UN-trained house sellers

There comes a time in everyone's life when they are forced to interact with that other breed: The Estate Agent.

Only these days, The Husband and I notice, they are going under a different guise: Negotiator.

That's right.

Yesterday: second in command to Kofi Annan, passing resolutions and chastising China about its human rights record.

Today: selling over-priced arrangements of breeze blocks and plasterboard in a large metropolitan area.

It's what management gurus call 'skills transfer'.

Diddled

I was changing The Son's bed when I noticed the following label:

"A baby who is being sick will want watching."

Gosh, I thought. It's true that I don't have much time to watch TV or read books these days, but I hadn't considered observing a projectile vomit as entertainment.

Clearly I need to think outside the box a bit more often.

This little nugget of wisdom was closely followed by:

"This mattress may not soak up vomit."

What?

I didn't buy a vomit-absorbing mattress?

I sighed.

Once again, it seems I have stumbled and fallen at one of the many Hurdles of Parenthood.

*******

So I delved around a bit in my amnesiac brain to remember the moment: the moment when I failed to purchase a vomit-absorbing mattress.

Ah yes.

We were doing that first-time parently tour of the nursery section of a major department store. A sweet young woman with a glamorous-sounding title was trailing us past shelf after shelf pointing out 'essential items for Mother and Baby'.

Whenever we veered towards a product, she merrily proclaimed 'oh, that's a very popular model with our parents!'. (The shop equivalent of seeing lots of people eating in the window of an otherwise iffy-looking local restaurant. "Weren't sure we wanted it before but want it now!")

But I can see now that we were being distracted from the business of cot mattresses by having to make earth-shattering choices such as: disposable breast pads or washable breast pads, and one pack of maternity pads or seven?

We grabbed a well-known brand of sling (which, when we unfurled it at home, turned out to be a long - not to mention expensive - length of stretchy cotton with a cute pocket...probably for carrying breast pads).

'Oh, Baby will be very comfy in that!'

I seem to remember The Husband and I making a pact in the car park not to be swayed by persuasive sales-talk and to leave with just a few choice bits and pieces, but already our three wire baskets contained four cot sheets, two cot blankets, four pram blankets, a sparkly-twinkly gadget that shone weird images onto 'Baby's' ceiling, seven packs of maternity pads, disposable and resuable breast pads, sunshades for the car windows, two snuggle-cuddle robes, an expensive plastic two-compartment container ('a must for topping and tailing!' - I thought this sounded like a technique for chopping French beans but it seems to be the universally-accepted phraseology), mini nail clippers, three soft toys and an industrial-sized bag of cotton wool balls.

Weary from this heady bout of consumerism, our wills were weak by the time it came to the major items (a very clever sales trick indeed).

So I don't remember being shown the vomit-absorbing mattress, although I do vaguely remember being given a choice.

It was something along the lines of:

'Well, there's the cheap-as-chips mattress, which will probably fall apart after three weeks of use and the chemicals contained therein are quite likely to asphyxiate Baby. But it is just five pounds, so you gets what you pays for, I suppose!'

or

'We do also have a premium, spring-loaded, coconut-hair-lined*, deluxe mattress, which is that bit more expensive, but when it comes to your precious bundle of love, most of our parents don't want to compromise on safety!'

Doubtless she went on to mention add-on features ('by special request to the manufacturers') which included the ability to absorb regurgitated carrot, but if they were mentioned, we were too busy feeling guilty about buying a chemical-laden scrap of recycled foam.

Bloody Miriam Stoppard.

Too busy advising how best to hold our babies and how to resist throwing them out of a third floor window when they cry for hours on end, she failed to tell us about the importance of vomit absorption when it came to mattresses.

I blame her.

* I'm not actually making this bit up

Dead rats and washing machines

Duller still than dieting, our washing machine* is broken.

'It's the module,' proclaimed Mr Service Engineer (SE) after a thirty second inspection.

Sorry? The module?

That sounds to me like Service Engineer Speak for a complicated-sounding part whose name (extensive in-house market research has revealed) will most likely befuddle your common-or-garden British housewife, bringing on a short fainting fit and necessitating a house-wide search for Great Aunt Florrie's smelling salts.

SE: 'Is your parts warranty still valid?'

Me: 'No, ran out about three weeks ago...'

SE: 'Well, a new one is about twenty five quid, so you're looking at a hundred all in, what with the call-out fee.'

Me: 'Right...'

SE: 'Although, it might not be the module...'

He seems to be backtracking now. Aha!

Me: 'How will we know if it is or not?'

SE: 'Well, we fit a new module and if the machine still doesn't work, then it's probably the motor.'

Me: 'Right. And that costs how much?'

SE: 'About a hundred quid. So you might not want to bother, what with the cost of a new machine.'

Me: 'OK. So you can fit a new module now?'

SE: [a small smile breaks out on his otherwise expressionless face] 'Oh no. I'll have to order one. If we've got one in the warehouse, then I might be able to come back in a day or two. Otherwise we'll have to place an order and that'll take about a week to ten days.'

Me: [rolling eyes and issuing quiet tutting noises] 'Riiiiiiiight...'

So I call the helpline later in the day:

'Ah yes, Ms Sweet. I'm afraid it was out of stock so we've ordered one and it's going to be ten days as the part is coming from Italy.'

Good grief.

If I had known my washing machine was Italian, I would have demanded a British replacement, which would have had the added benefit of supporting our ailing economy. Although it occurs to me that I don't know a British washing machine brand ('Will jolly well clean your togs' or 'Gosh, those ketchup stains have come out a treat!'??).

Well, the module had damn well better look well-fed on Mamma's penne arrabiatta not to mention snappily-dressed (on account of it coming from Milan).

*******

Meantimes, I am madly inviting myself to tea at friends' houses, humping large bags of laundry with me and commandeering their washer-dryers for whole afternoons.

Then today I spotted Mr Service Engineer crossing the street in front of my house and skulking back towards his van. So I ran to the front door and yelled: 'Hello? Did you just knock on my door?'.

He looked as if I had just pushed him against the wall of a disused alleyway and pressed a revolver against his skull.

'Er, no. I was at your neighbour's place.'

Oh.

Oh! So the washing machines in our identikit, Stepford-wifely, high-density homes have conked out at the same time, just a few weeks after the parts warranty ran out.

Now, I ain't no Sherlock Holmes, but a distinctly rodent-flavoured odour is overwhelming my nasal passages...

* whose brand name may or may not rhyme with Girl-Tool

My non-diet

'Just popping out to Asda, darling!' I hollered at The Husband (TH) as I grabbed the car keys and made for the front door.

Of course, I had no such intention.

My intention was to scour the Next sale racks and then scoot into Asda for a lemon and some semi-skimmed milk and pass these off as the essential items lacking in our kitchen.

Well. I had vouchers. And they had to be spent.

Today.

I slipped into the changing room with three pairs of trousers, a plum-coloured cardigan which looked as if it had been put in a hot wash by mistake (a 'shrug', apparently) and a flesh-baring sparkly top.

The shrug and sparkly top hit the floor first. (What was I thinking?)

However, the black 95% cotton/5% elastane bootleg trousers were an instant hit.

I twirled and paraded round the 4ft by 4ft changing cubicle, ooh-ing and ah-ing at the trimness of my behind and the way the material clung to my thighs in a not unflattering fashion.

But finally I had to breathe out and then I spotted it.

A slab of flab beginning under my breasts and hanging over the top of the trousers.

'That will go!' I said to myself smugly. 'No need to worry about that!'

Go where, though?

Background note: I've never been one to go on diets. Not because I haven't needed to, but I always felt that a woman on a diet was a walking cliche (in some cases, a waddling cliche).

That's right. It wasn't a case of 'I'm not dieting because I am thin!' or 'I'm not dieting because I am happy with the way I look!'. It was 'I'm not dieting because it's a cliche!'.

I managed to string this position out until this time last year when I realised I was certifiably overweight (you know, I typed some figures into an online test and it said 'you are overweight!' oh, I thought I was just a tad pudgy).

Anyway. Back to the slab of flab and its final destination.

I am not on a diet but I'm trying to lose a few pounds, preferably those contained in the aforementioned slab of flab.

I remember asking TH where the fat went when you 'lost' it.

'Do you pee it out?' I wondered aloud.

'I think I would find it hugely incentivising if it were to drop off in blobs as you walked along the street. What people want when it comes to weight loss is visual evidence of the loss as it happens.'

'Yuk!' protested TH.

'It's just not enough for the diet groupies to show us the equivalent number of packets of lard. I want to see my fat!'

'Stop it!', said TH.

So today I had porridge for breakfast. And we have Quorn Chicken Style Pieces and reduced fat hummous in the fridge.

Hey, I tell you: I am well on my way...

Don't do as I do

Parenthood forces one to explore the outer reaches of one's imagination and creative abilities.

Note to non-parents: if you think a train set and some building blocks and fifteen different types of toy car and a pretend tea set and half a dozen flashy, battery-driven gadget-y toys are going to cut the mustard for longer than four minutes in every hour, you are very much mistaken.

And so it was that I resorted to flinging The Son's and The Daughter's toy dolls* up in the air until their moulded plastic heads hit the ceiling. As they did so, I offered up an exclamation of 'boink!'.

This was (excuse the pun) a big hit. Much hysterical laughter and repeated cries of 'Again! Again!'.

Their appetite for this wondrous new game seemed insatiable.

But suddenly, I felt the need to bring it to an end. These, after all, were the dolls I had bought in the vain hope that they would help bring out the nurturing side of my children. ('Aw? Is your baby crying? Better give her/him a cuddle! Oooh! Has (s)he done a wee-wee? Shall we change her/his nappy?')

Two little bewildered faces looked up at me.

'Now, see. This isn't what we'd do with a real baby.' [At this point, I invited them both to give their babies a much-deserved cuddle.] 'We don't throw real babies, now, do we?'

Silence.

'But you know that, right?'

The wall clock went tick tock tick tock tick. Brows furrowed confusedly for the briefest of seconds before two little doll-laden hands stretched out towards mine:

'Again! Again!'

* no gender stereotyping in this family

PVSTS

My friend M called last week.

M: 'Happy New Year, Marnie! Did you have a good Christmas?'

Me: 'Yes. Hectic but fun! (This is a euphemism for 'I was knackered but the kids seemed to enjoy themselves'.) How 'bout you?'

M: 'Yeah, alright, but I've had this horrible bug thing since mid December. Still haven't shaken it off.'

Me: 'Tell me about it! I was ill over the break too. Had a hideous sore throat for weeks. No cold or flu symptoms just a raging sore throat. Paracetomol wouldn't touch it.'

M: 'Oh my God! Me too! Kills at night time especially.'

Me: 'Yeeeeeeees!'

M: 'I saw the GP twice and all they said was...'

Me: '"It's a virus"! Right?'

M: 'Right! Said my throat was really red and inflamed, though.'

Me: 'Yep. Me too. So, what, is it still sore now?'

M: 'Yeah, but not as bad. Although it's weird, 'cause my tongue seems to be swollen now.'

Me: 'Oh my God! My tongue is swollen too! That is so weird!'

M: 'Wow! But d'you know what? And don't take this the wrong way, I feel a lot better just knowing how ill you've been.'

*******

The next night, some mutual friends of me and M came round for dinner. They asked after M and I replied that he was unwell.

Me: 'Well, he's a bit better but now he's got a swollen tongue. In fact, so do I. We think we must have had the same thing.'

The Husband (TH): 'A swollen tongue?! Don't be ridiculous!'

[Gosh, he can be so uncaring sometimes.]

Friend #1: [diplomatically] 'Is it possible to have a swollen tongue?'

Me: 'Look! [leaning over table and sticking out tongue for inspection] See? There are toothmarks all round the edges...that's 'cause it's so swollen that my teeth are champing down on it all the time.'

[Actually, what I said sounded more like 'Theeee? Thair uh thooth mahks aw wound tha ed-thes...tha's coth ith tho so-len tha ma theeth a thampin dan on ith a tha thime.']

TH: 'You're being ludicrous! Tongues are muscles! They can't swell!'

Me: [madly racking brain to summon up knowledge gained from 'O' Level Biology] 'Well, I think you'll find that muscles can swell up!'

TH: 'Oh yeah! Um, ooh look! My biceps are swollen!'

Between the four of us, there were four undergraduate degrees, one Masters degree and two Doctorates, but of those only one was science-y (Physics, Third Class, 1989). I could see it was going to be hard to move this argument along.

So I dropped it.

But I resolved to ring M the following morning to further commiserate over our shared bout of Post Viral Swollen Tongue Syndrome (or PVSTS as it's known to readers of the BMJ).

Multi-tasking

Last night I ate a yoghurt whilst sitting on the loo*.

Although I didn't know it at the time, I guess reading the newspaper on the loo was the first step.

To be frank, it's quite a novelty to be going the loo without my entourage (The Son and The Daughter). So I tend to get rather excited when it is a solitary affair and I start to harbour all manner of crazy notions.

Like the yoghurt thing.

I can't say I planned it. But I had decided to retire early (leaving The Husband watching 'Downfall' on Sky Plus - goodness! who can face something like that on a Saturday night?) and I could think of no more thrilling way to spend my pre-slumber minutes than with a Yeo Valley organic fat free rhubarb yoghurt and a book.

I got to the bathroom, sat myself on the loo and thought: 'Hey! I could speed things along a little by eating the yoghurt now, so the book-reading can commence as soon as I get into bed. Bingo!'

Or maybe that should have been: 'Eureka!'.

It occurred to me that it is exactly this sort of multi-tasking that we women are supposed to be so skilled at.

Well done us!

Anyhoo. Off to bed I sloped to snuggle up in my brushed cotton jimjams with my book when I realised I would need to go back to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Blast.

* it was a Number One, thank you very much (one has one's standards)