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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
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."
Should we be concerned about the lost Part 2 of the lost weekend?!
ReplyDeleteIt got too lost! And I realised Part 2 was only a very dull description of a very dull party and a long and bitter list of people I dislike!
ReplyDelete