaded him into the car along with the Beast and Saff, and we made our long trek across the Urals to the hospital.  Once there, I realised that actually I couldn't take him in, and I was afraid to leave him in the car in case a) he ate it or b) he was stolen by one of the gangs of marauding gypsy peasants I am convinced roam everywhere outside my nice middle class faux country enclave.  Thus I sent Saff in alone, hoping she would not be sold into white slavery in the process, and stayed in the car with the Beast and the dog. 

This proved to be a poor decision, as the Terror's bin raking had led to him consuming something that had turned his arse septic, and the subsequent wind was unspeakable.  The Beast always has unspeakable wind anyway, and was put out by the challenge from the dog, leading to such pleasant remarks as "Can you tell that was one of mine?  Mine are more cabbagey, his are more meaty".  I couldn't even put the windows down because of the likelihood of gypsy peasant hordes! 

When we finally returned home, wine seemed to be the only answer.  I crawled feebly to the wine rack only to find there were no screw cap bottles.  To wield a cork screw was beyond my strength by now.  I collapsed in despair on the floor in front of the wine rack, so near, yet so far. 

Saff found me there, sobbing weakly and conceded to open a bottle for me, as I was ill.  I think she was slightly less sympathetic when it turned out I still had the strength to croak "Not that nasty one the neighbours gave us darling, open Mummy some nice Rioja."

*"I have diarrhoea."

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