Know when to walk away, know when to run...

The Duke of Edinburgh dramas did not end with the shitey noodles travails.  Having visited Cotswolds Outdoors for last minute kit (I wafted to the checkout in my impractical silk frock and handed the man a list, explaining that "I do not do Outdoors, I don't know what any of these things are; please fetch them for me, or else I shall cry bitterly"), and of course endured the Tesco Noodle Hell, I could stand it no longer, and handed all responsibility for the expedition over to the DC.

Thus it was that at 8.45pm on Friday, Saff was discovered to have lost her sleeping bag.  There was much shouting and clambering up and down to the attic, but I was most of the way down a bottle of red and attempting to watch the last instalment of Jamaica Inn, and being very glad the poor sound quality meant I had to turn it up very fucking loud indeed and so drowned out the stamping and banging.

All enquiries and interrogations about "Have you seen my..." or "Where is the..." were simply met by the answer "I bought noodles" and another glass of wine.  Eventually I felt a bit bad and lurched through to demand if she had packed all the noodles.  Discovering many noodles had been jettisoned, I returned to my wine in a fit of pique.

There was little drama the next morning apart from Saff refusing to have porridge because the DC had told her it would make her need a shit, so she had poached eggs instead (very binding).

Apart from the boiler deciding to break down, the rest of the day was also uneventful, until I decided to apply my super fast acting fake tan before going out for a night of margheritas and poker with some of the other parents from the expedition.  Initially I had a lovely glow, but due to the broken boiler I attempted to remove the tan with a damp flannel which didn't really work, so by the time I arrived for the margheritas my ankles were day glo orange (well, my whole legs were, but only my ankles were on display).

There were six of us there to play poker, a notion we quickly abandoned, though not because I am actually a) quite good at poker and b) unbearably smug when I win at anything.  I hardly crowed over my huge pile of chips at all, and I wasn't patronising in the slightest when I tossed some of my winnings to others less fortunate, and I didn't say "I am practically Victoria Coren Mitchell" more than 8 or 10 times.

Poker over (because I won. I won, I FUCKING WON IT ALL), talk turned, as it ever does when six middle class women who don't know each other terribly well get together, to schools.  Three of us have our precious angels at the Posh School, and the other three have opted for the local state school.  The three Posh School mummies' eyes grew wider and wider as we huddled together in horror at the tales of the 'local' school.  I'm pretty sure the margherita jug was wrested from me in time and I only shouted 'knife addled rape academy' in my head. 

I mean, I know there's smoking and drinking and sex and drugs at the Posh School, but its all on a much nicer scale.  After all, Duty Free Gauloises bought on the way back from skiing are hardly the same as Mayfairs and when Charlotte Baxter had to have her stomach pumped last year after drinking a whole litre of Pimms at a party on a private island, it just was all quite jolly really! 

The next day Saffy tottered home, still bearing many packets of noodles.  I was incredibly proud when she told me that she had been so feeble that the rest of her group ended up carrying her bag for her in an effort to make her walk faster.  That's my girl.

The Smiting of Cassandra

So, the good news for religious types, is that all the evidence since my last post, appealing to the Almighty, points to the suggestion that there is a God.  The bad news is that clearly the smug omnipotent bastard hates me.  Therefore I am choosing to continue to deny his existence till he deigns to do something nice for me.  Until such time, I declare him to simply be an nasty imaginary cunt.

The smitings and woe began apace this morning.  After the severe judging when Saff somehow forgot to collect the Beast the other day, I thought I had better show willing and take the Beast all the way to the school gate, instead of leaving him at the end of the road and skipping to the shop to buy pain au chocolats to take home and eat all by myself in blissful silence. 

So I brushed my hair, and even removed the worst of the previous day's eyeliner, and we set off, the Beast, the Terror and I.  All went so well, no wildlife appeared for the Terror to kill, the Beast successfully avoided falling in mud, we were positively fucking wholesome, I toyed with skipping!  That was my first smite, lulling me into a false sense of security.

As we neared the school, and more parents and moppets appeared, and I called out cheery greetings, the Terror began to get a certain look in his eye.  I should know that look by now, that says "I'm bored, and I shall entertain myself by embarrassing you as much as possible."  The Beast gets it too.  He struck approximately 25 yards from the school gate, suddenly squatting, and producing a large turd by sheer will power, as everyone looked on aghast. 

Having scooped his offering, still shame faced and muttering dark curses at the Terror, we progressed to the gate, where the new headmistress was standing, graciously welcoming parents and children. 
"Oh, Cassandra" shrieked Smug Blonde Mummy "Have you met the new Head?  Mrs Smellie, this is Cassandra, the Chair of the PTA."
I was forced into doing my 'proper person's' face and rigid smile, making polite small talk, while clutching my little sack of shit (the poo bag, not my son)
"So, are you enjoying your new job?  How are you finding the school?"  when I realised she was staring down in horror.

Following her gaze, I encountered the Terror, eyes closed in ecstasy, humping her American Tan clad leg in bliss. What made this so much worse is he is not a humper!  He never humps!  He's even had his bits off!  The humping was a cynically calculated move by the little bastard to humiliate me yet further.  Being British, I of course made no reference to the humping, but simply gave a brisk "Lovely to meet you, must be off." 

Next up, I had to brave the supermarket, to buy supplies for Saff's upcoming Duke of Edinburgh expedition.  For once I was glad we do not have a Waitrose within striking distance and was happy to slum it in Tesco, for I could not buy such shameful things in lovely Waitrose.  I had been issued a list consisting of things like 'Pot Noodles', 'Instant Porridge', 'Super Noodles' and 'Jelly Babies'.  The only thing on that list I recognised was Jelly Babies. 

Arriving at Tesco, I realised the only thing I could find was Jelly Babies, and also I had made the school girl error of coming on Pension Day, when the aisles are crowded with ancient crones, hell bent on deriving maximum entertainment from squandering their gin allowance, by spending the afternoon wantonly impeding other shoppers. 

Having found the Jelly Babies, I set off in search of the Shitey Noodle Aisle, and found it nowhere.  After ramming the 17th pensioner to get in my way, I gave up and tearfully ate the Jelly Babies.  This gave me a renewed sense of purpose, as I could return to the aisles I knew and fetch more Jelly Babies.  I got extra bags this time, as I knew I was in for the long haul and would need to keep my strength up. 

Several hours later, by now haggard and desperate and twitching with Jelly Baby overdose, the aged ones strewn in my sugar crazed wake, I located Shitey Noodle Aisle.  And who knew there were so many shitey noodles in the world to choose from?  Panicking, lest I bought the wrong shitey noodles and was sent back to try and locate Shitey Noodle Aisle again, I flung every variety of noodle I could find into the trolley, to nestle amidst the empty Jelly Baby bags. 

From Shitey Noodle Aisle, I blasted straight to the checkout, where I unloaded my trolley full of crap, surveyed the conveyor belt and realised it looked just too too Jeremy Kyle, and thus felt obliged to explain to the cashier about my daughter and her D of E expedition, and noodles are very light and actually they usually totes get their five portions and... and... and ...and... as I was smacked off my tits on Jelly Babies, all she probably hear was high pitched shrieks only the dolphins could comprehend.

At this point the conveyer belt decided to break, and a second staff member had to be summonsed to manually shove the industrial quantities of noodles along, who also had to be given the lengthy speech about how I'm really very middleclass and I can totally explain the noodles.

After school, some far flung friends popped in for a cup of tea on their way home from the frozen North.  The last time we saw these friends, the Terror killed one of their aged, disabled cats.  The Beast insisted on repeatedly asking how many cats they had now and saying "I'm sure you had more than that, didn't you have one with 3 legs?"   Oh, if only it was socially acceptable outside of Jeremy Kyle circles to shout "SHUT THE FUCK UP" at your offspring.

Finally, the DC desired a barbecue for dinner.  Just as he lit it, it began to rain.  Fucking Almighty. 

 

Say A Little Prayer For Me.

Dear God Most Holy, Highest of High etc,

I know I may have frequently declared that you do not exist; decried your more fervent followers as brain washed fools unable to think for themselves, and even your more moderate believers as gullible, whilst invariably getting 'atheist' on Buzzfeed quizzes about religion, but frankly, since the GP won't give me any more Valium, I have nowhere else to turn, oh Lord.  I do know most of the words to 'Oh Jesus I Have Promised' though, and I sometimes went to Sunday School, when they had good biscuits.

Dear kind lovely God, even though I don't believe in you, please give me the strength not to sell my children to the gypsies or to sell myself to the gypsies to get away from them.  I'm sure you will understand my plight, as you thyself got so fed up with Thine Only Son thy had him bumped off; luckily for thee what with the omnipotence and everything thy were able to raise him from the dead when you felt a bit bad about being such a sod, and even pretend it was all done for the good of humanity.  Lacking the whole 'rejuvenating corpses' ability as I do though, perhaps you can help instead.

It has been a long Easter holidays m'lord, some of the responsibility for which you have to take, on account of the whole son-killing/ public holiday scenario.  I have tried to be patient and kind, I really really fucking have, but oh dear god, those fucking children!  I have presented japes and frolics and fun; there have been boats and castles; picnics and chips.  I have, though I so say so myself, been pretty fucking amazing. 

Throughout the joy and delights I have offered up to them, there has been a general sullenness; a discontented undertow of grumblings about wanting to go to soft play (the work of Beelzebub, I imagine) or the cinema, or, (oh the shame) 'Nandos' (perhaps merely the creation of a lesser demon).

Today, oh happy happy joy joy, The Beast returned to his common people's local school.  Saff however had an extra days holiday from her vastly expensive posh school that I pretend I send her to because the exam results are so much better, and not because I couldn't bear the thought of her befriending people whose greatest ambition in life was to become a hairdresser (oh and while we're on the subject of school fees, if you could see thine way clear to smiting any elderly relatives who've mentioned me in their wills, I would be most awfully grateful). 

I thought everything would get better once normal service had resumed, and so flushed with joy, I had invited some friends for lunch, a meal Saff insisted on joining us for, sitting glowering, removing our ability to talk about willies and worse, eating all the bloody baked Camembert!  After the friends had left, the Terror was in need of a walk, and I suggested how helpful it would be to Mummy if she could take him for a quick walk and collect the Beast from school at the same time. 

She huffed and she puffed and she eventually got her fucking boots on and trudged off, at 2.55pm, to make a journey that should take no more than 10 minutes.  When she finally returned with a hysterical Beast, it transpired she had not arrived till 3.25pm, by which time he had wandered to the end of the road and had decided Mummy was dead and he would be sent to an orphanage.  And of course all the other parents saw this and did some supreme judging and probably thought I was just drunk again, which is really unfair because for once I wasn't. 

The reason Saff gave for the delay was apparently that the Terror stopped for a crap.  Add to this a lengthy argument with the Beast about why he needs a bath ('Because you have rolled in mud.  Even the fucking dog doesn't do that'); why Saff  must do her flute practise ('Because you need to improve so I can boast about you, everyone needs a dream'); why either of them ever need to eat any vegetables ('FINE!  Get scurvy. See if I fucking care') and why they must not let the Terror kill cats ('FFS, people might see'), in addition to a lecture about the fact I said the 'S' word ('Yes I fucking well said shit darling, and I don't fucking care, so there'), I am just a tiny bit broken now and in need of some divine intervention. 

So if there's anything you can do oh Lord, I would appreciate it, and please don't forget about the smiting of rich and aged relatives.

Yours truly,

Casssandra

PS- Amen and all that

Cassandra is the best stripper in town (to the tune of Patricia the Stripper)

The day after our island adventures, the Terror awoke unable to open one eye properly.  I waited till ½ an hour after the vets had opened (so as not to appear totally neurotic) before rushing him up there, attempting not to sob ‘MY BABY!!!  MY BABY IS BROKEN!  FIX HIM!

The lovely lady vet (who is of a proper age to be a vet and know things and be responsible; the other vet is nowt but a whippersnapper and should still be in short trousers in my opinion) poked and prodded at him; put some nuclear green goo in his eye which seeped down his whiskers and came out of his nose, giving him the appearance of a zombie alien dog; peered in his eye and declared him to have scratched the cornea, probably on a thorn on one of his psychopath sprees through the undergrowth.

She filled him full of penicillin and painkillers; instructed me to ‘keep him quiet’ while I gaped at her dumbfounded, and charged me £88 for the privilege on the way out, while the Terrror attempted to eat an old lady’s pet bunnikins in the waiting room (it probably didn’t actually die of the fright, and even if it did, I’m sure the vets could revive it, for a price).

Once home, Bunnygate turned out to be the Terror’s last hurrah for that day, as whatever the vet had given him knocked him out and made him a docile and biddable dog (ie normal).  I took advantage of his semi rohypnoled state to try and strip his coat. 

For those who haven’t enjoyed such delights, I only discovered after the Terror took possession of us that you are not supposed to clip Border Terriers, as this is very bad for them.  This is also very bad for you, because if you do clip them, whiskery old ladies with their own Border Terriers in tow will pursue you down the street, berating you for your filthy clipping ways. 

Instead, you have to strip them.  This basically involves spending several hours sitting pulling all the dead hair out of their coat (nice)!  If you do this, this whiskery old ladies will still pursue you down the street , but with marginally more approval, to demand terrifying questions of you such as “Do you strip yourself” and volunteering such mind boggling nuggets as “I’ve been stripping for 40 years y’know”.  All you can think is “Please, old whiskery lady in your tweed skirt and sturdy brogues, STOP talking about your passion for stripping, it sounds so wrong!”

Even once you have agreed to embark on a lifetime of stripping (turns out jokes about nipple tassles go down extremely badly), you still have a minefield to negotiate.  For example, if you get the eyebrows wrong, your Border Terrier could look like a miniature Schnauzer!!!!!!  Oh the humanity.  Apparently, if you make your terrier look like a Schnauzer, terrible things could happen!   Plagues of locusts and boiling seas and Four Horsemen type horrors.  It is a great responsibility to have the Apocalypse hanging upon your dog’s eyebrows!

I am not very good at the whole eyebrows and face thing, not least because even in a semi comatose state the Terror tends to bite when I try to do them, so I spend a lot of time hiding from the upstanding Border Terrier owners with their correct eyebrows, lest they realise it was me who brought about the end of the world.

At the end of the afternoon’s stripping (“With a swing of her hips, she started to strip...) I was left with a large pile of greyish fur on the floor.  The Beast wandered in and looked at it. 
“It looks like Grandma’s hair” he said.  “Let’s make her a wig out of it.”