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.