The other morning, Michael had a nosebleed. I’m not sure why though I can imagine several explanations. He wiped blood all over his face and clothes. While I had my back turned Daniel fell or was pushed and cut his lip and bled freely over his chin and onto his t-shirt. Then the child minder arrived; it’s hard not to be defensive in these circumstances.
Archives for March 2008
There are times when I hate this job
My mother and brother came to visit for the weekend (my father steadfastly refusing to fly since he retired and doesn’t have to any more). There were many presents and there was much delight. All this love-in stuff is very tiresome for the blog reader so I will get straight to the only blog worthy incident of the weekend.
Due to my sister’s enormous carbon footprint and many years spent in hotels (insert here bitter mumbling from my brother about expense accounts – he is a lab rat and has never had one and absolutely refuses to believe that eating out can be torture as well as pleasure), she was able to book my brother and mother into a swish hotel in Brussels on her various points. This was, frankly, welcome as our flat is too small to accommodate two visitors who do not want to sleep together. This is relevant, bear with me.
So, on Friday afternoon, the Princess and I took my mother and brother to their hotel. My mother and I sat and chatted in her room while my brother unpacked in his and entertained her highness.
As I sat there with my mother, I heard a mournful little voice saying, “I want my mummy”, so I flew to her side. My brother was standing in his room looking sheepish. “I did a poo Mummy,” she said “and it won’t go away”. I went in to the bathroom and discovered that she had done a poo in the bidet; look, it’s the size of a kiddie toilet. So while my brother stood cowering outside and my daughter put her hands over her eyes saying, “that’s disgusting”, I took some toilet paper and transferred the poo bit by bit to the toilet.
This was not included in my original job description.
Mistaken Preconceptions
We have a new English trainee in the office; a pleasant, bright, confident, articulate 22 year old man who doesn’t read any fiction and who likes going out drinking with his mates. Are you getting a picture here?
Me: Do you belong to the generation of English children who were not taught grammar in school?
Him: Yes.
Me: Alas.
Him: I know we should really have been taught Latin as well.
Me: You laugh…
Him (indignantly): I am not laughing, it’s a disgrace that they don’t teach Latin in schools any more, it’s dead useful for learning grammar rules and stuff.
Me: Are you serious?
Him: Of course I’m serious. It’s a disgrace.
Me: Are you channelling my father by any chance?
Hubris
I am constantly in search of presents for Mr. Waffle because he is difficult to buy for and Christmas and birthdays come round every year with monotonous regularity.
A couple of months ago, I saw that he had cut out from the paper a book review so, stealthily, I went to the bookshop and ordered the book.  I paid for it, I had it gift wrapped and I stashed it in the bottom of the wardrobe.
A short time ago, we were going through our piles of stuff on the desk and I innocently picked up the review and said: “ooh what’s this?”
“It’s a review of a book set in Brussels and I thought it looked interesting” he said. Cue much inner glee and outward indifference on my part. “But you can throw it out, I looked at some sample pages of the book on the internet and it’s really dull”.
He got it today anyway and expressed suitable (but, presumably, utterly feigned) enthusiasm.
It probably wouldn’t be so bad, if he didn’t keep buying me perfect presents.
Being an expatriate
Me: We have a new government, I heard it on the radio on the way home.
Him: We who?
Me: We Belgium. And there’s a woman Minister for Foreign Affairs, Karen something or other.
Him: Karel De Gucht?
Me: Yes, that’s it.
Him: He’s a man and he’s the one who was Minister for Foreign Affairs before.
In other news, the Princess and all her little friends wore their pyjamas to school yesterday and got dressed and had breakfast in the classroom. It was the best thing ever.
Easter Weekend
The positively American shortness of the Easter break (two holiday days only) was something of a relief as we had nothing planned and our inner resources are very limited.
On Saturday, we went to the town hall where there was a children’s festival. What a wonderful way to spend our taxes, arguably, less wonderful if you have no children but the beauty of it is that, if you have no children, you won’t even have noticed it was on. There were local functionaries dressed up as wizards and witches trying to explain in an amusing way to young children what the commune does. There were real magicians. There were three bouncy castles (not quite clear what services these represented), there was a storyteller (library services), a place to draw and paint where you were asked very easy questions (creche services), witches testing your five senses using phials and boxes (unnervingly, services for foreigners), a quiz on the rules in relation to hygiene – apparently there is a rule that dogs can’t poo on the street, personally, I’m amazed (environmental services), a free photograph of your kiddy sitting in front of the gates of a castle dungeon (some wit had set this up outside the mayor’s office), face painting (social services, I think, I’m a little confused), free candy floss, sweets and the like (in the salle des marriages) and a magic show to round it all off (in the salle du conseil). Aside from being a very pleasant way to spend a cold, wet Saturday with the children, it did strike me as a very good introduction to local government and its management for little citizens.
On Easter Monday, I decided we would go an outing. Given that it was absolutely freezing, we felt an indoor attraction would be best. We took ourselves to the Sea Life Aquarium in Blankenberg, most famous, in my mind for providing a sandy beach for English people to duel after it became illegal in England (thank you Georgette Heyer). We thought that it would be deserted like its sister aquarium outside Dublin. As we queued in the snow and the children bleated we had cause to rethink that assumption. When we got in, it was fine, if a little crowded. When we emerged, the driving snow had not abated and we scurried to the car where we ate our cold roast lamb sandwiches. (I cooked lamb for Easter Sunday – aren’t you impressed ? The children refused to touch it on Easter Sunday on the grounds that this might be the tool they needed to drive their mother over the edge). The Princess said that the beef sandwiches were very nice. I was forced to point out to her that they were lamb. A real lamb? Yes, but it’s dead now. “Oh†she said and continued eating.
Since we were at the coast, we decided we would have a look at the beach. We went to a café first and, if you and your offspring are ever stuck in Blankenberg and looking for somewhere for a cup of tea near the seafront, you could do worse than take yourself to the Kiwi café. Despite the name, it’s done in traditional Flemish style with heavy beams and big dark furniture. Ideal for a cold, cold day. I wouldn’t recommend it for lunch as the apple tart I ordered, though inordinately large, was quite, quite vile, but definitely a good tea and pancake location. Fortified by our experience in the Kiwi we went to the beach which was absolutely perishing. The children were unaffected by the weather but we were frozen and miserable. The children wanted to stay and stay but we eventually managed to tug them back to the car with Daniel squirming and yelling (and that boy can yell) that he wanted to go SWIMMING.
Yesterday, we woke up to 5cms of snow, so Mr. Waffle took the children out to play on the road before we all went to our various places of detention. They were all wearing their moon boots and Mr. Waffle was wearing his hiking boots. The zip broke on my faithful black boots and as the ideal pumps to wear in the snow, I chose a pair that I had bought last Summer in America. I had never worn them before because I just never found anything to match them properly (don’t look at me like that, I’m not that kind of person at all) but I decided that they were the most likely to be waterproof. I was wrong. The soles are made of tweed. No, really, tweed. Why? By the time I found out, it was too late but I was not a happy bunny yesterday, I can tell you. The snow has melted today but my boots are still broken and my tweed soled shoes are still damp.
