FamilyPosted by kevin Tue, August 17, 2010 22:28:17In many ways, last Saturday night was destined to be a failure from the off. My last night in France before travelling home, and leaving Mrs Emu and all the little Emus for a further week, and we decide to have a dinner party. Why on earth we should do this in France, when we'd never contemplate having people to eat dinner with us at home (where, incidentally, we actually have a kitchen that works), remains a mystery to me.
Anyway, it seemed a good idea at the time, and food was suitably prepared for our five guests, who, gentle reader, I would like to introduce.
Dinner Party Guest 1 - Mrs Emu's mother, a splendid woman who can speak better French than many natives, and who had prepared for the feast by preparing two desserts, one of which was a massive trifle, a desert apparently unknown to French residents. This was going to be The Evening's Big Treat.
DPG2 - A good friend who has been kind enough to look after us many times during our various crises in France (and there have been many). Knows everyone in the area, is local mayor for a neighbouring village, and is as impassive a man as I've ever met. I think he may think that we're complete idiots, but he'd never let on.
DPG3 - DPG2's wife, equally impassive and just as charming.
DPG4 - the lovely, ebullient and lively daughter of DPG2 and DPG3, just returned home that day from doing very good work overseas, bringing with her…
DPG5 - the new boyfriend, who DPG2 and DPG3 had never met before
So, to a certain extent, there was a fair bit to go wrong before we mixed in the following challenging ingredients:
-neither of us were much into cooking, let alone on a broken calor gas cooker…
-so we enlisted the kids to help…
-who don't have a great track record on personal hygiene or any culinary talent. And finally...
-alcohol was always going to be a factor of the evening, and this is not a substance to be treated lightly where Mrs Emu or her mother are involved. We had a similar event last year which was going swimmingly until DPG1 declared herself to be 'in her cups', and lost all grasp of the French (and a fair bit of the English) language. As she had served as the interpreter all evening, this was a distinct disadvantage, and our guests fortunately took this as a sign that the evening was over and left without saying very much more.
So, a fair bit more to go wrong. So it was surprising that we made it through a couple of hours without any sort of a domestic incident. As the drink flowed (rather worryingly, a dizzy combination of Pastis, Amaretto, Port and Wine), and the conversation got livelier, all looked good, and Mrs E was despatched to the far reaches of the house to pick up The Evening's Big Treat. Suddenly a blood-curdling scream cut through the night. I turned to face the kitchen, and to my surprise, saw what remained of the trifle spread out over the kitchen floor. There was, interestingly, no sign of my wife. Now, I know what I'd do if I dropped a bloody great big trifle on the floor, showering all comers with a mixture of custard and glass. I'd make straight for the outside garden to cover my embarrassment, possibly stopping to pick up some tobacco and papers en route. And I assumed that this is what had happened here, and we all waited for Mrs Emu to come back looking slightly abashed, with a ready apology and possibly a 'Tsk' or a 'Butterfingers' at the ready.
So we waited. And after a couple of minutes, DPG2, who had been sat facing the kitchen, let go his guard of passivity. As we asked if he'd seen what had happened. "Yes", he said, " she fell really badly and cracked her head against the wall". Which she had indeed done, and I'm not entirely sure why DPG2 hadn't thought to mention it earlier. Some little while later, I found my injured wife who was indeed in the garden, but only because she didn't want to scream in front of the guests. She had, apparently actually started her fall in a different room entirely, and had carried the bowl horizontally for several yards before her head met the wall and the trifle came into view on the floor. And, dear reader, that's where this all ends. She's got a horrible bump on her head, a massive black eye, a shredded left arm, and a 10 hour drive ahead of her on Friday. She sent me this picture today which makes me feel even more like a guilty husband who's just skipped the country.
Still, on the positive side, I'm hoping to arrange for trifle for tea on Friday night.
FamilyPosted by kevin Thu, August 12, 2010 20:45:42When I was an impressionable 12 year old, my bible of choice alternated between the Exchange and Mart and Old Moore's Almanac. I've not seen either of them on sale for a while, and I suspect that one has been replaced by a combination of Autotrader, ebay and Free Ads, and the other by a whole range of conspiracy and astrological sites on the internet. For those of you unfamiliar with OMA, it purported to predict the future year ahead, but managed to do so in a very very general way. Not quite 'this year the Grand National will be won by a horse', but not far off.
Anyway, the science, or art, of prediction has always been of interest, and where I've singularly failed at the blackjack tables in Vegas, or the bookies in the less salubrious parts of Edinburgh, I hope to recover in accurately guessing the future fate of my children.
Number three, for example, has managed to let loose a couple of comments during our current holiday that might hint to his future. And where I say hint, I mean the sort of strong hint that a detective would normally associate with a signed confession, several high quality witnesses, a strong motive, a smoking gun and a suspect wearing a T-shirt saying 'I did it. Honest Guv. I'm banged to rights. Slap the bracelets on and lead me dahn the nick'.
1. When talking about bands and their riders, he was straight on the case, declaring a need for a daily rider of those chocolates in the shape of shells, a DVD of the Fantastic Four with special close-ups of Sue Storm's body, fresh orchids, and enough lego to build a full replica of his own face.
2. As part of some extensive re-planning of Emu Towers, he is going to get his own bedroom. He would very much like a star on the door, and a mirror with bulbs around the outside.
3. In a discussion about his ancestors, he asked whether his Great Grandfather had died from smoking. "In the 50's, everybody smoked and drank", his mother patiently explained. "I'm not going to smoke or drink", he responded, "Well, maybe a little Crème de menthe on special occasions".
4. As part of a new found independence, #3 has taken on the role of cycling down to the local Tabac to pick up the bread every morning. His grasp of French is not quite as good as we'd like, although there's little danger of problems on the road, as it's very quiet, and he failed his cycling proficiency test by continually cycling on the right, so France is a far more natural cycling environment. So we went through the basics on his first expedition - trois pain pour notre famille; la meme demain - that sort of thing. He came back half an hour later, happily with the right amount of bread, and change. "How did you get on?", his mother asked, hoping to glow with pride at his linguistic skills. "Ok", he replied, "but I didn't speak much French. As soon as I got through the door, I forgot my lines".
Next week - number 4 shows all the hallmarks of a future serial killer. And Old Moore predicts people will be disappointed with the British government in 2011.
FamilyPosted by kevin Fri, April 16, 2010 20:24:14The defining force behind the Marx Brothers was not Groucho, Chico or Harpo (or even Zeppo, or Gummo), but their mother, Minnie. Mrs Marx drove her boys pretty hard, to follow her into a career in Vaudeville, where she'd enjoyed a fairly lively career herself. In fact, trivia fans, her early career is referenced in the excellent 'Carter Beats the Devil' book, under the alias of Minnie Palmer. Anyway, I mention her name, as I heard an interesting story about her approach to parenting last week from Jr Emu #1. Apparently, in a bid to save money, Minnie would travel by train with all four (or five) of her boys on child fares. On one such trip, the conductor approached her mid-journey.
'Madam', he said, 'Of your children on this train, one is smoking a cigar in the first class carriage, and another is having a shave in the bathroom'
'Gosh', said Minnie, 'they grow up so fast, don't they?'
I was reminded of this story, when called upon to give The Talk On Drugs And Sex to Jr Emu#2 earlier this week. TTOD&S doesn't get made very often in our house, largely as the subject matter is delivered far more successfully by free access to the internet, adolescent boys being adolescent boys, and having a nurse for a mother. But occasionally, fatherly advice needs to be given, and for want of a more qualified person in the family, I'm enlisted to help.
'So', I said to #2, after a particularly challenging discussion on why meow meow was essentially a bad thing, is there anything you need to know about sex? Anything bugging you about stuff you don't understand?'
'Only one thing', said #2.
'Then ask away', I said, in as much of a man of the world fashion as I could muster.
'It's just that I've never really understood what felching is'
As Mrs Marx would say, they do grow up so fast.
FamilyPosted by kevin Sat, April 03, 2010 22:20:22This morning's Guardian carries a piece titled 'We get what we want in life', which is about couples choosing the sex of their baby. For me & Mrs E, this turned out to be an interesting read, and brought back some memories that frankly were probably best consigned to a bucket marked 'irritations of the past'.
For background, and in rudimentary code, this is how our family arrived:
010 Set 'children we have' to zero
020 Mrs E fills a little faint, and several months later adds 1 to 'children we have'
030 Despite expecting to have a girl, we had a boy. And he was gorgeous and we couldn't imagine our lives could be more perfect.
040 If 'children we have' = 4, go to 060
050 Go to 020
060 Live Happily Ever After
Thus, by the time we got to line 060, we had four fantastic and healthy boys, all of whom were great value and continue to be so. And largely, you'd think, that would be that, and we could look forward to living HEA. Which, of course, we've largely done, and only little minor annoyances have distracted us from that course. Especially the early ones, where 'children we have' had just equalled 4. Mrs E would find herself stopped in the street by relative strangers, who'd tilt their heads gently to one side and tell her that she mustn't be so sad at having a boy. While she was pushing him along in the pram. I heard one exchange with a woman at a supermarket till that ended 'Oh dear; I was lucky of course, I had one of each'. I was asked incredulously at work (in an IT department, indeed) 'What are the chances of having 4 boys?', to which, of course, the answer is 16:1, i.e. the same odds as any sequence of 4 children.
Quite apart from the gormless insensitivity shown by people who really should know better, it really teed us off at the time to think that Jr Emu #4 should arrive as a disappointment. He has, incidentally, been a bit of a testing individual since, but that's not the point. The point is that, by and large, he arrived healthy and happy and has continued to be so.
So, when the Guardian feature quote a woman with four boys as being 'traumatised by what she hadn't got'*, it really…feels wrong. Not so much morally, although the middle class outlook on gender selection is of tiny relevance compared to the interest in, say, India or China, but in the context of just being happy with your lot.
For our part, I don't think any of us could contemplate a different gender mix in the family. Nothing against girls, you understand, just can't imagine how it would work. For Mrs E, it's like having two sets of the Kray twins on hand. For Jr Emu #1, he has 3 younger brothers to boss about, and for #4, 3 to copy, wrestle with and torment. And neither #2 or #3 has exclusivity on being a difficult middle child. And if you're reading this and you have a family, you've almost certainly got a similar dynamic going on, because that's how families work, they just get on with the situation of just being a family. And so, in my humble opinion, it should continue.
*Accompanying pictures to the article: 4 solemn looking boys on p16, the 2 girls born via IVF, post vasectomy sperm extraction then gender selection in Spain** on p17
** Because it's banned in the UK
FamilyPosted by kevin Thu, March 25, 2010 22:59:59Some time ago (possibly in the 1980's) I set what I thought was a reasonable ceiling on footwear. In them days (I know, I know), you could get a decent pair of DM's for £30, so I thought it was a pretty valid benchmark. And, with the exception of running shoes, which I can justify on the basis that cheap ones will limit my ambition of still running marathons well into my 70's, I still pretty much have £30 as my top limit for shoes. Which, as you might imagine, means a fairly limited approach to shoe-buying that isn't always successful.
I tell you all this as a context for a recent conversation with Mrs Emu, a woman who I hold in considerable regard, and with whom I share almost every moral code. There are exceptions, however, and both the length of time allowed shopping for shoes and the price ceiling are good examples.
Here's my favourite phone call of the week:
Mr E: 'Hi, what's up'
Mrs E: 'Well, just thought I'd phone to see how you were'
Mr E 'All good...you don't normally phone up just for that'
Mrs E 'No, well just thought I'd let you know that I had half an hour spare so I cycled into the city, and I found the most amazing pair of brown boots. You know I've been after some for ages, and these are just fantastic'
Mr E 'Great, did they cost much?'
Mrs E 'Well, far less than those road bikes you've been looking at online'
(The conversation went back and forth a bit, even involving a bit of 'The Price Is Right' 'higher/lower' action, until the full price was revealed.)
Mr E 'That's quite a lot of money for a pair of boots'
Mrs E 'I know, and I'll work a couple of extra shifts to pay for them. Besides, these boots will make me happy in a way that you'll never be able to'
My advice if you're looking for a wife or husband...find someone who makes you laugh while they put you in your place. Although, if you're reading this dear, ideally also someone who doesn't end her sentences with a preposition.
FamilyPosted by kevin Mon, March 08, 2010 21:39:18Things to avoid on holiday in Barcelona:
1. If your wife is scared of heights, and yet willing to confront her fears on a wobbly cable car several hundred feet above Barcelona harbour, really think carefully about the ‘bargain’ return ticket.
2. If travelling to Montjuic, the steep hills overlooking the city to the east, be sure to read the guidebooks in advance. They will tell you where to get an escalator to the top of the hills, and avoid you having to climb 1 in 4 slopes on your hands and knees.
3. If ordering from a Tapas menu, don’t feel that you have to be adventurous. For example, if you see ‘Sepia’ on the menu, and work out that it’s Cuttlefish, then don’t assume that because Cuttlefish have ‘fish’ in their name, that they look or taste anything like a fish. However, do make sure that when what appears to be a grilled alien lifeform is delivered to your table, make appreciative noises and get stuck in. However, you may find that the ink sac that gives Cuttlefish its Sepia reference is quite easy to burst. Watch out if this happens, as the ink can go quite a long way in a crowded restaurant.
For future reference, this is what a Cuttlefish looks like:
and here's someone who obviously ate at the same restaurant as us:
4. Remember the golden rules around your fellow humans in European/ Mediterranean cities:
4.1 Whilst the image of loveliness that typifies our notion of people living in Milan, Rome, Barcelona, Madrid etc, is of beautiful olive skin, flawless bone structure, elegant dress sense and shiny hair, the grim reality is that a large percentage of the population look like Wayne and Waynetta Slob dressed entirely from Millets c1976, and with skin applied with an artex trowel
4.2 In any given crowd, on the metro or in restaurants, the majority of people wearing black clothes will be local. ‘Colourful’ clothing tends to be brought to you by Americans and Northern Europeans, most noticeably the British. As if you needed any more signs as to who they were.
5. Meanwhile, back in the restaurant, try not to improvise your order. So if you see a delightful fruit salad being delivered to a table nearby, and then think you see it on the menu for a mere 1 euro, don’t be surprised if you get into a bizarre discussion where the waiter lists all the fruit he has available, you keep answering ‘Si’, and he starts getting slightly cross. In case you’d not guessed, one euro buys you one piece of fruit. Still the conversation will stay with me for some time to come:
‘Plaintain?’
‘Si’
‘Mandarin’
‘Si’
‘Naranja’
‘Si’…and so on
Anyway, had a lovely time. Not as glad to be back as I'd like...
FamilyPosted by kevin Thu, November 19, 2009 22:23:35I've become a citizen of the fine city of Norwich pretty much by osmosis. I arrived here almosr 30 years ago, finding it very awkward to get to, and, unsurprisingly, as awkward to leave. Many of my friends arrived here about the same time, intending on staying for about 3 years, and we'll all pretty perplexed about why the road out of Norwich is as trampled as the one in*. Norwich has many many wonderful qualities, one of the key ones being that the local characteristic is not to get too excited about how wonderful it is. Which means that they get to keep it to themselves.
Part of the responsibilities of a citizen of Norwich, is to naturally be very dismissive of anyone from Ipswich, particularly where football is concerned. It's not exactly the Auld Firm rivalry, but there is an agreed assumption that if you come from Norwich (City) you should just dislike Ipswich (Town). (Sorry about that, but we have got a cathedral.)
And vice versa. Over the years I've played a few gigs in Ipswich, and everyone I've met has been perfectly charming. Until they ask you where you're from. My friend Chris got into this situation in a pub once, and a bloke at the bar stared him out, saying that he hated Norwich so much that he'd removed all the yellow and green cables from his plugs.
So just hold that thought, while we consider the enigmatic force of nature that is Ipswich Town's manager. Roy Keane is a long time stalwart of Manchester United, who is well known for stamping on his rivals in matches and for walking out of the Ireland World Cup team mid-tournament because he didn't like the manager. So…that'll be three good reasons to not like him terribly much. He's got a fearsome reputation in the game, to the extent, I fear, that even journos don't really like to criticise him too much in case he turns on them. So, possibly four reasons. And we'd probably be up to five if he was still playing for Ireland in last night's match against France - how scary would that have been?
So, even though Norwich (City) are now in what we all agree is still called Division Three, playing against the legends of Bristol Rovers, Wycombe Wanderers and Tranmere Rovers, there is still a an immense sense of satisfaction to see Ipswich (Town) and Roy Keane go into a sharp and direct decline in the division above. Especially as it's extremely likely that the club won't sack Mr Keane as they're too scared of him. Tee, and to a large extent, hee.
So, this local (and frankly, mildly xenophobic) schadenfreude is actually quite enjoyable. Apparently, if you're any sort of person at all then this should be at best a guilty pleasure. But every now and again, all of your stars line up in the sky and you may as well enjoy it. After all, in a couple of years time, Norwich (City) might have a bad run, and the club could appoint a new manager, and it could be...
*Actually, it's the same road, and it's called the A11. A very strong campaign still exists to prevent it being converted to dual carriageway, as this would make the journey in & out a little too easy.
FamilyPosted by kevin Sun, November 01, 2009 21:18:00I read in the Daily Telegraph last week* that there is a move for men to 'stay away from childbirth' as their presence make the process more difficult for women.
And, "... some women prefer their partner to be standing next to them at eye level and giving support there rather than putting pressure on them by peering at the business end which is not always the nicest place to be. " Nicely put DT. Although it then goes on to quote a father-to-be, who found himself at (as we say) the business end, and described it as like seeing your favourite pub go up in flames. All of which does start to say something about your typical Telegraph reader these days.
Anyway, I'm not sure at all that I agree. Certainly, (and especially for first-timers,) a man's visit to a maternity ward while his partner is in the throes of labour is a pretty daunting experience. But there are many many things that you learn for future visits :
- You are not the most important person for the next few hours. In fact, you won't be for several years. More importantly, as a couple, your 'special time' is fairly old news to most people who work on maternity wards.
- The birth plan that you lovingly produced after reading Dr Miriam Stoppard's books** on childbirth is completely and utterly useless.
- Especially the bit about 'no drugs'. Given this is one of the few times in your life where you can have an open mind on using drugs, you may as well. Note, these are not for sharing.
- And 'Sarah Brown's Healthy Pregnancy" is utter nonsense, cover to cover. Especially the bit about knocking up a quick fruit cake as you go into labour. As the youth of today say, WTF.
- And the soothing cucumber baby wipes that you packed to mop your partner's fevered brow. What on earth were you thinking of?
- Slightly more useful is the snacks and chocolate. But remember that these were for sharing.
- When she says something like "YoucompletebastardI'mneverlettingyoucomeany- wherenearmeagain", stand back. Don't attempt to argue. In fact, if possible, avoid eye contact, but don't go too far the other way and start reading a book.
- Speaking of which, even if there is a TV in the room, don't ask if you can switch it on. Even if there is a really important match on***. And probably best to keep the Blackberry out of view.
- Remember, every hilarious observation in this situation has been made a thousand times before. Possibly on this shift.
Things to watch out for post-birth:
- If, post birth, your wife tries to walk around the ward, and someone asks when the baby is likely to be born, you are allowed to deck that person. It's the law.
- When your baby is presented to you in a green blanket, it means that your partner has been in surgery, not that you've had your first Alien. Although we did wonder for the first couple of years.
- The nurses will insist on carrying the baby out of the hospital. All the way to the waiting car, which in the case of Emu#1, was a deathtrap, masquerading as a minicab. Which was a good way to demonstrate that from now on, you're completely on your own.
And remember to feed, but also remember:
- The NCT is populated entirely by well meaning people. With an agenda. That isn't necessarily yours.
- Sometimes things don't work out right. And then, and possibly only then, you should be grateful that the Tesco's down the road is open 24 hours.
*Now, I never thought I'd start off a sentence like that. But I also remember reading Bill Gates' column on knowledge, where he said out of principle he would read information that didn't interest him, to widen his understanding of the world. So I thought I'd try a fetid out of touch broadsheet. Also, there was a free bottle of water and I was thirsty.
** Pah! Pah! And Pah! Again.
*** For Emu#1, a comfortable 1-0 win vs Coventry City, just prior to beating Bayern Munich in the UEFA cup. Yes, that's Norwich City. And Bayern Munich. In the UEFA Cup.
