A slip of the tongue

"An octopus floated by, and Little Whale called out, 'Can you help me to sing?' But the octopus just changed colour and danced away, moving all his eight testicles."

"Mummy, what's testi...?"

"TENTACLES! Sorry! TENTACLES! Those are the octopus' legs!"

"Oh."

New uses for the humble toothpick #17

Scraping out freshly-trodden-in, compacted poo from the imprint of the sole of TS's trainers*.

(This was not in the job description.)

* potty training - saynomore

Resisting the consumerist urge

It's hard enough just walking past a closed branch of TK Maxx without fondling my credit card.

But slumped on the sofa in the centrally heated home of a friend, glass of red wine in one hand and oven-warmed finger food in the other?

Well, I turn to mush. Putty. A highly pliable material.

But before the demonstration begins, I steel myself and an internal monologue cranks up inside my (slightly tipsy) head: 'I do not need any new kitchen equipment! I do not need any new kitchen equipment!'.

*******

'Now I'm going to make some savoury mini muffins. Honestly, they're so easy. My kids love them. I'm using the mini muffin tray on page 23. Goodness! I don't know what I did without this! And the mini scoop...'

'I have the mini scoop!' chimes in a fellow audience member. 'It's fantastic! I use it all the time!'

Is she a plant, I wonder. No matter, for I want the mini scoop. And the mini muffin tray.

'So you see how I'm just dropping dollops of mixture into the non-stick tray here? I mean, how long did that take me? Ninety seconds? No more than that.'

Need the mini scoop. Need the mini muffin tray. (And the onion chopper. And the rubber spatula. And the mixing jug with lid. And the snap-tight multi-functional glass ramekins.)

'OK. So while that's baking, I'm going to show you a really easy pizza. Again, you'll be amazed at how easy it is especially when I'm using this stone bakeware sheet. You wouldn't believe how crisp the base turns out! And it's not just good for pizza, it's fantastic for biscuits too!'

Want the stone bakeware. Flick through catalogue. Can't decide on whether to order the rectanglar or the circular one. Will get both. To be on safe side.

*******

The evening wears on in a haze of Merlot and slightly overdone butternut squash mini muffins.

We are all flicking through our catalogues like maniacs. I have sobered up a little and been hit by a wave of steely resolve: I am buying nothing. Sweet FA. Nada.

I smirk a little, proud of my abilities to resist the consumerist urge.

'What are you buying?' asks my sofa-ensconced neighbour.

'Well, probably noth...'

'I definitely want the mini muffin tray...and scoop...and some of those pans look fantastic!'

I swallow a little.

'They do look excellent!' I chip in, enthusiastically.

The demonstrator comes round, like a schoolteacher checking handwriting, snatching up order forms as she glides past the smiling sea of faces.

'Going to be placing an order?'

As she looks away, I quickly scrawl in the code for the stone bakeware (rectangular) - you know, for biscuit making - as well as a couple of 'last minute impulse buys'.

I know. Sucker.

I mean: who am I? Nigella already?

The truth will out

[The Son (TS) in conversation with his grandfather.]

TS: That your hoover, grandad!

Grandad: Yes, it is. Do you have a hoover in your house?

TS: Yes, Daddy use the hoover.

Grandad: What about Mummy? Does Mummy use the hoover too?

TS: No, Mummy no know how to use hoover.

Ahem.

The best things in life are free

The Husband (TH) emerges from the bathroom, towel around his waist, scratching his head in wonder.

'Your daughter,' he starts.

(She is always my daughter when she's done something naughty.)

'...got into the bath whilst I was still in it and promptly pee-ed on me from a standing position!'

I stifle a giggle before replying: 'You know, there are clubs in London where people pay for that sort of experience!'

TH ambled off to the bedroom, muttering to himself.

Artistic temperaments

I have started taking TS and TD to a weekly art class.

It's all very, well, twee (in the nicest possible fashion).

At the start, the teacher makes an attempt to introduce an overarching theme for the week's lesson.

Before she has finished her first sentence ("So, if you were going to the beach, you might take with you a buck..."), TS and the TD are yelling impatiently: "We do painting now!"

[The teacher has perfected the art of the smile-through-gritted-teeth.]

The class begins. The teacher's instructions are usually something like: "Now, carefully paint a long black line to make a stripe on the page...oh, Josh! That's super! It already looks like a zebra!".

Meantimes, TS and TD have tossed their paintbrushes to one side in favour of immersing both their hands in the tray of black paint, so as to ensure a proper smearing all over the paper, leaving not a trace of white background.

"Oh, darling! What a lovely painting!" exclaims TH when the artists return home with their efforts. "What is it?"

I quickly chip in: "It's a tiger/beach ball/hedgehog, Daddy!"

"Oh! Of course!", TH responds, merrily.

Still, Jackson Pollock never made it big by colouring inside the lines, did he? (Hoodathunkit...my kids: abstract expressionists!)

Existentialism for mummies

I'm hoping this book actually exists.

Because I need advice on how to reply to the recent barrage of questions from TS.

'Where's the seaside/waterfall/museum gone?'

'Um...it's where it was when we left it five minutes ago...'

'Where's my home?'

'Um, where your heart is...?'

'If a tree falls down in a forest...'

Arrrrrrrrrrrrgh.