The Angel of Death
One of the things I’m thinking about as I pack the last of my kids off into the school system is that it’s end of the baby era for us.
Meester and I are closed for business on the baby front and the Flying Martinis are a permanently fixed and complete unit.
One of the more positive knock-on effects of this decision is that we will no longer have to endure visits from our Child Health Visitor, known to us as, The Angel of Death.
The Angel of Death has no kids herself, but knows everything about bringing up a kid since she learned it at college. Apparently.
She manages to do her job despite the fact that all children and their parents are visibly terrified of her.
She is broad country Aberdeenshire farming stock and looks like a big knitted bag that is filled with runny porridge. She has unrestrained, unsupported, massive, pendulous breasts that end somewhere around her waist. The upper front part of her body is not so much a décolletage as flesh-mountain landslide. It’s truly remarkable and may be visible on Google Earth.
Whatever the weather, she always wears jumpers, with a pattern that looks like the vomit you see on a Sunday morning beside a lamp-post outside the pub. She must knit them herself as I have never seen the like on sale in a shop anywhere.
Moving past the jumper area and up to her head, she has a haircut like a bloke, a bit like Roy Castle’s before the chemo. She wears those horrible Reactolite tinted specs. You know the sort; they instantly make someone look sinister. The more light there is the darker they go. They lack the coolness factor of sunglasses and retain all the geekiness of wire-rimmed specs with an ever changing gradient of brown insipid tint. My gran also has a pair and they make her look like Dr Strangelove.
There’s a whole catalogue of incidents with the Angel of Death, but I think our first meeting gives the most succinct impression of her. It’s the occasion of Indy’s 2nd birthday and hence his 2 year developmental assessment. We’ve just moved into the area and have not met the Angel of Death in the flesh yet. Of course, being as it is the day after Indy’s birthday, I have forgotten that she is scheduled to come round.
At that point, I was the only one of my friends to have a kid, so Indy’s birthday party had consisted of our friends coming round for a barbecue, getting pissed and watching the wee fella do cute things for our entertainment.
So at 10am Indy and I are sitting in the debris of all yesterday’s parties eating leftover birthday cake for breakfast in our jammies watching Clifford the Big Red Dog on telly, with me nursing a slight headache and all the barbecue dishes still in evidence.
I spot the not inconsiderable frame of the Angel of Death lurching past my living room window. It’s too late to do anything about the situation. Hiding is futile as she has already glanced through the window giving me quite a start. And as it’s particularly sunny, being May, the Reactolites are in sociopathic full tilt tint.
I have to let her in. Stopping her from entering would look even worse.
Once in, she starts to “assess” my boy, whilst no doubt making a mental note to contact social services as soon as she leaves.
Her assessment is frankly odd. For one she does not speak directly to me when Indy is in the room, she talks through Indy like he’s some kind of parent medium. She also shouts at Indy the way that ignorant people shout at deaf people or foreigners.
“SO HAS MUM STARTED TOILET TRAINING YET?”
“SO IS MUM THINKING ABOUT ENROLLING YOU IN PLAYGROUP?
I have done none of these things. A cross is indelibly marked somewhere on an official sheet as my failings as a parent are recorded forever.
The most hilarious thing about her is her accent; it’s not just broad Aberdeenshire, which is impenetrable enough. No, the Angel of Death appears to have her own language.
“Aye jist wait, we’ll hae Thunner and Lichhtnin‘” she says by way of small talk about the weather as she arrives.
Lichhtnin‘? How does one get from light to liccchhht via making the sound of a cat bringing up a hairball? This is taking Scottishness too far.
I wonder if she wears tichhts on her legs.
If she goes on holiday, does she go to the Isle of Wicchhht?
Does she wear the Reactolites to compensate for her failing sichht?
Is her favourite Elton John number, Saiturday Niccht’s alricchhht for Ficcchttin’?
To this day, if we hear the faintest rumble of thunder we say,
“Aye jist wait, we’ll hae Thunner and Lichhtnin‘”
The Angel of Death goes on to test Indy’s development on ridiculous things that can’t be part of any recognised programme. She gets some little Thomas the Tank Engines out of her big black bag. She then asks Indy to point out which one is “James” and which one is “Henry” .
Now, we don’t like Thomas the Tank Engine in our house, so Indy knows none of these characters and is unable to identify the line-up of our locomotive Ringo Starr-voiced friends. I demand a recount. But given that I’m in mismatched jammies, reeking of Chardonnay, un-showered, hurriedly shuffling around trying to collect what seems like hundreds of wine glasses with chocolate fudge on my face, I haven’t a leg to stand on.
“We don’t really know the Thomas the Tank Engine characters,” I say, “I couldn’t even tell you the answer to that one!” .
She looks at me blankly and puts another mark down on another official form that probably says something like,
As the years went on I had another child to offer up to her. She would give me advice on breastfeeding, despite her ample bosoms never having seen a hungry baby. She would talk me through childbirth, despite never having possibly even seen a grown man naked, never mind getting pregnant. I am unsure if there is a Mister Angel of Death; I suspect not.
So goodbye Angel of Death, we won’t miss you. But as I sit here, I’d like to think of her on her way right now, to terrorise a family with a new baby, trundling along a street in her Vauxhall Vectra and looking out her windscreen at the skies and weighing up the possibility of “thunner and licchtnin”.
******
Over on the Spontaneous Production blog this week, I’m looking at Little Films That Made it Big. It’s got a podcast attached and everything. Now off you go..shoo! Click here
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Leading Men
Insert caption about Ben Fogel attracting dogs here
Apparently in London there is a company which has been set up to allow the good dogless citizens of the UK capital access to a dog by the hour. This dog rental system, Flexpetz, is apparently doing rather well and is set to be rolled out nationwide in the near future.
The idea of setting up a business hiring a range of dogs out to petless city dwellers in need of some doggy affection for an hour or two is one I’d like to see the Business Plan for, if not the reaction on the bank manager’s face when the proposal was put forward. How can this bizarre idea be a success?
Yet,the more I think about it, I can kind of see the reasoning behind it.
Surely this idea must be borne out of the various research that leads blokes to think that they might meet women in parks if they have an adorable dog attached to them. Perhaps they have tried hanging around in parks without a dog and have been upset at the results, as being dogless in a London park will result in one of the following:
- Tory MPs, Kevin Spacey or George Michael inviting you to their country cottages.
- Women slapping your face as you misguidedly act like Benny Hill.
- Men with matted hair, Scottish accents and choice breath wanting to be your “besshhht mate”.
Get yourself a cute dog and you can’t fail but to make congress with other dog owners. Get a puppy and you can just stand still as the ladies flock to you in vast numbers. It’s simple. All you need are some poop bags, a winsome smile and business cards printed with your mobile number on and you are set.
Other reasons for renting a dog for an hour is to remind yourself what a pain in the arse dogs are. It strikes me that people may rent their spouse or their child a dog for an hour if they show any signs of wanting one full time, on a permanent basis. I am, of course, offering my own dog up for this purpose. One hour with Sonny, the Black Menace, is the equivalent of the old draconian method fathers used to use to put their sons off smoking. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, it involves sitting your boy down and making him smoke a packet of twenty in one go. Sonny is the equivalent of a pack of Capstan Full Strength in that regard. You’ll be settling for a goldfish in no time.
In a similar vein, broody girlfriends and wives unsure of their partner’s parenting potential may rent a dog for the hour to test their man’s skills in looking after an animate object. And since you can’t rent kids by the hour as that’s a bit flippin’ dodgy, and generally frowned upon, dogs are the next best thing. If the man comes back with the dog alive…. Scratch that…if the man comes back with the dog at all after an hour, you’ve got a good basis for starting a family. If the dog has been left outside a pub and it takes your man until bedtime to remember about it, you either need to go without babies or get a new prospective father.
Meanwhile, in these troubled times, where gangs of hoodies roam the streets, certain types of dogs may be available to help you make the walk home safely and without incident. If the dog rental system hasn’t cottoned onto this, then they are surely missing a trick. Walking down Dalston high street with a snarling Rottweiler called Genghis, may mean that you need not fear for your life.
However, some inner city ghettos may prove tough even for the snarliest of hired-gun canines. Might I suggest the development of the Wild Boar Unit or a Tiger Division; a division for which my gorgeous husband surely is the poster boy.
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The Charm Offensive
Ah the natural curiosity of children. Isn’t it a beautiful thing?
Ha! Only a fool would make such a claim! It is, in fact, an unpredictable hair trigger waiting to ping mud all over the faces of the parents who were foolhardy enough to parade their children in public.
Children will point. Children will exclaim. Children will stare open mouthed. Children will drop you right in it.
Yesterday my son, Indy, who is old enough to know better, exclaimed sharply “Mum! Look!” and made me turn round and look straight at a little girl with quite extreme birth defects.
All of a sudden I unwittingly turn into one of the legions of people who gape and stare at this little girl and her mum.
Indy realised what he’d done as soon as it happened, especially when I turned sharpish back to him with the face that instantly says:
“Shutuprightnowwemighthavegotawaywithit
butyouareinbigtroublemakenomistake”
You know the one.
Once the coast was clear I realised that Indy was starting to tear up a bit, about what he had just done, so I said, “It’s OK, it’s OK you just can’t do that to me OK? You can’t stare and whisper at people. That poor woman probably has to put up with people staring at her little girl all the time.”
“I know, I’m sorry” he said, cheeks flushed and lip trembling slightly. I could tell he felt pretty bad and I suppose yesterday will have marked the point where he realises you can’t blurt out like a banshee every time you see a dwarf, midget, hunchback, Rastafarian, excessively tall person* or any other remarkable character that the two of my children have routinely shrieked at throughout the years.
Life lessons, eh?
Sadly for Meeester and I, we’ve got years of this still to come in the form of one four year old Junior Misssy, though.
One incident happened quite loudly and recently.
There is a woman who works in a local department store who is no bigger than Junior Misssy. She was stationed at the changing rooms when we went in.
“Mummy, why is that wee girl working here?” she bellowed like Brian Blessed in a high wind.
Understand folks, the “wee girl” is standing right in front of us, giving us our tag for the changing area. The woman smiles and says hello to Junior. She also remarks on how cute Junior is, presumably to dissolve my embarrassment. I suppress the urge to haul the still staring Junior away by the scruff before more damage can be done and Jnr Misssy returns the compliment to her.
In the changing room it goes on, “But Mummy how come that wee girl works here?”
“She’s not a wee girl she’s just a lady who is tiny” I whisper, not sure if I am being any more PC than my daughter.
Loudly (please note all of Junior’s dialogue is LOUD in this scenario) she says, “But why is that tiny lady working here?”
It’s like she’s actually questioning why the woman has a job here, and she doesn’t. I am also instantly regretting using the phrase “tiny lady”.
I whisper an explanation of the woman being very tiny as a baby and not growing very big as she got older but still able to work and fine in all other respects. After some further key questions are answered, I am happy that Junior Misssy has understood and will be quiet for the next five minutes until we can escape.
Junior is indeed quiet. So quiet that I when turn round to see what she is up to, I see she has poked her whole head out the curtain and is full on staring at the “tiny lady”.
We have to get out.
Jnr Misssy talks about the tiny lady all the way home. In fact she talks about her still, when we’re in town. “Will we see the tiny lady?” “Why does that tiny lady work there again?”
Jeeez. I can never go back.
And it’s not just tiny ladies that have found Junior Misssy’s radar. On holiday, we were sitting down to breakfast when a 3 year old Junior Misssy shouts, “Mummy, look at that fat lady eating!!” as a poor innocent chubby woman tucks into her buffet breakfast.
Junior’s proclamation is loud and pointy enough for me to have to apologise to the woman, probably making it all worse.
Mind you, I bet she just had a grapefruit the next day.
* All actual occurrences. Apologies to all concerned.
Letter to an Unknown Schoolteacher
I feel that it is only right that I write to you so that you know what kind of behaviour to expect from me over the coming year as parent of one of your new pupils. That way we both know where we stand.
I will probably humour the first of these, mainly for fear of showing my kid up when they are the only one in class whose Mum hasn’t bothered. Pretty soon however I will be burning these forms in the fire chanting, “Stop fleecing me and my kids, you crazy bastards!”. Seriously though, two sponsorship forms in a week?? You’re flipping kidding me!
Advertising through my child
I appreciate that schools need to make extra cash at certain points but please do not take my daughter to a book fair and write me a note 4 weeks before Christmas telling me that Junior Misssy “has expressed an interest in the following books”. Do you not realise that Junior Missy is now expecting, nay demanding said books. And not for Christmas neither. NOW! Do you not know anything about four year olds? And on a final note. What the blazes was the deal with two dressing up days within two weeks? Don’t you know that I wont read the notes warning me about them and will have a child standing in front of me at 8.30am screaming, “Mum it’s dress up day today, you need to make me a costume NOW!” Other than that, totally loving your work, Misssy M
The Dawning of a New Order
We’ve reached a watershed moment in the house of the Flying Martinis. We’ve realised that we maybe don’t have enough discipline with the kids and here’s a list of what Indy and Junior MisssyM do that have made us come to that conclusion. Once you’ve read the lists you’ll agree it’s time for Misssy and Meeester M to get tough.
Let’s take Indy first.
Indy
1. Indy is a soap dodger; he hates washing. He lies about washing. Says he has washed but turns tap for sound effect only.
2. He also lies about brushing his teeth. Says he’s brushed but turns on tap and electric toothbrush for sound effects only.
3. Just about the only chore Indy has is to clear dinner table, but has to be asked at least five times and threatened with stuff every night before he actually does it. Last night I threatened to move in with him when I was an old lady.
4. Indy lies about having homework. Will rustle paper in manner of one who is doing homework. Is hoping parents will forget to check homework and he will get away with it.
5.Is asked to tidy room and will kick mess under his bed or stuff in laundry basket and then play Nintendo for half an hour. Fifteen year old cat Harleyboy built a nest under Indy’s bed recently. He may even have hatched some chicks.
6. Will drop coat, bag, shoes in piles outside front door. If we are lucky he will drop them inside, meaning that they won’t get rained/snowed on. But only if we’re very lucky. We came back from Glasgow on Sunday to find his jacket lying on the driveway. It had been there since Friday.
7. Indy has been caught putting jammies on over school shirt so that he doesn’t have to get dressed in the morning (apparently Meesestermartin and twin sister did this once too when they were Indy’s age. I knew it! Proof positive the Martin gene is responsible)
Jnr Misssy
1. Has screaming fit every night when the words “Bed time” are mentioned.
2. Wants mum to sit on her bed with her and hold her hand before she falls asleep every night. Never falls asleep until the first ten minutes of CSI are over, rendering the rest of the episode useless to Horatio/Grissom loving Mum when she eventually makes it back downstairs.
3. Will wake up and shriek if Mum leaves room before that ten minute period is over.
4. Won’t let Mum brush her teeth for her without big fight. “I’ll do it myself” she’ll wail.
In fact, take this phrase and apply it to anything Mum does for her, particularly involving pouring large heavy bottles of milk into small cereal bowls, brushing hair, or zipping anything up.
In short, anything that she can’t really do yet and will make a mess of until mum helps her is fair game for this kind of nonsense.
5. Sneaks into parents’ bed every night. Sometimes to pee on them.
6. Will not go to toilet on her own. The scenario is the same every time:
JNR Miss: “Mummy I need the toilet. Will you help myself?”
MisssyM: “C’mon, you’re a big girl. Go yourself.”
Jnr: “But will you help myself?”
MM: But you go on your own at nursery and C’s *”
Jnr “But will you help myself?”
MM: “Jnr Misssy, get up those stairs and go yourself! I’m in the middle of something**”
Jnr “But I neeeeeeed you!”
Misssy grabs Jnr’s hand and hauls her up the stairs grumbling under breath.
The pair go into toilet and Jnr Misssy shouts as Mum starts to “help herself” , “I can do it myself!!”
Small aneurism forms in MisssyM’s brain.
7. Screams “Arghhh Tuggy! Tuggy!” hysterically as soon as MisssyM even takes the hairbrush out of her handbag. You don’t even want to know what goes on as the brush actually touches her head.
8.Waits til Misssym sits down with anything to eat and either asks for “A snack” or eats half of what MisssyM is eating. No wonder I’m thin.
9. Waits til Misssym sits down with anything to drink and either asks for “A drink” or drinks half of what MisssyM is drinking. No wonder I’m dehydrated.
10. Will run from anywhere in house or garden if anyone switches “Nick Junior” to a different TV channel bawling, “But I was watching tha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-at! Sob!”
So before we have to get that SuperNanny woman in we’re going all draconian on their asses. Rest assured, I’ll let you know how that goes. Meanwhile any advice or any lion taming gear much appreciated.
* C is jnr Misssy’s childminder. Poor cow.
** Writing blogs, eating crisps, putting on nail varnish.
Cleaning House
For the past couple of years I’ve set my students a production brief called, “Pet Hates”. The deal is they have to make a five minute (ish) video on something that drives them mad or that they would like eliminated from this world. It’s kind of Room 101-ish, I suppose.
In the past we’ve had some corkers; “Neds” is a favourite of mine from last years’ graduates and it went down a storm at the Belmont Cinema Showcase last year. It presumably struck a chord with those who would like to see the use of firearms legalised in the elimination of the neds… This year we had a terrific one from 3 students on ” Canvassers”- where the hero of the film was a guy harassed by one of those guys you get trying to sell you something outside M&S. Very funny.
But dealing with an age range of 17-30 year olds and sadly, mostly males, no one yet has suggested my own personal pet hate as a subject, but I pray one day it’ll come up. My pet hate is HOUSEWORK. I hate it! I Hate it! I HATE ITTTTTT!
I’m generally happy with my lot, however,every single day of my life I wish for some dramatic change in my personality and /or circumstances. I wish fervently that I would become:
A naturally tidy person, OR;
Someone who takes joy in household tasks, OR;
Someone who has a cleaner.
My husband, John, got a digital camera for Christmas and once he got round to testing it out he took random photo of me folding laundry. The result was horrific and hilarious at the same time. I looked so utterly pissed off, it was frightening. I had developed jowls, creases on my forehead and a firmly turned down bottom lip. Now, I spend a hell of a lot of my time folding the laundry of four people and to think that this is what it does to me. It should be against the Human Rights Act.
You see these poor women on “10 Years Younger” (which I MUST watch every week- obsessive, y’see?) and usually their horrific aging is usually down to smoking, sunworshipping or bad dentistry. Mine is due to HOUSEWORK. There I’d be with Vicky Hambleton-Jones and she’d be looking at my photo album.
“Now, Gillian, here we have a photo of you at aged 17. At this point your Mum was mainly picking up after you, doing your laundry and generally being your own personal slave. I must say, you look terrific…..But here we see you at 25, you’ve got your own flat and I can see from the bags under your eyes that you’re even struggling to keep a one bedroom flat tidy…we can see the aging process beginning…..But here’s the real turning point at aged 35 you’ve two kids, a three bedroom house and numerous moggies..you’re really starting to look incredibly shit….
If I were sitting on the black chair in front of Tarrant on “Millimaire” (as my son calls it) and he asks what the first thing I would spend the million on, my answer would be a firm, “Household Staff, Chris.” But Chris wouldn’t understand, never having to lift a manicured finger in his pampered life.
I recently saw that “Sex Inspectors” programme on Channel Four. Channel surfing- didn’t book it or nuffing…..Anyway, the sexpert lady handed the male half of the guinea pig couple a box and told him that inside was the answer to the question, “What turns women on most?” Ignorantly, Mr Guinea Pig said “It”ll be a load of sex toys”. What a chump! How wrong could one man be? What actually lurked inside the box was a male sized pinny, Marigolds and cleaning equipment. No, this wasn’t a bizarre fetish, it was simply this; actual bona fide research has shown that women feel more relaxed, energetic and loving towards their husband if the husbands helped out with the cleaning. It’s simple really; less drudge equals more time for extra curricular stuff; sex included.
Now, in the past week John has made up a household rota which he claims is the answer to our prayers…housework is just about the only thing we argue about. He claims he didn’t see the programme…..
I don’t want to give them impression that my house is like a landfill site; it’s usually ok and generally quite clean but it takes a hell a lot of effort on my part and it’s a Sisyphean task, as I’ve no sooner finished then in come the Destroyers (my family and their associates) and the chaos theory takes effect once more. Oh, I’m sure you all know that Sisyphus was the guy in Greek legend condemned by the Gods to roll a giant boulder up to the top of a mountain repeatedly until the end of time….that about sums it up, really.
But the rota seems to be working and we are hoping that it’ll put an end to the kind of petty arguments that sound a little like this,
“This house is bloody mess!!!”
“Well, I tidied it up last April..”
“What about the laundry, you haven’t done any since 1998″
“I have so, I folded some shirts just yesterday”
“Have you EVER washed the kitchen floor? Do you even KNOW where the mop lives????”
“Well, have you ever done the recycling. How come that seems to always be my job?”
Etc… Etc…. You get my drift. The rota is the answer to all our prayers, all power to the rota!!! Yay!
(BTW: If you know anyone who fancies a cleaning job , let me know. Reasonable rates. Must have own marigolds….)
