Her : Je n’ai pas déjà fini.
Him : Pas encore.
Her : Je ne peux pas dire ‘pas déjà ’ ?
Him (diplomatically): Pas encore est mieux.
Her : Je ne peux pas encore dire ‘pas déjà ’?
Mr. Waffle
More mornings
Last night the Princess arrived into our bed, most unusually, at 3.00 in the morning and stayed there alternately chatting and poking until 6.00.
This morning we had the usual chivying, hurrying and harrying to get out the door with an extra nugget of exhaustion for three of the main players. The Princess was, perversely, extremely good. I am not sure whether this is as a result of engaging in charades last night when she got to pretend to be each of us in the morning in turn. It was funny. She enjoyed our appreciative laughter but maybe she finally realised that we would like it, if she would just get dressed in the morning.
Anyhow, Mr. Waffle was tired, sick and short-tempered. Michael came out of the kitchen and said crossly “Daddy, a bit mean”. Daniel sat up in his chair. His lower lip wobbled. “What’s wrong darling?” “Daddy fâché, Daniel sad.” “What that noise?” “That’s the sound of Mummy’s heart breaking”. Alternatively, it could have been Mr. Waffle saying “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’ll toughen them up”. At least he’s not feeding them Calgonit; you will be pleased to hear that there appear to be no ill effects to date.
Doomed, we’re doomed
We have decided to have a party tonight. At short notice. Why? Everyone we know either a) has a life and can’t come or b) has children and can’t get a babysitter. Unfortunately, just enough people have said they will come that we can’t call the whole thing off. My favourite rejection email reads as follows: “Darling, If I could I would… but alas, I am in St Petersburg until Sunday afternoon. Oh, one minute Romania and now the other end of Europe… my mind thinks I am in Romania however, although some words are similar being Slav influenced even if Latin as a root, it’s baffling my fur wearing, seal bashing friends here.â€Â Charming refusal or not, it’s a pity he’s in Russia though probably not for him. Do you think we could play charades? Only saving grace is that we spent a fortune on drink this morning which should get us over the worst.
And in other bad news stories: I left my keys in the office yesterday and spent the best part of two hours that I has set aside for fun (I dunno, maybe cleaning the house and having a cup of tea afterwards), toing and froing to the office. Also, trainee and I were wearing the same outfit yesterday (black skirt, bright green jumper and boots), we looked like convent school girls.  As though that weren’t bad enough, she looked much better too and not just because she is a slip of a thing 10 years younger than me but because her clothes were, dammit, nicer. How can this be as I know for a fact that my salary exceeds R’s quite considerably? Is it possible that money can’t buy you style? Alas. And a previous social engagement precludes her attendance at the party too. Sigh.
Big Plans
Her: When I grow up, I want to be a Madame Pipi [guardian of the toilets in Belgian bars and cinemas, you must cross her palm with silver before being allowed to proceed to the inner sanctum]
Us: Why?
Her: Because then I would get money.
Us: Good reason.
Later
Her: What’s a philosopher?
Me: Someone who wonders about the meaning of life.
Her: I want to be a philosopher when I grow up.
Him: Excellent combination with a Madame Pipi post.
Later still
Me: Is she asleep?
Him: No, she’s still bouncing around. She wants me to come back to her with the answer to a question.
Me: And what is your starter for ten?
Him: ‘Why does life exist?’
Suggestions
So here are your suggestions for authors, I haven’t tried:
Martin Cruz Smith
Robertson Davies
Anita Desai
William Faulkner
Richard Ford
Tove Jansson
Thomas Kenneally
Clive King (“Stig of the Dump” – assume that is name of work rather than author’s pseudonym)
Robert Le Carre
Beryl Markham (keeping up with comments)
Alexandr Solzhenitsyn
Colm Toibin (actually I have read “The Blackwater Lightship and wouldn’t mind trying another, so I’m not sure he counts).
Alan Warner
Emile Zola – My husband says I would like “Au Bonheur des Dames” it’s all about shopping and women.
Anyone else you want to suggest adding? I’ll give all of the above a go. I will add them to the list of well-reviewed, interesting sounding books which I have typed on a piece of paper and folded up in the back of my diary. You don’t believe me? Do.
So that’s it for another NaBloPoMo. Hats off to the fair Mrs. Kennedy for co-ordinating. I am not only saying that in the hope of getting a random prize.
Thank you also to my regular commenters during the month. I am hopeless at replying to comments but I love and treasure every one; without you I would have given it all up as a bad job.
The man going down to the basement to put out the laundry has just looked over my shoulder and said “NaBloPoGo”. Maybe I should stop now.
One final item of news; Daniel broke his glasses yesterday. Sigh.
In praise of gender stereotyping
Him: We should get the car serviced and check the tyre pressure.
Me:Mmm.
Him: You’re only agreeing because you know that I’m the one who’s going to do it.
Me: Yes.
NaBloPoMo – I’m going to save W for tomorrow. Because I can. There are 30 days in November but only 26 letters of the alphabet. Ha.
However, forgot to mention David Sedaris under S. He is excruciatingly funny. Since it is the season for it, here is a link for a funny Christmas story by Mr. Sedaris. I cannot say how he feels about it being on the interweb but doubtless he will be much happier if it makes you go out and buy his books.
