Saturday, September 27 08
"Don't worry about Friday, it's fine for you to start on Monday," informed the recorded message on Mrs Bennet's mobile phone. Mrs Bennet looked puzzled and turned to her husband.
"I do believe Mr Bennet I've got a job, probably as a new cleaner."
She'd never applied for the position, didn't like cleaning and to be honest was not much good at the job. The duster was such a part of her daily routine it was still in its plastic cellophane. But Mrs Bennet realised the lady in question was a mother like herself and much to her relief, was having a senior moment.
Mrs Bennet was meant to be interviewing the mother on Friday morning for a radio programme, but when the three older Bennet daughters announced it was their Harvest Festival, there was no alternative. She had to rearrange and had left a message explaining the situation. Unfortunately the name of this lady's new cleaner was very similar to Mrs Bennet's, hence the confusion.
The phone rang. It was the radio lady. Mrs Bennet couldn't resist asking,"Did I get the job?"
"I'm terribly sorry, I thought you were the new cleaner. I'm having one of those days," was the reply.
Mrs Bennet told her about her shopping list blib and the voice on the other end immediately felt better.
"You wouldn't want me as your cleaner. I failed my A level in it," joked Mrs Bennet.
Cleaning was not one of her strong points. The spiders in the house loved her. They were free to make their webs wherever they chose. They only trembled when she was about to give birth and as that was not going to happen again, they were thrilled.
It wasn't the first time Mrs Bennet had been mistaken for the cleaner. Many years ago, the first time Mr Bennet ever saw his future wife, he had thought she was at his workplace to empty the bins and clean the floor. He worked with Mrs Bennet's father, and she and her mother had walked in, hoping for a lift home. What an impression she had made.
Now 15 years later, Mr Bennet knew his wife was NOT a cleaner. She did her best, but it was not on her priority list. With Phil the Builder due to start in just over a week's time, he did admit her efforts to cleanse the place had improved no end. Mind you, Mrs Bennet had no choice. If you moved furniture, you inevitably found grime behind it.
"My dear Mr Bennet, would you employ me as a cleaner if I applied for the job," she asked her husband as he was watching television. His team Aston Villa was playing. Amazingly she got a response.
"When you clean you do a good job," he replied, smiling.
When, was the word. "May be next year," thought Mrs Bennet, "After all a lot of dust will fall by then."
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
Out of control
Tuesday, September 24 08
Mrs Bennet’s request was granted. The Sexy Sat Nav did arrive. It came with a brand new space wagon which had gadgets, buttons and lots of fancy stuff. Sliding doors slid open and shut, the boot door lifted up and down all at two clicks of a button. Mrs Bennet felt rich. She’d never driven a spanking new car, which gleamed on the outside as well as in. It came complete with DVD player and Sat Nav. But it wasn’t hers. She was in the driving seat for two whole weeks and then she would have to hand over the keys and the pretence of having a full bank account. The Scooby Doo van was having much-needed plastic surgery. It was operating mechanically, but as Mrs Bennet, who was suffering a severe bout of sleep deprivation at the time, had got it wedged between two gate posts and had made matters worse by moving forward – not that she had much choice – it was now wearing thousands of pounds worth of scratch and dent. The fact Scooby Doo was black, highlighted the scar’s impressive appearance. Mrs Bennet had done a very good job. She liked to do things well. But as they couldn’t afford to pay the £400 excess, six months later, Mrs Bennet’s few seconds of misjudgement was still on show until now.
Hence why the Sexy Sat Nav and all the trimmings. Mrs Bennet thought she had been given her early Christmas present, but sadly she couldn’t tell whether it was sexy or not. In fact she didn’t even know if it was male or female. All she knew was that the body was NOT included and neither was the remote control, which the manual said was essential to make it work.
“I shall never know now,” she nodded sadly, “But one day, when I’ve written my book, I will buy myself my male Sat Nav with a deep Irish drawl and I will buy a car like this.”
Having arrived at her destination without the sexy male voice to tell her so, she pulled up on to the Bennet driveway and proceeded to lift Miss Bennet Number Three and Four out and let them into the house. She found a few toys for Miss Rosie Bennet to play with while she went back into her classy vehicle. As she leant over to unbuckle Miss Bennet Number Five’s car seat, the boot suddenly lifted up in the air and shut again and the door she was leaning through, jolted into life and started closing. Startled she swiftly moved her legs out of the way so they weren’t caught in the guillotine and promptly bashed her head on the car ceiling.
“Ahhh help this car’s alive Kezzie! Perhaps I’ve hit a secret button,” she informed her daughter, looking around to see what she’d pressed.
Mrs Bennet couldn’t even find the keys, but managed to pick up the chirping child, who wasn’t at all bothered by the car's moving bits, and squeezed herself and twin into the front seat and opened the door.
Inside the house, sitting at the farthest corner of the lounge was the four-year-old controller. Holding the keys to Velma – the childrens’ nickname for the car as it was Scooby Doo’s friend – was Miss Bennet Number Four.
“Hey, this is fun Mummy!” she announced, pressing another button.
“So it was you! I can’t believe you managed to make that car obey you through two sets of doors and three lots of wall! I was inside Megan and the doors mysteriously shut on their own.”
“Were you scared like in Scooby Doo Mummy?” the controller asked.
“Well it certainly made me jump!”
“Can I do it again?”
“No!” And with that, the small controller reluctantly handed over the keys to Velma and moved on to train travel and started building a track.
Mrs Bennet was so glad Miss Megan hadn’t pressed the lock button too. If that had happened, she and Kezia would have been serving time for a long while. And Mrs Bennet would have been like a character in one of the Bennet girls favourite television programmes, Trapped. The intimidating voice on this occasion would have shouted out her catch line: “Poor unfortunate Mrs Bennet you are trapped!”
Mrs Bennet’s request was granted. The Sexy Sat Nav did arrive. It came with a brand new space wagon which had gadgets, buttons and lots of fancy stuff. Sliding doors slid open and shut, the boot door lifted up and down all at two clicks of a button. Mrs Bennet felt rich. She’d never driven a spanking new car, which gleamed on the outside as well as in. It came complete with DVD player and Sat Nav. But it wasn’t hers. She was in the driving seat for two whole weeks and then she would have to hand over the keys and the pretence of having a full bank account. The Scooby Doo van was having much-needed plastic surgery. It was operating mechanically, but as Mrs Bennet, who was suffering a severe bout of sleep deprivation at the time, had got it wedged between two gate posts and had made matters worse by moving forward – not that she had much choice – it was now wearing thousands of pounds worth of scratch and dent. The fact Scooby Doo was black, highlighted the scar’s impressive appearance. Mrs Bennet had done a very good job. She liked to do things well. But as they couldn’t afford to pay the £400 excess, six months later, Mrs Bennet’s few seconds of misjudgement was still on show until now.
Hence why the Sexy Sat Nav and all the trimmings. Mrs Bennet thought she had been given her early Christmas present, but sadly she couldn’t tell whether it was sexy or not. In fact she didn’t even know if it was male or female. All she knew was that the body was NOT included and neither was the remote control, which the manual said was essential to make it work.
“I shall never know now,” she nodded sadly, “But one day, when I’ve written my book, I will buy myself my male Sat Nav with a deep Irish drawl and I will buy a car like this.”
Having arrived at her destination without the sexy male voice to tell her so, she pulled up on to the Bennet driveway and proceeded to lift Miss Bennet Number Three and Four out and let them into the house. She found a few toys for Miss Rosie Bennet to play with while she went back into her classy vehicle. As she leant over to unbuckle Miss Bennet Number Five’s car seat, the boot suddenly lifted up in the air and shut again and the door she was leaning through, jolted into life and started closing. Startled she swiftly moved her legs out of the way so they weren’t caught in the guillotine and promptly bashed her head on the car ceiling.
“Ahhh help this car’s alive Kezzie! Perhaps I’ve hit a secret button,” she informed her daughter, looking around to see what she’d pressed.
Mrs Bennet couldn’t even find the keys, but managed to pick up the chirping child, who wasn’t at all bothered by the car's moving bits, and squeezed herself and twin into the front seat and opened the door.
Inside the house, sitting at the farthest corner of the lounge was the four-year-old controller. Holding the keys to Velma – the childrens’ nickname for the car as it was Scooby Doo’s friend – was Miss Bennet Number Four.
“Hey, this is fun Mummy!” she announced, pressing another button.
“So it was you! I can’t believe you managed to make that car obey you through two sets of doors and three lots of wall! I was inside Megan and the doors mysteriously shut on their own.”
“Were you scared like in Scooby Doo Mummy?” the controller asked.
“Well it certainly made me jump!”
“Can I do it again?”
“No!” And with that, the small controller reluctantly handed over the keys to Velma and moved on to train travel and started building a track.
Mrs Bennet was so glad Miss Megan hadn’t pressed the lock button too. If that had happened, she and Kezia would have been serving time for a long while. And Mrs Bennet would have been like a character in one of the Bennet girls favourite television programmes, Trapped. The intimidating voice on this occasion would have shouted out her catch line: “Poor unfortunate Mrs Bennet you are trapped!”
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
Mrs Bennet chases balloons
Monday, September 22 08
It was almost 5.30pm and Mrs Bennet was on a mission. She was tracking down a hot air balloon which was taking her mother for a ride over Gloucestershire. Having been cancelled several times due to unsuitable weather conditions, the day had finally arrived. But a few hours before take off, the venue changed. Instead of Stroud, where the Bennets lived, the balloon was now to go up from the Royal Agricultural College in Cirencester. The three older Bennets, having never witnessed a hot air balloon close-up, were keen to see Jannie get carried away in her basket. Handing them a packed tea, Mrs Bennet waved them Miss Bennets One, Two and Three off as they took their grandmother to her launchpad with Grampie. Mrs Bennet said she'd stay and feed the little twin Bennets and get there in time for lift off.
Realising the babies were wearing the only nappies in the house, she made an emergency detour to a nearby supermarket, grabbed a take-away Mr Latte and sped (within the speed limit) to the venue. She soon spotted a large blue and red balloon lying on the grass opposite, half inflated with its insides lit up by a determined flame.
Mrs Bennet pulled into a layby and called Jannie.
"Where are you Mum?" she asked.
"We're in the field behind the college," was the reply.
"I can see the balloon, I'll be with you in a moment," explained Mrs Bennet.
Mrs Bennet was in the field behind Cirencester College but couldn't work out how to get to the balloon in question. Not being able to leave the twins, she looked around for help. A staff member, about to go home, kindly let Mrs Bennet follow her so she could park near to the now roaring inflatable. Out came the pushchair, in went the twins, out came the cries, in went the milk bottles. Miss Rosie Bennet stared in disbelief at the biggest party balloon she'd ever seen, Miss Kezia Bennet cried at the biggest dragon she'd ever set eyes on. Grabbing her camera, Mrs Bennet aimed at the basket, containing what looked like a dozen different coloured eggs. Its occupants were crouched down low and as the balloon took off, the pilot instructed them to stand and wave. Mrs Bennet waved back, frantically looking for her mother's face. But the yellow egg she'd thought was Jannie wore a different face. She was still waving but to a group of strangers, while her stunned twins looked up to see a group of people suddenly take off into the air. Mrs Bennet was as stunned as they. Where was her mother? She rang her. No answer. She rang her dad.
"You've got the wrong balloon," he laughed. "Mum is in a pink balloon and she's about to take off now!"
Mrs Bennet was in the wrong field, wrong college watching the wrong balloon, just quarter of a mile away from the right one.
"But Dad, I've got some brilliant photos. I'll just have to superimpose Jannie's head onto it!"
Mrs Bennet laughed at her own mistake. Of course it had to be a pink balloon - it couldn't be any other with her girly brood. Her parents had realised why she hadn't arrived when they saw the red and blue balloon float by overhead. They too had had no idea they were so close to another launch party.
The next two hours were spent chasing round the countryside to follow Jannie's pink balloon, which elegantly floated over tree, field and countrylane. Mrs Bennet couldn't help thinking it resembled a giant gum bubble. The twins and the three older Miss Bennets were delighted to play hunt the balloon and insisted Mrs Bennet play a certain track on the High School Musical CD.
"This is for you Jannie!" they cried.
"Souring, flying, there's not a star in heaven that we can't reach..." they sang at the tops of their voices. Despite the jollity, the balloon trip had a profound impact on Miss Bennet Number Three. When her grandmother returned safely back to earth, she needed an answer.
"Jannie, did you fly up to heaven?"
"No darling, I don't want to go there just yet."
"Oh, I wasn't sure where you went," the little girl replied.
Mrs Bennet smiled. She was also glad her mother was back on solid ground. Mrs Bennet was just grateful it hadn't been her balloon trip. She would have most probably got into the wrong basket.
It was almost 5.30pm and Mrs Bennet was on a mission. She was tracking down a hot air balloon which was taking her mother for a ride over Gloucestershire. Having been cancelled several times due to unsuitable weather conditions, the day had finally arrived. But a few hours before take off, the venue changed. Instead of Stroud, where the Bennets lived, the balloon was now to go up from the Royal Agricultural College in Cirencester. The three older Bennets, having never witnessed a hot air balloon close-up, were keen to see Jannie get carried away in her basket. Handing them a packed tea, Mrs Bennet waved them Miss Bennets One, Two and Three off as they took their grandmother to her launchpad with Grampie. Mrs Bennet said she'd stay and feed the little twin Bennets and get there in time for lift off.
Realising the babies were wearing the only nappies in the house, she made an emergency detour to a nearby supermarket, grabbed a take-away Mr Latte and sped (within the speed limit) to the venue. She soon spotted a large blue and red balloon lying on the grass opposite, half inflated with its insides lit up by a determined flame.
Mrs Bennet pulled into a layby and called Jannie.
"Where are you Mum?" she asked.
"We're in the field behind the college," was the reply.
"I can see the balloon, I'll be with you in a moment," explained Mrs Bennet.
Mrs Bennet was in the field behind Cirencester College but couldn't work out how to get to the balloon in question. Not being able to leave the twins, she looked around for help. A staff member, about to go home, kindly let Mrs Bennet follow her so she could park near to the now roaring inflatable. Out came the pushchair, in went the twins, out came the cries, in went the milk bottles. Miss Rosie Bennet stared in disbelief at the biggest party balloon she'd ever seen, Miss Kezia Bennet cried at the biggest dragon she'd ever set eyes on. Grabbing her camera, Mrs Bennet aimed at the basket, containing what looked like a dozen different coloured eggs. Its occupants were crouched down low and as the balloon took off, the pilot instructed them to stand and wave. Mrs Bennet waved back, frantically looking for her mother's face. But the yellow egg she'd thought was Jannie wore a different face. She was still waving but to a group of strangers, while her stunned twins looked up to see a group of people suddenly take off into the air. Mrs Bennet was as stunned as they. Where was her mother? She rang her. No answer. She rang her dad.
"You've got the wrong balloon," he laughed. "Mum is in a pink balloon and she's about to take off now!"
Mrs Bennet was in the wrong field, wrong college watching the wrong balloon, just quarter of a mile away from the right one.
"But Dad, I've got some brilliant photos. I'll just have to superimpose Jannie's head onto it!"
Mrs Bennet laughed at her own mistake. Of course it had to be a pink balloon - it couldn't be any other with her girly brood. Her parents had realised why she hadn't arrived when they saw the red and blue balloon float by overhead. They too had had no idea they were so close to another launch party.
The next two hours were spent chasing round the countryside to follow Jannie's pink balloon, which elegantly floated over tree, field and countrylane. Mrs Bennet couldn't help thinking it resembled a giant gum bubble. The twins and the three older Miss Bennets were delighted to play hunt the balloon and insisted Mrs Bennet play a certain track on the High School Musical CD.
"This is for you Jannie!" they cried.
"Souring, flying, there's not a star in heaven that we can't reach..." they sang at the tops of their voices. Despite the jollity, the balloon trip had a profound impact on Miss Bennet Number Three. When her grandmother returned safely back to earth, she needed an answer.
"Jannie, did you fly up to heaven?"
"No darling, I don't want to go there just yet."
"Oh, I wasn't sure where you went," the little girl replied.
Mrs Bennet smiled. She was also glad her mother was back on solid ground. Mrs Bennet was just grateful it hadn't been her balloon trip. She would have most probably got into the wrong basket.
Sunday, 21 September 2008
Mrs Bennet the Airhead turns to Mr Google
Friday, September 19 08
Mrs Bennet was born bottom first, three and a half weeks early. By nature she was ahead of herself and at times this characteristic worked against her. Take today for example. Mr Bennet had kindly offered to buy some shopping on his way home to save his wife taking all five Miss Bennets, who inevitably all pointed to various items on shelves which definitely weren’t on the list. All Mrs Bennet had to do was write down the groceries and toiletries needed and email them to her husband. And this she did. Well she thought she had until a few minutes later, two emails arrived in her in-tray. The first was an email to herself from herself. Instead of sending the message to her friend she had sent it to Mrs Bennet. The second was more worrying. It was from a reporter from one of the local newspapers. Mrs Bennet had only gone and sent her shopping list to the paper instead of Mr Bennet!
“Calm down! I don’t think you intended this to be published!” read the reply. Mrs Bennet roared with laughter. She had been accused by her mother of being on another planet and this confirmed it. Only last week she had forgotten her parent’s 44th wedding anniversary. Mrs Bennet never forgot. Her head was so full of shifting, sorting, packing, moving, settling a four-year-old into school and day-to-day living with five children, one husband, soon to be joined by one or two builders, that she had no room for sense. It was just as well her head was fixed onto her body. Because being where she was right now, she would probably leave it in the strangest of places - most likely in the microwave or freezer. She used to be a fan of Worzel Gummidge, a country bumpkin scarecrow with a weird-looking wart on his face who came to life and sang ”you put a wer after W and a wer after O, a wer after R and away we go….” He used to unscrew his head and take it off.
“If I could take off my head right now, I’d put on Mr Bennet’s. It works better than mine. Or actually, come to think of it, Mr Google’s head would be fantastic,” decided Mrs Bennet.
Mr Google was highly intelligent, could speak hundreds of languages, answer every Trivial Pursuit question and was a mind of useful information. He was someone with whom Mrs Bennet kept good company when she wasn’t seeing Mr Latte. She couldn’t have them both. Mr Google wasn’t connected at the venue she met Mr Latte, so she had the best of both worlds. Mr Latte in the day; Mr Google late at night. He often kept her company into early morning, much to the dismay of Mr Bennet.
Mrs Bennet’s mind was wondering. That was the problem, it wondered a lot. She looked at the mug she was holding. At least her friends understood her. One mum friend had given her this mug – one she hadn’t broken - for her birthday. On it was a picture of a woman, book in one hand, cup in another, hanging upside down from a lamp post. The caption read: “I’m in my own world, it’s OK they know me here.”
Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mother was quite right, her daughter was in her own world at the moment. But Mrs Bennet was happily oblivious. Her mind on overload, she was content with her new friend Mr Google. And hopefully if she spent enough time with him, she’d pick up a few intelligent tips and wouldn’t email shopping lists – or worse - to the wrong person.
Mrs Bennet was born bottom first, three and a half weeks early. By nature she was ahead of herself and at times this characteristic worked against her. Take today for example. Mr Bennet had kindly offered to buy some shopping on his way home to save his wife taking all five Miss Bennets, who inevitably all pointed to various items on shelves which definitely weren’t on the list. All Mrs Bennet had to do was write down the groceries and toiletries needed and email them to her husband. And this she did. Well she thought she had until a few minutes later, two emails arrived in her in-tray. The first was an email to herself from herself. Instead of sending the message to her friend she had sent it to Mrs Bennet. The second was more worrying. It was from a reporter from one of the local newspapers. Mrs Bennet had only gone and sent her shopping list to the paper instead of Mr Bennet!
“Calm down! I don’t think you intended this to be published!” read the reply. Mrs Bennet roared with laughter. She had been accused by her mother of being on another planet and this confirmed it. Only last week she had forgotten her parent’s 44th wedding anniversary. Mrs Bennet never forgot. Her head was so full of shifting, sorting, packing, moving, settling a four-year-old into school and day-to-day living with five children, one husband, soon to be joined by one or two builders, that she had no room for sense. It was just as well her head was fixed onto her body. Because being where she was right now, she would probably leave it in the strangest of places - most likely in the microwave or freezer. She used to be a fan of Worzel Gummidge, a country bumpkin scarecrow with a weird-looking wart on his face who came to life and sang ”you put a wer after W and a wer after O, a wer after R and away we go….” He used to unscrew his head and take it off.
“If I could take off my head right now, I’d put on Mr Bennet’s. It works better than mine. Or actually, come to think of it, Mr Google’s head would be fantastic,” decided Mrs Bennet.
Mr Google was highly intelligent, could speak hundreds of languages, answer every Trivial Pursuit question and was a mind of useful information. He was someone with whom Mrs Bennet kept good company when she wasn’t seeing Mr Latte. She couldn’t have them both. Mr Google wasn’t connected at the venue she met Mr Latte, so she had the best of both worlds. Mr Latte in the day; Mr Google late at night. He often kept her company into early morning, much to the dismay of Mr Bennet.
Mrs Bennet’s mind was wondering. That was the problem, it wondered a lot. She looked at the mug she was holding. At least her friends understood her. One mum friend had given her this mug – one she hadn’t broken - for her birthday. On it was a picture of a woman, book in one hand, cup in another, hanging upside down from a lamp post. The caption read: “I’m in my own world, it’s OK they know me here.”
Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mother was quite right, her daughter was in her own world at the moment. But Mrs Bennet was happily oblivious. Her mind on overload, she was content with her new friend Mr Google. And hopefully if she spent enough time with him, she’d pick up a few intelligent tips and wouldn’t email shopping lists – or worse - to the wrong person.
Stunk out and stuck in!
Thursday, September 18 08
Week day mornings were always a challenge for Mrs Bennet. If she overslept or she wasn’t focussed enough (which was often) the race-against-time challenge was verging on the impossible to complete. She had to allow a reserve bank of seconds to cater for the unexpected. This morning she wasn’t concentrating on the task and the reserve bank was empty. And someone had pressed “repeat” on the unexpected button. Mrs Bennet was packing up lunch boxes, buttering toast, brushing hair and finding baby clothes. Mr Bennet, aware his wife had got up far too late, had delayed his departure to give her a hand, and was chasing two tiny bottoms around the lounge floor in an attempt to put outfits on Bennet numbers four and five. Meanwhile upstairs, Miss Bennet number three decided to empty the contents of an old Pringles tube on her bed. The emphasis here being on old. If the Pringles had still been inside, there would be no story. As it was, this tube contained treasures – shells, pebbles, sand, sea water and the foulest smell imaginable. Mr Bennet was informed of the rancid aroma by Miss Bennet number two and quickly removed the offending tube. He hadn’t noticed the slime covering Dora the Explorer’s head. But his informant had and the smell swiftly travelled downstairs as the Dora duvet landed at the feet of Mrs Bennet, ready for a rapid entry into the washing machine. This was Unexpected Incident One. By this time, all the Bennets should have left the building. Mr Bennet was late, but drove Miss Bennet number one, a junior, to school as she had to be there 10 minutes earlier than her siblings; leaving Mrs Bennet with four Miss Bennets. She was changing a rather putrid nappy, when Miss Bennet number three called from her bedroom that she wanted a certain doll in a certain bag but couldn’t reach it. Mrs Bennet explained she couldn’t move and would come as soon as she could. But it wasn’t soon enough and cause Unexpected Incident Two to occur. By now Miss Megan was yelling for a different reason. She was stuck (wedged was perhaps the better phrase) under the bed.
“What are you doing? I said I’d come up! Why couldn’t you wait? We just don’t have time for this!” expressed an exasperated Mrs Bennet.
“But I can’t move Mummy,” whimpered the jammed child as her mother struggled to set her free. Wiping the cobwebs off her daughter’s head, Mrs Bennet brushed her down and retrieved the pink plastic doll which had caused this commotion. The minutes were ticking. The babies were moaning and Miss Bennet number two was now refusing to put on her shoes. Having half-packed the conservatory, Mrs Bennet couldn’t remember where she’d put her own shoes and now the clothes sculpture was no more, the babies’ coats had vanished. She looked at her watch in desperation. They were late. She rang the school secretary to explain they were on their way and immediately tripped over a tiny blue and green dog on wheels, which barked as she kicked it. Miss Kezia Bennet sneezed and as she did so her dummy shot out with such force it startled the baby twin and almost made Mrs Bennet laugh. She couldn’t quite manage a full chuckle but it was enough to bring some much-needed light-relief and calmed her down.
Miraculously the five of them arrived as the bell rang. Once the two school children were handed over to their teachers, Mrs Bennet sighed deeply. She felt worn out and it was only 9 o’clock in the morning.
“My life is a farce,” she acknowledged, “a complete farce – or perhaps it’s just a comedy of errors!”
Week day mornings were always a challenge for Mrs Bennet. If she overslept or she wasn’t focussed enough (which was often) the race-against-time challenge was verging on the impossible to complete. She had to allow a reserve bank of seconds to cater for the unexpected. This morning she wasn’t concentrating on the task and the reserve bank was empty. And someone had pressed “repeat” on the unexpected button. Mrs Bennet was packing up lunch boxes, buttering toast, brushing hair and finding baby clothes. Mr Bennet, aware his wife had got up far too late, had delayed his departure to give her a hand, and was chasing two tiny bottoms around the lounge floor in an attempt to put outfits on Bennet numbers four and five. Meanwhile upstairs, Miss Bennet number three decided to empty the contents of an old Pringles tube on her bed. The emphasis here being on old. If the Pringles had still been inside, there would be no story. As it was, this tube contained treasures – shells, pebbles, sand, sea water and the foulest smell imaginable. Mr Bennet was informed of the rancid aroma by Miss Bennet number two and quickly removed the offending tube. He hadn’t noticed the slime covering Dora the Explorer’s head. But his informant had and the smell swiftly travelled downstairs as the Dora duvet landed at the feet of Mrs Bennet, ready for a rapid entry into the washing machine. This was Unexpected Incident One. By this time, all the Bennets should have left the building. Mr Bennet was late, but drove Miss Bennet number one, a junior, to school as she had to be there 10 minutes earlier than her siblings; leaving Mrs Bennet with four Miss Bennets. She was changing a rather putrid nappy, when Miss Bennet number three called from her bedroom that she wanted a certain doll in a certain bag but couldn’t reach it. Mrs Bennet explained she couldn’t move and would come as soon as she could. But it wasn’t soon enough and cause Unexpected Incident Two to occur. By now Miss Megan was yelling for a different reason. She was stuck (wedged was perhaps the better phrase) under the bed.
“What are you doing? I said I’d come up! Why couldn’t you wait? We just don’t have time for this!” expressed an exasperated Mrs Bennet.
“But I can’t move Mummy,” whimpered the jammed child as her mother struggled to set her free. Wiping the cobwebs off her daughter’s head, Mrs Bennet brushed her down and retrieved the pink plastic doll which had caused this commotion. The minutes were ticking. The babies were moaning and Miss Bennet number two was now refusing to put on her shoes. Having half-packed the conservatory, Mrs Bennet couldn’t remember where she’d put her own shoes and now the clothes sculpture was no more, the babies’ coats had vanished. She looked at her watch in desperation. They were late. She rang the school secretary to explain they were on their way and immediately tripped over a tiny blue and green dog on wheels, which barked as she kicked it. Miss Kezia Bennet sneezed and as she did so her dummy shot out with such force it startled the baby twin and almost made Mrs Bennet laugh. She couldn’t quite manage a full chuckle but it was enough to bring some much-needed light-relief and calmed her down.
Miraculously the five of them arrived as the bell rang. Once the two school children were handed over to their teachers, Mrs Bennet sighed deeply. She felt worn out and it was only 9 o’clock in the morning.
“My life is a farce,” she acknowledged, “a complete farce – or perhaps it’s just a comedy of errors!”
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Open wide please!
Wednesday, September 18 08
At 10 o'clock Mrs Bennet had the chance to be without all five of her daughters and to sit down for half an hour. The only sting in the tail was the fact she was sitting in the dentist's chair. However unlike the unfortunate tooth incident during a wet week under canvas, this dentist was dishy and if she wasn't married and about 20 years younger, she would have perhaps fluttered her eyelashes at him. But respectable wives with five children, fast approaching 40, didn't do such things. Well they might, but she wasn't one of them. She just flirted with a cup of hot frothy coffee, which didn't count. This morning's drilling, was the final chapter in the holiday dentist saga. To recap, she had woken up a bald-headed middle-aged man on a Saturday morning, forcing him to get into his very expensive soft-topped vehicle and fly to her aid to rid her of the unbearable pain, which three days earlier he'd charged £40 to tell her was a pulled muscle. He'd taken off a filling, to put a temporary one on, and now she was paying to have that one removed and a permanent one put back.
"I'm definitely in the wrong job. But I wouldn't want to look down throats all day long. Although drilling must be kind of fun when it's not done on yourself," she thought.
It helped that her dentist was young, friendly and like Mr Bennet had a nice smile, which showed off his perfect teeth. In her mid 20's when she had first set eyes on the young Mr Bennet, it was his long-lashed blue eyes and gorgeous smile which had impressed her. He was a good advert for teeth, unlike herself, who seemed to be taking a dentist residency. However she wished to add her teeth were fine before she had had children. She'd only had this conversation yesterday with a dear friend and fellow mother who was also forking out a fortune for dental treatment. She'd lost a gold crown and was paying dearly for it.
"My mum told me you lose two teeth for every child you have," she'd informed Mrs Bennet.
"I may as well order my dentures now then!" Mrs Bennet replied, "Although 10 teeth might fetch a fair price from the tooth fairy!"
It was the first question she'd asked the dentist when she sat in his chair. His assistant replied:
"I think the story's got exaggerated in time. My mum told me it was one tooth per child."
"Still five teeth is still too many for me," declared Mrs Bennet, who resolved never to eat another toffee in her life.
She kept quiet after that. Well she could hardly say much, with a drill in her mouth, a numbed jaw and two faces peering over her. She tried to relax as Terry Wogan rambled on in the corner of the room. She shut her eyes and pretended she wasn't there. For a moment, she was on a beach, lying in a hammock, enjoying the warm sea breeze with a rum and coke in hand. Until she had to raise her hand to spit out the potent taste which was filling her mouth. Mrs Bennet could think of a better and cheaper way to spend 30 minutes without children.
At 10 o'clock Mrs Bennet had the chance to be without all five of her daughters and to sit down for half an hour. The only sting in the tail was the fact she was sitting in the dentist's chair. However unlike the unfortunate tooth incident during a wet week under canvas, this dentist was dishy and if she wasn't married and about 20 years younger, she would have perhaps fluttered her eyelashes at him. But respectable wives with five children, fast approaching 40, didn't do such things. Well they might, but she wasn't one of them. She just flirted with a cup of hot frothy coffee, which didn't count. This morning's drilling, was the final chapter in the holiday dentist saga. To recap, she had woken up a bald-headed middle-aged man on a Saturday morning, forcing him to get into his very expensive soft-topped vehicle and fly to her aid to rid her of the unbearable pain, which three days earlier he'd charged £40 to tell her was a pulled muscle. He'd taken off a filling, to put a temporary one on, and now she was paying to have that one removed and a permanent one put back.
"I'm definitely in the wrong job. But I wouldn't want to look down throats all day long. Although drilling must be kind of fun when it's not done on yourself," she thought.
It helped that her dentist was young, friendly and like Mr Bennet had a nice smile, which showed off his perfect teeth. In her mid 20's when she had first set eyes on the young Mr Bennet, it was his long-lashed blue eyes and gorgeous smile which had impressed her. He was a good advert for teeth, unlike herself, who seemed to be taking a dentist residency. However she wished to add her teeth were fine before she had had children. She'd only had this conversation yesterday with a dear friend and fellow mother who was also forking out a fortune for dental treatment. She'd lost a gold crown and was paying dearly for it.
"My mum told me you lose two teeth for every child you have," she'd informed Mrs Bennet.
"I may as well order my dentures now then!" Mrs Bennet replied, "Although 10 teeth might fetch a fair price from the tooth fairy!"
It was the first question she'd asked the dentist when she sat in his chair. His assistant replied:
"I think the story's got exaggerated in time. My mum told me it was one tooth per child."
"Still five teeth is still too many for me," declared Mrs Bennet, who resolved never to eat another toffee in her life.
She kept quiet after that. Well she could hardly say much, with a drill in her mouth, a numbed jaw and two faces peering over her. She tried to relax as Terry Wogan rambled on in the corner of the room. She shut her eyes and pretended she wasn't there. For a moment, she was on a beach, lying in a hammock, enjoying the warm sea breeze with a rum and coke in hand. Until she had to raise her hand to spit out the potent taste which was filling her mouth. Mrs Bennet could think of a better and cheaper way to spend 30 minutes without children.
The issue of specs
Tuesday, September 17 08
Miss Megan Bennet was finding her new routine tough. She was used to having a say in what clothes she wore for the day. Now she had no choice apart from grey trousers or grey skirt. She hadn't realise this school business would be every day and she wasn’t sure she liked it. After her sobbing entry on the first day, the tears had subsided, fingers were out of the mouth and the limpet’s suction removed. Having almost completed a week, Miss Megan Bennet was bouncing in confidently and it made leaving her a much happier event for Mrs Bennet. But one issue was troubling both Miss Megan and Mrs Bennet – the issue of spectacles. The tiny delicate pink-framed glasses, which this dimple-faced Bennet number three wore so well, had been part of Megan’s life since she was 17 months old. At one, her noticeable squint had raised a few concerns and various orthoptist appointments diagnosed long-sightedness in both eyes. The prognosis: a possible operation and specs for life, but the option of contact lenses when appearance mattered in the teen years. If any of the Miss Bennets were to have a problem with sight, this sweet-natured, accommodating child was the right one. She sat perfectly still in examinations and for six weeks wore a patch on her good eye (three hours a day) without complaining, largely because Mrs Bennet made matching left-eye patches for every doll in the Bennet household. Miss Bennet hardly ever took her glasses off, only to be cleaned or if she knew she was dropping off. She accepted her accessory.
School changed all that. On her first day, Miss Bennet relayed how one of the little boys in her class had pushed her glasses into her face with his hand. ("Why do children do that?" thought Mrs Bennet angrily) As soon as Miss Bennet had finished her morning classroom session, she took her specs off and refused to wear them. Later when piling into the Scooby Doo Van with her sisters she remarked:
“Mummy, why do I have to wear glasses and Naomi and Emily don’t?”
Mrs Bennet was about to give a sensitive reply, when the eldest Miss Bennet, without tact, did it for her.
“That’s because we can see better than you.”
If Mr Bennet had made such a comment – which he wouldn’t have done – she would have poked him. As it was her daughter, she gave her the look, which spoke a hundred words. The daughter didn’t need an interpretation.
Mrs Bennet managed to sooth her bespectacled-child. But the problem arose again the following day when she came out of the classroom, this time holding a scroll of white paper, with her glasses wrapped up inside.
“I fell over and broke them Mummy. And now I won’t be able to see,” explained the tearful girl, although probably enjoying the fact she looked like everyone else.
A reassuring hug from Mrs Bennet soothed the hurt. The teaching assistant reported how the children had just had a story about a dinosaur who couldn’t see and needed glasses. Mrs Bennet received this as her reassuring hug. Miss Megan would be well cared for, and though she was the only four-year-old wearing specs, so too was she the only one who matched her teacher – the lovely surrogate mother.
Miss Megan Bennet was finding her new routine tough. She was used to having a say in what clothes she wore for the day. Now she had no choice apart from grey trousers or grey skirt. She hadn't realise this school business would be every day and she wasn’t sure she liked it. After her sobbing entry on the first day, the tears had subsided, fingers were out of the mouth and the limpet’s suction removed. Having almost completed a week, Miss Megan Bennet was bouncing in confidently and it made leaving her a much happier event for Mrs Bennet. But one issue was troubling both Miss Megan and Mrs Bennet – the issue of spectacles. The tiny delicate pink-framed glasses, which this dimple-faced Bennet number three wore so well, had been part of Megan’s life since she was 17 months old. At one, her noticeable squint had raised a few concerns and various orthoptist appointments diagnosed long-sightedness in both eyes. The prognosis: a possible operation and specs for life, but the option of contact lenses when appearance mattered in the teen years. If any of the Miss Bennets were to have a problem with sight, this sweet-natured, accommodating child was the right one. She sat perfectly still in examinations and for six weeks wore a patch on her good eye (three hours a day) without complaining, largely because Mrs Bennet made matching left-eye patches for every doll in the Bennet household. Miss Bennet hardly ever took her glasses off, only to be cleaned or if she knew she was dropping off. She accepted her accessory.
School changed all that. On her first day, Miss Bennet relayed how one of the little boys in her class had pushed her glasses into her face with his hand. ("Why do children do that?" thought Mrs Bennet angrily) As soon as Miss Bennet had finished her morning classroom session, she took her specs off and refused to wear them. Later when piling into the Scooby Doo Van with her sisters she remarked:
“Mummy, why do I have to wear glasses and Naomi and Emily don’t?”
Mrs Bennet was about to give a sensitive reply, when the eldest Miss Bennet, without tact, did it for her.
“That’s because we can see better than you.”
If Mr Bennet had made such a comment – which he wouldn’t have done – she would have poked him. As it was her daughter, she gave her the look, which spoke a hundred words. The daughter didn’t need an interpretation.
Mrs Bennet managed to sooth her bespectacled-child. But the problem arose again the following day when she came out of the classroom, this time holding a scroll of white paper, with her glasses wrapped up inside.
“I fell over and broke them Mummy. And now I won’t be able to see,” explained the tearful girl, although probably enjoying the fact she looked like everyone else.
A reassuring hug from Mrs Bennet soothed the hurt. The teaching assistant reported how the children had just had a story about a dinosaur who couldn’t see and needed glasses. Mrs Bennet received this as her reassuring hug. Miss Megan would be well cared for, and though she was the only four-year-old wearing specs, so too was she the only one who matched her teacher – the lovely surrogate mother.
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Leaving a trace
Monday, September 15 08
Following Miss Kezia Bennet's police incident, she was now banned from using a phone until her 18th birthday. Having acquired her proficient dialling skills, she was therefore not impressed with either parent. Just as Jane Austen's girls in Pride & Prejudice were well-accomplished in reading, music and poetry, Miss Kezia knew she too must find another aptitude to add to her collection. So she became an artist. She picked up a colouring pencil and started producing works of art. But being an enthusiast, she quickly got fed up with paper and progressed onto canvas, plastic, wood, wall, door, tile and carpet.
Mrs Bennet knew nothing about her youngest daughter's talent until she started working at the computer. As any other artist, Miss Kezia Bennet had left her signature. The entire computer drive was plastered in a multi-coloured array of lines, criss-crossed in every direction. The artist hadn't left a blank mark on her chosen canvas.
Although slightly annoyed by the discovery, Mrs Bennet was rather impressed when she discovered it was her 16-month-old daughter rather than her four-year-old who had been responsible.
Later that evening, she realised that this artistic streak was contagious. Miss Rosie Bennet had obviously received the same flair by twin to twin transfusion, for she had almost tie-dyed her white long-sleeved top. She was sporting the new Bennet design - sporadic purple splodges and a matching purple tongue. The finishing touch was a purple dot on her nose and identical marks on her fingers. Her twin sister however was displeased. Also a victim of the purple felt-tip pen, she was quivering and holding out her stained hand in protest. She did NOT want to be part of the gallery.
The gallery had many exhibits. The conservatory windows revealed a mixture of hand and mouth prints; the carpet displayed an interesting mix of milk marks, paint, wine and other stains which shall remain nameless; the kitchen floor showed off scribbles, crushed raisins and stale toast crumbs and the upstairs rooms had the same contemporary feel as downstairs.
Everywhere Mrs Bennet looked there were traces of her children. Evidence of where they'd been and what they'd been doing. Yet there was a sense of freedom and warm assurance in their markings. It was the home gallery and she was proud of it. Every mark leaved a trace of
her daughters' personality, their joyful expression and creativity. And although at times she needed to remove the evidence, there were other times when it was comforting to leave the marks where they were. One day when they had left home, she would have a spotless house and how she would miss their childhood masterpieces.
Following Miss Kezia Bennet's police incident, she was now banned from using a phone until her 18th birthday. Having acquired her proficient dialling skills, she was therefore not impressed with either parent. Just as Jane Austen's girls in Pride & Prejudice were well-accomplished in reading, music and poetry, Miss Kezia knew she too must find another aptitude to add to her collection. So she became an artist. She picked up a colouring pencil and started producing works of art. But being an enthusiast, she quickly got fed up with paper and progressed onto canvas, plastic, wood, wall, door, tile and carpet.
Mrs Bennet knew nothing about her youngest daughter's talent until she started working at the computer. As any other artist, Miss Kezia Bennet had left her signature. The entire computer drive was plastered in a multi-coloured array of lines, criss-crossed in every direction. The artist hadn't left a blank mark on her chosen canvas.
Although slightly annoyed by the discovery, Mrs Bennet was rather impressed when she discovered it was her 16-month-old daughter rather than her four-year-old who had been responsible.
Later that evening, she realised that this artistic streak was contagious. Miss Rosie Bennet had obviously received the same flair by twin to twin transfusion, for she had almost tie-dyed her white long-sleeved top. She was sporting the new Bennet design - sporadic purple splodges and a matching purple tongue. The finishing touch was a purple dot on her nose and identical marks on her fingers. Her twin sister however was displeased. Also a victim of the purple felt-tip pen, she was quivering and holding out her stained hand in protest. She did NOT want to be part of the gallery.
The gallery had many exhibits. The conservatory windows revealed a mixture of hand and mouth prints; the carpet displayed an interesting mix of milk marks, paint, wine and other stains which shall remain nameless; the kitchen floor showed off scribbles, crushed raisins and stale toast crumbs and the upstairs rooms had the same contemporary feel as downstairs.
Everywhere Mrs Bennet looked there were traces of her children. Evidence of where they'd been and what they'd been doing. Yet there was a sense of freedom and warm assurance in their markings. It was the home gallery and she was proud of it. Every mark leaved a trace of
her daughters' personality, their joyful expression and creativity. And although at times she needed to remove the evidence, there were other times when it was comforting to leave the marks where they were. One day when they had left home, she would have a spotless house and how she would miss their childhood masterpieces.
Monday, 15 September 2008
You get back what you give!
Saturday, September 14 08
The clothes sculpture didn't end up on EBay. It ended up in the washing machine, textile bank and a charity shop. Miss Bennets numbers one, two and three were ecstatic to be reunited with long-forgotten coats, embracing them as if they were long-lost friends. But trouble struck when Miss Naomi Bennet inquired as to the whereabouts of her knitted furry lilac cardigan. Mrs Bennet, knowing full well that the said item was now tightly tucked up in a black plastic bag on a charity shop floor, decided to be truthful with her daughter, who hadn't worn it for well over a year.
"Oh, but that was my best cardigan and now I'll never ever wear it again!" declared the eldest Bennet, using all the dramatic gestures she could muster.
"But Naomi, you haven't worn it for at least a year," argued Mrs Bennet.
"That's because I couldn't find it and now you've got rid of it!" responded the daughter.
Mrs Bennet apologised profusely and tried to change the subject. The older three Bennets were about to walk into town with their mother with the view of spending book tokens they'd been given as presents. The twin Bennets had the exciting thrill of travelling to the tip with their father.
As Mrs Bennet marched down Stroud's High Street, she made a sudden veer to the right into the charity shop she'd taken part of the clothes sculpture to. Straight away she could see Miss Naomi Bennet's treasured cardigan hanging on a peg, wearing a £2.50 price tag.
She was prepared to buy back the mound of purple wool if she had to.
"I'm terribly sorry but I brought a big bag of clothes into your shop yesterday. Unfortunately my daughter here now wants her lilac cardigan back. It's here on this peg. I know it's ours because it's got a button missing," informed Mrs Bennet, pointing to the precious knitted piece.
She was half expecting the lady at the till to say she was sorry but she'd have to pay. But instead she replied: "Look we can't charge you for what is yours, so take it."
Miss Bennet was surprised and thrilled by her mother's efforts and bounced out of the shop, promising to wear her hand-knitted coat.
"It's true what they say .....you do get back what you give," smiled Mrs Bennet.
The clothes sculpture didn't end up on EBay. It ended up in the washing machine, textile bank and a charity shop. Miss Bennets numbers one, two and three were ecstatic to be reunited with long-forgotten coats, embracing them as if they were long-lost friends. But trouble struck when Miss Naomi Bennet inquired as to the whereabouts of her knitted furry lilac cardigan. Mrs Bennet, knowing full well that the said item was now tightly tucked up in a black plastic bag on a charity shop floor, decided to be truthful with her daughter, who hadn't worn it for well over a year.
"Oh, but that was my best cardigan and now I'll never ever wear it again!" declared the eldest Bennet, using all the dramatic gestures she could muster.
"But Naomi, you haven't worn it for at least a year," argued Mrs Bennet.
"That's because I couldn't find it and now you've got rid of it!" responded the daughter.
Mrs Bennet apologised profusely and tried to change the subject. The older three Bennets were about to walk into town with their mother with the view of spending book tokens they'd been given as presents. The twin Bennets had the exciting thrill of travelling to the tip with their father.
As Mrs Bennet marched down Stroud's High Street, she made a sudden veer to the right into the charity shop she'd taken part of the clothes sculpture to. Straight away she could see Miss Naomi Bennet's treasured cardigan hanging on a peg, wearing a £2.50 price tag.
She was prepared to buy back the mound of purple wool if she had to.
"I'm terribly sorry but I brought a big bag of clothes into your shop yesterday. Unfortunately my daughter here now wants her lilac cardigan back. It's here on this peg. I know it's ours because it's got a button missing," informed Mrs Bennet, pointing to the precious knitted piece.
She was half expecting the lady at the till to say she was sorry but she'd have to pay. But instead she replied: "Look we can't charge you for what is yours, so take it."
Miss Bennet was surprised and thrilled by her mother's efforts and bounced out of the shop, promising to wear her hand-knitted coat.
"It's true what they say .....you do get back what you give," smiled Mrs Bennet.
Sunday, 14 September 2008
The Clothes Sculpture
Friday, September 12 08
A domino effect took place when anything moved in the Bennet household. It brought frustrations similar to those caught up in a long complicated house chain, who were desperate to move and fed up with the hold-ups along the way. As the eldest Bennet daughter was only eight, potential Darcys, even if they were high pocket money earners, weren’t in a financial position to provide a mansion for her. So it fell on the shoulders of Mr and Mrs Bennet.
As the conservatory was being dismantled in the coming week or two, it therefore had to be emptied. In order to do that, room had to be made in the lounge. But in order to do that, key furniture items needed to be moved into storage. And in order to do that, they first had to be relieved from their current job as coat, toy and stuff hider.
Mrs Bennet had been informed on the Tuesday by her husband that these said objects were being moved out of the house on Saturday the 13th. As she was preparing herself for her daughter's first day at school, her mind wasn't on the job. It hadn't helped her nerves or those of Miss Megan Bennet that Mr Bennet flew off to Madrid directly after Miss Bennet had made her sobbing entry into the education system.
"You're really not going out there for work at all are you Mr Bennet? You're going to buy us a house in Spain so we can get some sun or perhaps you're making a drastic escape from the hormones?" she'd asked her husband, who smiled in reply.
So here she was, two days later, awaiting his return, with the lounge literally pulled inside out. The sofa chair hid a multitude of sins - namely 34 coats, four fleece jackets, seven jumpers, three knitted cardigans, a few books, a family of dead spiders, a shoe belonging to a twin and a liquorice sweet which had leaked its black tar over any arms and hoods within its reach.
As Mrs Bennet pulled the chair away, she was expecting the coats to avalanche on top of her. They didn't. Instead they were so moulded into the wall, they formed an impressive clothes sculpture, worthy of the Tate Gallery. Mr Bennet walked in fresh from the land of El Greco and Diego Velázquez to find Mrs Bennet taking a photo of the wall.
"Hello my dear Mr B, lovely to see you. Now what you see in front of you is a masterpiece you'll find nowhere else in the world," she informed him.
"No, you're quite right. There's the jacket I haven't seen for months!" remarked Mr Bennet.
"As it obviously doesn't need the chair to keep it up, I thought it could stay where it is."
"Or failing that, I could always put it on EBay and see how much we get for it!"
With a family of spiders included in the price, Mrs Bennet thought it would prove quite a bargain.
A domino effect took place when anything moved in the Bennet household. It brought frustrations similar to those caught up in a long complicated house chain, who were desperate to move and fed up with the hold-ups along the way. As the eldest Bennet daughter was only eight, potential Darcys, even if they were high pocket money earners, weren’t in a financial position to provide a mansion for her. So it fell on the shoulders of Mr and Mrs Bennet.
As the conservatory was being dismantled in the coming week or two, it therefore had to be emptied. In order to do that, room had to be made in the lounge. But in order to do that, key furniture items needed to be moved into storage. And in order to do that, they first had to be relieved from their current job as coat, toy and stuff hider.
Mrs Bennet had been informed on the Tuesday by her husband that these said objects were being moved out of the house on Saturday the 13th. As she was preparing herself for her daughter's first day at school, her mind wasn't on the job. It hadn't helped her nerves or those of Miss Megan Bennet that Mr Bennet flew off to Madrid directly after Miss Bennet had made her sobbing entry into the education system.
"You're really not going out there for work at all are you Mr Bennet? You're going to buy us a house in Spain so we can get some sun or perhaps you're making a drastic escape from the hormones?" she'd asked her husband, who smiled in reply.
So here she was, two days later, awaiting his return, with the lounge literally pulled inside out. The sofa chair hid a multitude of sins - namely 34 coats, four fleece jackets, seven jumpers, three knitted cardigans, a few books, a family of dead spiders, a shoe belonging to a twin and a liquorice sweet which had leaked its black tar over any arms and hoods within its reach.
As Mrs Bennet pulled the chair away, she was expecting the coats to avalanche on top of her. They didn't. Instead they were so moulded into the wall, they formed an impressive clothes sculpture, worthy of the Tate Gallery. Mr Bennet walked in fresh from the land of El Greco and Diego Velázquez to find Mrs Bennet taking a photo of the wall.
"Hello my dear Mr B, lovely to see you. Now what you see in front of you is a masterpiece you'll find nowhere else in the world," she informed him.
"No, you're quite right. There's the jacket I haven't seen for months!" remarked Mr Bennet.
"As it obviously doesn't need the chair to keep it up, I thought it could stay where it is."
"Or failing that, I could always put it on EBay and see how much we get for it!"
With a family of spiders included in the price, Mrs Bennet thought it would prove quite a bargain.
Saturday, 13 September 2008
Building Pemberley - the preamble
Building Pemberley
Setting the scene.......
“My dear Mr Bennet, if you think I’m going to live through major building work with five small children you’re going to have to think again. It’s all right for you, you’ll be off to work and I’ll have to cope with builders, babies, lots of mess and no space," Mrs Bennet, with her cheeks burning, paused for breath.
“Do you want a wife at the end of it? Because the only way I’m going to live through the building of Pemberley is by moving out!”
And that was that. Mrs Bennet wasn’t going to budge. She had sat cross-legged on the lounge sofa and glared at her husband, daring him to argue back. Mr Bennet, unaccustomed to such an outburst from the mother of his children, was stunned and realised he had said the wrong thing.
Mrs Bennet hadn’t intended to come out with such a torrent of words, but she had been so fed up with living in limbo, and trying to sell the house for 15 months on a non-selling market, the vision of babies eating dust, had caused her emotional kettle to boil. This outburst had taken place in April, a week after plans to change and convert their three bedroom home into a bite-size Pemberley (probably the size of Mr Darcy’s shed), had been approved.
The wife’s stubbornness (or was it sense?) had put plan A into place. The Bennets would move out and rent for six months. Co-incidentally a couple, who lived on the school doorstep, were off exploring the world for half the year, and needed tenants. But at the final hour, as the builders’ quotes came in, the Bennets were debating in the lounge, facing up to the reality that the credit crunch meant building materials and costs were far higher than originally hoped. Although Mrs Bennet was sitting cross-legged in the same spot as her April word shower, she realised with Plan B now in place, her sanity wasn’t going to be saved after all and she silently relented. How she would live through it, she didn’t know, but if she could carry twins against the odds, she decided she could and would survive this next obstacle.
“Look, if it comes to a choice of doing the work or not doing the work, then I’m prepared to stay,” Mrs Bennet whispered reluctantly, her heart sinking as she did so.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to put up with it,” Mr Bennet replied. “I didn’t want you to have to go through that, but it looks as if we don’t have much choice,” he replied, looking intently at his wad of paperwork.
In her mind’s eye, Mrs Bennet pictured two dust-covered headed one-year-olds toddling precariously gazing longingly at a feast of builder’s tools. She was thinking the worse. Despite this, her fighting spirit kicked in and if she had to cope with five children and a building site, then she would.
“This is not life-threatening. This is life-challenging,” she told herself. It would prove to be an interesting one, but she vowed to make it an adventure.
What she would gain would be her own Pemberley. In the meantime seven of them would be living in a lounge and two bedrooms, minus its conservatory, kitchen, garage, garden and third bedroom.
She made a vow – to get out as much as possible and to live in a café for six months with an escape novel and Mr Latte.
Setting the scene.......
“My dear Mr Bennet, if you think I’m going to live through major building work with five small children you’re going to have to think again. It’s all right for you, you’ll be off to work and I’ll have to cope with builders, babies, lots of mess and no space," Mrs Bennet, with her cheeks burning, paused for breath.
“Do you want a wife at the end of it? Because the only way I’m going to live through the building of Pemberley is by moving out!”
And that was that. Mrs Bennet wasn’t going to budge. She had sat cross-legged on the lounge sofa and glared at her husband, daring him to argue back. Mr Bennet, unaccustomed to such an outburst from the mother of his children, was stunned and realised he had said the wrong thing.
Mrs Bennet hadn’t intended to come out with such a torrent of words, but she had been so fed up with living in limbo, and trying to sell the house for 15 months on a non-selling market, the vision of babies eating dust, had caused her emotional kettle to boil. This outburst had taken place in April, a week after plans to change and convert their three bedroom home into a bite-size Pemberley (probably the size of Mr Darcy’s shed), had been approved.
The wife’s stubbornness (or was it sense?) had put plan A into place. The Bennets would move out and rent for six months. Co-incidentally a couple, who lived on the school doorstep, were off exploring the world for half the year, and needed tenants. But at the final hour, as the builders’ quotes came in, the Bennets were debating in the lounge, facing up to the reality that the credit crunch meant building materials and costs were far higher than originally hoped. Although Mrs Bennet was sitting cross-legged in the same spot as her April word shower, she realised with Plan B now in place, her sanity wasn’t going to be saved after all and she silently relented. How she would live through it, she didn’t know, but if she could carry twins against the odds, she decided she could and would survive this next obstacle.
“Look, if it comes to a choice of doing the work or not doing the work, then I’m prepared to stay,” Mrs Bennet whispered reluctantly, her heart sinking as she did so.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to put up with it,” Mr Bennet replied. “I didn’t want you to have to go through that, but it looks as if we don’t have much choice,” he replied, looking intently at his wad of paperwork.
In her mind’s eye, Mrs Bennet pictured two dust-covered headed one-year-olds toddling precariously gazing longingly at a feast of builder’s tools. She was thinking the worse. Despite this, her fighting spirit kicked in and if she had to cope with five children and a building site, then she would.
“This is not life-threatening. This is life-challenging,” she told herself. It would prove to be an interesting one, but she vowed to make it an adventure.
What she would gain would be her own Pemberley. In the meantime seven of them would be living in a lounge and two bedrooms, minus its conservatory, kitchen, garage, garden and third bedroom.
She made a vow – to get out as much as possible and to live in a café for six months with an escape novel and Mr Latte.
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
Miss Megan Bennet starts school
Wednesday, September 10 08
Miss Megan Bennet gripped her mother’s hand tightly. Head tilted towards shiny black cat-motif shoes, dressed in brand-new grey trousers, crisp white polo shirt and a bottle-green jumper, all slightly too big for her, Miss Bennet, silently and gingerly walked through the school gates to enter a sea of green. Mrs Bennet knew her four-year-old was bottling in a mixture of excitement yet nervousness. So gulping back the lump that was rising in her own throat, she whispered reassurances to her little girl. Both mother and daughter had been in and out of this playground ever since Miss Naomi Bennet, now eight, had started reception class. But today was different. Today marked the first stage in letting this little kite fly.
Two kites were already airborne. The Twin Bennets were still attached to the ground, but as they perfected their first steps, even they were starting to take off. Mrs Bennet realised it would be another 10 years before she left this school for good. Five kites would be flying well by then.
This morning though, pictures of Megan’s birth, first chuckle, first word and first step clicked though her mind. The tiny babe, born at 33 weeks in Liverpool, who’d become her singing, cheeky, chattering companion was leaving the apron strings. She would now be comforted by her surrogate mother, an adorable caring figure, who made learning so much fun, Mrs Bennet wanted to join the class.
“I hope they remember to clean her glasses. She can hardly see in the rain,” choked Mrs Bennet as the school bell rang. Fingers now in mouth, Miss Megan Bennet, wrapped her free hand round her mother’s leg. The short walk to the school entrance was a long one. Even though Miss Bennet’s surrogate mum approached with a beaming smile, the four-year-old clung limpet-like as her new classmates filed in with confidence.
Mrs Bennet had no choice but to join the line and help her whimpering child find her peg. The laminator had eaten her name tag so it was missing but another one quickly appeared complete with cup-cake picture. The limpet however was fixed. It meant the lovely surrogate mum had to remove the suction and embraced the child who sobbed her way into a brand new world. Mrs Bennet felt lost and spent much-needed time with Mr Bennet and Mr Latte.
Miss Megan Bennet gripped her mother’s hand tightly. Head tilted towards shiny black cat-motif shoes, dressed in brand-new grey trousers, crisp white polo shirt and a bottle-green jumper, all slightly too big for her, Miss Bennet, silently and gingerly walked through the school gates to enter a sea of green. Mrs Bennet knew her four-year-old was bottling in a mixture of excitement yet nervousness. So gulping back the lump that was rising in her own throat, she whispered reassurances to her little girl. Both mother and daughter had been in and out of this playground ever since Miss Naomi Bennet, now eight, had started reception class. But today was different. Today marked the first stage in letting this little kite fly.
Two kites were already airborne. The Twin Bennets were still attached to the ground, but as they perfected their first steps, even they were starting to take off. Mrs Bennet realised it would be another 10 years before she left this school for good. Five kites would be flying well by then.
This morning though, pictures of Megan’s birth, first chuckle, first word and first step clicked though her mind. The tiny babe, born at 33 weeks in Liverpool, who’d become her singing, cheeky, chattering companion was leaving the apron strings. She would now be comforted by her surrogate mother, an adorable caring figure, who made learning so much fun, Mrs Bennet wanted to join the class.
“I hope they remember to clean her glasses. She can hardly see in the rain,” choked Mrs Bennet as the school bell rang. Fingers now in mouth, Miss Megan Bennet, wrapped her free hand round her mother’s leg. The short walk to the school entrance was a long one. Even though Miss Bennet’s surrogate mum approached with a beaming smile, the four-year-old clung limpet-like as her new classmates filed in with confidence.
Mrs Bennet had no choice but to join the line and help her whimpering child find her peg. The laminator had eaten her name tag so it was missing but another one quickly appeared complete with cup-cake picture. The limpet however was fixed. It meant the lovely surrogate mum had to remove the suction and embraced the child who sobbed her way into a brand new world. Mrs Bennet felt lost and spent much-needed time with Mr Bennet and Mr Latte.
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
The things you do for love...
Tuesday, September 9 08
Mrs Bennet was stretched out like a cat, bottom in the air inspecting the dust under a chocolate-coloured leather sofa in a garden centre cafe. Not quite the lady-like behaviour one expects in such places. But then Mrs Bennet wasn't a lady. Well she was, but not in the posh frock sense. The glamour days of television were no more; her reporter's jackets, moth-eaten and musty were in the recycle of life. Instead, her uniform was now a trusty well-worn pair of jeans, long-sleeved cotton tops and bright purple Crocs; and, if time allowed to find one, a bright-coloured necklace, just to remind herself she was still there underneath the sensible motherhood attire.
She hadn't intended to stare at cobwebs, lost coins, fluff and stale crumbs, but it was an emergency. Miss Megan Bennet had dropped a pair of barbeque tongs. Not the normal size mind, the Playmobile thumbnail size.
"Why didn't I let Miss Bennet have the toy lion she so wanted or even that ugly-looking bean fish. Why did I say yes to a Playmobil figure of a man cooking sausages on a barbeque?"
No time for questions this was serious. If the plastic man didn't have his tongs he wouldn't be able to hold his sausages over the fire now would he? It wasn't a "it doesn't matter," scenario. These three words were totally the wrong words and would cause more damage, so Mrs Bennet did what she did best, humbled herself, grovelled on the floor and prayed the missing silver splinter would reappear.
Tomorrow was Miss Megan Bennet's first day at school and to mark her last day of being with mummy, she asked specifically if she could come to this particular garden centre because it had a pocket money shop. Mrs Bennet had promised she could buy something.
Having got the double pushchair through the door, the twins had to sit there and wait as their wagon couldn't fit much further into the shop. One was asleep, the other content to sit and study a packet of hairbands while her older sibling studied every toy in the shop before making a choice. The barbeque man represented the summer that never was, but Miss Megan Bennet was adamant she was taking a piece of summer home with her. This man, wearing a special apron and armed with his fork was going to prepare a feast for her Sylvannian family collection.
Not wanting to disappoint the tiny ducks, badger, bears and pandas, who no doubt would be dressed in their finery for the occasion, Mrs Bennet was set on finding the missing instruments which enabled the chef to turn his sausages and serve the meat to his mini zoo.
Amused by the sight of their mother's bottom, the twins started pointing and laughing, almost sharing an unspoken joke between themselves. Mrs Megan Bennet was distraught. Mrs Bennet was determined. But the dirty knees paid off. As a last resort, Mrs Bennet moved a table leg, and there, looking like a tiny sword, the grey tongs revealed themselves.
It was worth the effort seeing the tiny ducklings and mice enjoy themselves. Where the barbeque man and his tongs were now Mrs Bennet had no idea.
"Best not mention barbeque for a while," she thought. "If the B word is mentioned again, I'll suggest the Sylvannians have a picnic instead."
Mrs Bennet was stretched out like a cat, bottom in the air inspecting the dust under a chocolate-coloured leather sofa in a garden centre cafe. Not quite the lady-like behaviour one expects in such places. But then Mrs Bennet wasn't a lady. Well she was, but not in the posh frock sense. The glamour days of television were no more; her reporter's jackets, moth-eaten and musty were in the recycle of life. Instead, her uniform was now a trusty well-worn pair of jeans, long-sleeved cotton tops and bright purple Crocs; and, if time allowed to find one, a bright-coloured necklace, just to remind herself she was still there underneath the sensible motherhood attire.
She hadn't intended to stare at cobwebs, lost coins, fluff and stale crumbs, but it was an emergency. Miss Megan Bennet had dropped a pair of barbeque tongs. Not the normal size mind, the Playmobile thumbnail size.
"Why didn't I let Miss Bennet have the toy lion she so wanted or even that ugly-looking bean fish. Why did I say yes to a Playmobil figure of a man cooking sausages on a barbeque?"
No time for questions this was serious. If the plastic man didn't have his tongs he wouldn't be able to hold his sausages over the fire now would he? It wasn't a "it doesn't matter," scenario. These three words were totally the wrong words and would cause more damage, so Mrs Bennet did what she did best, humbled herself, grovelled on the floor and prayed the missing silver splinter would reappear.
Tomorrow was Miss Megan Bennet's first day at school and to mark her last day of being with mummy, she asked specifically if she could come to this particular garden centre because it had a pocket money shop. Mrs Bennet had promised she could buy something.
Having got the double pushchair through the door, the twins had to sit there and wait as their wagon couldn't fit much further into the shop. One was asleep, the other content to sit and study a packet of hairbands while her older sibling studied every toy in the shop before making a choice. The barbeque man represented the summer that never was, but Miss Megan Bennet was adamant she was taking a piece of summer home with her. This man, wearing a special apron and armed with his fork was going to prepare a feast for her Sylvannian family collection.
Not wanting to disappoint the tiny ducks, badger, bears and pandas, who no doubt would be dressed in their finery for the occasion, Mrs Bennet was set on finding the missing instruments which enabled the chef to turn his sausages and serve the meat to his mini zoo.
Amused by the sight of their mother's bottom, the twins started pointing and laughing, almost sharing an unspoken joke between themselves. Mrs Megan Bennet was distraught. Mrs Bennet was determined. But the dirty knees paid off. As a last resort, Mrs Bennet moved a table leg, and there, looking like a tiny sword, the grey tongs revealed themselves.
It was worth the effort seeing the tiny ducklings and mice enjoy themselves. Where the barbeque man and his tongs were now Mrs Bennet had no idea.
"Best not mention barbeque for a while," she thought. "If the B word is mentioned again, I'll suggest the Sylvannians have a picnic instead."
Monday, 8 September 2008
Questions, questions, questions....
Monday, September 8 08
"There really ought to be an "answers page" attached to a baby as it's born," decided Mrs Bennet, who was exhausted by the question missiles which knocked her down on a daily basis.
"Puzzle books have an answer section, but there's no such thing for mothers. If only we could press a button on our head so a witty reply appeared instantly in the brain."
But witty replies weren't flowing. The in tray was too full and there was a problem with the out tray. It was clogging up. It was hardly surprising considering what was expected of it.
"Why has that lady got pink hair?" asked one Miss Bennet, while the other inquired: "When you shave your legs Mummy, is it like peeling a carrot?" At the same time, one twin Bennet, in her own way (i.e. crying) demanded: "But why can't I hit my sister on the head with a brush?" Meanwhile, the twin who was being bashed, was equally upset because her mother had taken an object off her too, so her cries were a combination of pain due to the brush weapon and confusion as to "Why can't I suck the yellow lead out of the pencil?"
Miss Bennet number two was by no means silent on the questioning front. "It's not fair, why haven't I got a magazine," or "Why has she got some chocolate and I haven't?"
Mrs Bennet frequently asked the question "why?" herself. It was normally when she put strange things in strange places; lost her keys when she had them just moments earlier or when she walked into the door, because she'd forgotten to open it first. But she did emphasise with one of her daughters, who during one bath time asked: "Why did God create nits?" "Mmm," she thought, "I'm not sure the answer to that one."
"There really ought to be an "answers page" attached to a baby as it's born," decided Mrs Bennet, who was exhausted by the question missiles which knocked her down on a daily basis.
"Puzzle books have an answer section, but there's no such thing for mothers. If only we could press a button on our head so a witty reply appeared instantly in the brain."
But witty replies weren't flowing. The in tray was too full and there was a problem with the out tray. It was clogging up. It was hardly surprising considering what was expected of it.
"Why has that lady got pink hair?" asked one Miss Bennet, while the other inquired: "When you shave your legs Mummy, is it like peeling a carrot?" At the same time, one twin Bennet, in her own way (i.e. crying) demanded: "But why can't I hit my sister on the head with a brush?" Meanwhile, the twin who was being bashed, was equally upset because her mother had taken an object off her too, so her cries were a combination of pain due to the brush weapon and confusion as to "Why can't I suck the yellow lead out of the pencil?"
Miss Bennet number two was by no means silent on the questioning front. "It's not fair, why haven't I got a magazine," or "Why has she got some chocolate and I haven't?"
Mrs Bennet frequently asked the question "why?" herself. It was normally when she put strange things in strange places; lost her keys when she had them just moments earlier or when she walked into the door, because she'd forgotten to open it first. But she did emphasise with one of her daughters, who during one bath time asked: "Why did God create nits?" "Mmm," she thought, "I'm not sure the answer to that one."
Sunday, 7 September 2008
Knocked out by a Weeble
Saturday, September 6 08
"You can't breast feed a baby when she's whacking you with a Weeble!" declared a rather bruised Mrs Bennet, who'd come to the conclusion that whilst a Weeble wobbles and won't fall down, it did half hurt when it was being used as a weapon. But Miss Kezia Bennet wasn't letting go of her weighted toy or her mother's nipple. The cow mooed in protest, the calf mooed in jest. The cow didn't find the scenario as amusing as the calf and thought it was probably time to close the milk bar for good, but couldn't quite shut the door. Ironically the Weeble was in the dairy business himself. He was a modern Weeble, dressed as an ice-cream seller.
"Perhaps he's looking for ingredients. Unfortunately he's two years too late," thought Mrs Bennet. In the days when the Bennet chest freezer was full, hidden under a bag of frozen blackberries, were 10 small bottles of breast milk, which Miss Megan Bennet had never got round to drinking. She was two years old when Mrs Bennet discovered the supply. The Twin Bennets didn't have the luxury of a frozen creamery. Tandem feeding meant there wasn't any surplus. And as Miss Kezia Bennet now had the milk supply to herself, Mrs Bennet had no inclination to be plugged into a suction pump, which left two of her most sensitive body parts looking like whipped cream peaks.
Mrs Bennet worked it out that she had been consistently producing babies and milk for nine years. Nine years! Was she mad?
As the Weeble hit her funny bone, she concluded that yes she probably was. But when it came to looking after five little Bennets and an outnumbered male, a touch of madness almost certainly helped!
"You can't breast feed a baby when she's whacking you with a Weeble!" declared a rather bruised Mrs Bennet, who'd come to the conclusion that whilst a Weeble wobbles and won't fall down, it did half hurt when it was being used as a weapon. But Miss Kezia Bennet wasn't letting go of her weighted toy or her mother's nipple. The cow mooed in protest, the calf mooed in jest. The cow didn't find the scenario as amusing as the calf and thought it was probably time to close the milk bar for good, but couldn't quite shut the door. Ironically the Weeble was in the dairy business himself. He was a modern Weeble, dressed as an ice-cream seller.
"Perhaps he's looking for ingredients. Unfortunately he's two years too late," thought Mrs Bennet. In the days when the Bennet chest freezer was full, hidden under a bag of frozen blackberries, were 10 small bottles of breast milk, which Miss Megan Bennet had never got round to drinking. She was two years old when Mrs Bennet discovered the supply. The Twin Bennets didn't have the luxury of a frozen creamery. Tandem feeding meant there wasn't any surplus. And as Miss Kezia Bennet now had the milk supply to herself, Mrs Bennet had no inclination to be plugged into a suction pump, which left two of her most sensitive body parts looking like whipped cream peaks.
Mrs Bennet worked it out that she had been consistently producing babies and milk for nine years. Nine years! Was she mad?
As the Weeble hit her funny bone, she concluded that yes she probably was. But when it came to looking after five little Bennets and an outnumbered male, a touch of madness almost certainly helped!
Friday, 5 September 2008
Sexy Sat Nav needed
Thursday, September 4 08
"It will take you two days to reach your destination!" announced the formidable Irish voice of Sybil, as she took her place in the front passenger seat.
Mrs Bennet, who had never been ordered about by a body-less female before, turned and looked quizzically at her human travelling companion, who did have a body.
"What did she say?!" she asked in disbelief. They were only going to Cheltenham, 12 miles away. "She's got a bit confused. She hasn't found a signal yet and still thinks she's in Spain. She's programmed to find Alicante airport," replied her friend, who was responsible for calling the Bennet collective, "The Pink."
Torrential rain was hammering against the windscreen; darkness was enveloping the Scooby Doo Van and wipers were wiping so fast they were almost flying. Mrs Bennet stared at Sybil, a portable Sat Nav box sitting on her friend's lap, then turned to her friend, whose own two mini pinks were at school.
"I'm sure Mr Bennet won't mind. Can't we go to Alicante instead?" she asked.
Having got lost on Monday night in Rodborough, her childhood parish, Mrs Bennet was grateful for any help when it came to directions, which never had been her strong point. As an 18-year-old cub reporter for the local newspaper she used to drive a mustard-yellow mini, baring the registration A319HDF, which according to her friends, stood for A Hopeless Direction Follower.
Sybil was being quite forthright with instructions. The little twin Bennets, who were chirping in the back, were stunned into silence as they tried to figure out where the foreign voice was coming from.
"After 600 metres, take the second exit on the right!"
"Oh help," thought Mrs Bennet, knowing full well she had a mental block when it came to lefts and rights. Mr Bennet had got used to her inability to differentiate between the two and instead told his wife to go "this way and that."
"I thought you were only joking when you wrote about it in your blog," remarked her pink friend, "but you weren't were you!"
Sybil chose not to comment. She just repeated her order.
"Why did you choose a lady Sat Nav?" asked Mrs Bennet.
"I didn't. Mr Pink did. It's funny because he doesn't usually like a woman telling him what to do. But then may be it would be worse taking orders from a man!" replied her friend, adding:
"Personally I rather fancy having a Mr Tom Tom keeping me company."
"I don't know, I'd prefer Mr Latte or Mr Cappuccino to help me on my way," chipped in Mrs Bennet, "So long as he was kind and had a deep sexy Irish voice."
Sybil finally announced they had reached their destination with an air of victory. Mrs Bennet resolved to ask Santa Clause for a Mr Latte Sat Nav for Christmas - so long as he was programmed to take her to Alicante and instructions on the box didn't say "body not included."
"It will take you two days to reach your destination!" announced the formidable Irish voice of Sybil, as she took her place in the front passenger seat.
Mrs Bennet, who had never been ordered about by a body-less female before, turned and looked quizzically at her human travelling companion, who did have a body.
"What did she say?!" she asked in disbelief. They were only going to Cheltenham, 12 miles away. "She's got a bit confused. She hasn't found a signal yet and still thinks she's in Spain. She's programmed to find Alicante airport," replied her friend, who was responsible for calling the Bennet collective, "The Pink."
Torrential rain was hammering against the windscreen; darkness was enveloping the Scooby Doo Van and wipers were wiping so fast they were almost flying. Mrs Bennet stared at Sybil, a portable Sat Nav box sitting on her friend's lap, then turned to her friend, whose own two mini pinks were at school.
"I'm sure Mr Bennet won't mind. Can't we go to Alicante instead?" she asked.
Having got lost on Monday night in Rodborough, her childhood parish, Mrs Bennet was grateful for any help when it came to directions, which never had been her strong point. As an 18-year-old cub reporter for the local newspaper she used to drive a mustard-yellow mini, baring the registration A319HDF, which according to her friends, stood for A Hopeless Direction Follower.
Sybil was being quite forthright with instructions. The little twin Bennets, who were chirping in the back, were stunned into silence as they tried to figure out where the foreign voice was coming from.
"After 600 metres, take the second exit on the right!"
"Oh help," thought Mrs Bennet, knowing full well she had a mental block when it came to lefts and rights. Mr Bennet had got used to her inability to differentiate between the two and instead told his wife to go "this way and that."
"I thought you were only joking when you wrote about it in your blog," remarked her pink friend, "but you weren't were you!"
Sybil chose not to comment. She just repeated her order.
"Why did you choose a lady Sat Nav?" asked Mrs Bennet.
"I didn't. Mr Pink did. It's funny because he doesn't usually like a woman telling him what to do. But then may be it would be worse taking orders from a man!" replied her friend, adding:
"Personally I rather fancy having a Mr Tom Tom keeping me company."
"I don't know, I'd prefer Mr Latte or Mr Cappuccino to help me on my way," chipped in Mrs Bennet, "So long as he was kind and had a deep sexy Irish voice."
Sybil finally announced they had reached their destination with an air of victory. Mrs Bennet resolved to ask Santa Clause for a Mr Latte Sat Nav for Christmas - so long as he was programmed to take her to Alicante and instructions on the box didn't say "body not included."
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
School's back and the mad mornings begin
Wednesday, September 3 08
The day went something like this
1.00am – Mrs Bennet finally falls asleep
2.13am – Miss Rosie Bennet awakes
2.30am – Mrs Bennet falls asleep again
3.04am – Miss Kezia Bennet cries out in sleep waking Mrs Bennet
3.15 am – Mrs Bennet is reunited with her friend Sleep
6.45am – Mrs Bennet is separated from Sleep due to Milk Bar opening for Miss Kezia Bennet
7.30am – Two lunch boxes are made up and lined up by door
7.45am – Cereal is passed round to willing eaters, Weetabix gunge sticks to floor
7.55am – Various items of clothes are distributed to Miss Bennets numbers three, four and five 7.56am - Mr Bennet eats, shoots a kiss and leaves
8.00am – Nappy changes for runaway bottoms
8.10am – Mrs Bennet realises she is not dressed
8.15am – Mrs Bennet slurps cold tea, grabs a brush and works from Bennet head to head. She spikes her own hair with buttered toast fingers. Butter acts as a good gel.
8.20am – Miss Bennet number three can only find one trainer. Mrs Bennet who is changing another moving bottom, sends daughter number two to help.
8.25am – Six sets of teeth (if you can count two teeth as a set) are brushed.
8.30am – Mrs Bennet orders coats on, shoes on and a disorderly line up by the door.
8.35am – Five neatly brushed heads and a buttered toasted one are now soggy due to rain.
8.40am – The Bennet bus finally leaves to find a space big enough to cater for a large backside.
8.45am – Miss Naomi Bennet runs through school gate, too eager to get back to studying. Doesn’t say goodbye.
8.50am – Four little Bennets and a Mrs Bennet get lost in a sea of green uniform, shivers, raincoats and chattering children.
9.00am – The bell goes, surrogate mums and dads collect pupils, march them inside leaving mums bereft of some or all of their childrem. All is strangely quiet.
9.05am – Miss Bennet number three moans, Miss Bennet number four groans and Miss Bennet number five who's hanging dangerously out of pushchair tries to eat the rain. A dripping and bedraggled Mrs Bennet realises it’s going to be a very long day.
The farcical routine of carrying babies in, then out, to put them back into car, to take them out and then lifting them in again, out, in, out, in, out has begun. As it’s swimming lesson day, Mrs Bennet and all five children go to the pool: two in the water at 4.30pm, who get out as another gets in, while smaller two walk around the walls of the viewing gallery, picking up whatever they can find on the floor. Somehow all six get home. The only missing item is a new labelled green cardigan which went to school on Miss Bennet number one’s body, but went home on someone else's. Oh and a few brain cells which once belonged to Mrs Bennet. She accidentally put them in Miss Bennet number two’s lunch box.
The day went something like this
1.00am – Mrs Bennet finally falls asleep
2.13am – Miss Rosie Bennet awakes
2.30am – Mrs Bennet falls asleep again
3.04am – Miss Kezia Bennet cries out in sleep waking Mrs Bennet
3.15 am – Mrs Bennet is reunited with her friend Sleep
6.45am – Mrs Bennet is separated from Sleep due to Milk Bar opening for Miss Kezia Bennet
7.30am – Two lunch boxes are made up and lined up by door
7.45am – Cereal is passed round to willing eaters, Weetabix gunge sticks to floor
7.55am – Various items of clothes are distributed to Miss Bennets numbers three, four and five 7.56am - Mr Bennet eats, shoots a kiss and leaves
8.00am – Nappy changes for runaway bottoms
8.10am – Mrs Bennet realises she is not dressed
8.15am – Mrs Bennet slurps cold tea, grabs a brush and works from Bennet head to head. She spikes her own hair with buttered toast fingers. Butter acts as a good gel.
8.20am – Miss Bennet number three can only find one trainer. Mrs Bennet who is changing another moving bottom, sends daughter number two to help.
8.25am – Six sets of teeth (if you can count two teeth as a set) are brushed.
8.30am – Mrs Bennet orders coats on, shoes on and a disorderly line up by the door.
8.35am – Five neatly brushed heads and a buttered toasted one are now soggy due to rain.
8.40am – The Bennet bus finally leaves to find a space big enough to cater for a large backside.
8.45am – Miss Naomi Bennet runs through school gate, too eager to get back to studying. Doesn’t say goodbye.
8.50am – Four little Bennets and a Mrs Bennet get lost in a sea of green uniform, shivers, raincoats and chattering children.
9.00am – The bell goes, surrogate mums and dads collect pupils, march them inside leaving mums bereft of some or all of their childrem. All is strangely quiet.
9.05am – Miss Bennet number three moans, Miss Bennet number four groans and Miss Bennet number five who's hanging dangerously out of pushchair tries to eat the rain. A dripping and bedraggled Mrs Bennet realises it’s going to be a very long day.
The farcical routine of carrying babies in, then out, to put them back into car, to take them out and then lifting them in again, out, in, out, in, out has begun. As it’s swimming lesson day, Mrs Bennet and all five children go to the pool: two in the water at 4.30pm, who get out as another gets in, while smaller two walk around the walls of the viewing gallery, picking up whatever they can find on the floor. Somehow all six get home. The only missing item is a new labelled green cardigan which went to school on Miss Bennet number one’s body, but went home on someone else's. Oh and a few brain cells which once belonged to Mrs Bennet. She accidentally put them in Miss Bennet number two’s lunch box.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Partridge in a pear tree
Tuesday, September 2 08
They say in life we all have a double. According to her daughters, Mrs Bennet met her's in Bourton-on-the-Water, the Venice of the Cotswolds. It was a Roul Roul Partridge, a charming aviary bird with a spectacular spiky reddish crest which apparently in its Asian tropical rainforest habitat, spends the day foraging on the forest floor, following wild pigs and feeding on their left-overs.
"Sounds about right," thought Mrs Bennet, who like most mothers ate her offspring's left-overs if they were appetising enough.
It was the last day of the school holidays and having won tickets to Birdland, Mr Bennet suggested a family day out. In theory Mrs Bennet thought this was a good idea, but the reality was, the last day of the holidays, for a mother, was probably worse than the first and the little Bennets very nearly didn't get to go. Rebellion in the Bennet camp had set in and refusals to have fringes cut was just about the last straw for frazzled Mrs Bennet, who realised too late that essential items - which also had to be labelled - were missing from the PE bags, as were white socks, ironed shirts and jumpers. With three children to kit out, it was practically impossible to keep tabs on who fitted what. What she thought fit, no longer did.
"Perhaps they've shrunk in the wash," she suggested, looking at a pair of trousers.
"Probably best to put the kids in the tumble dryer too. That way they might fit."
The way she was feeling, she could quite happily have done so but she didn't want Miss Kezia Bennet reporting her to the police for cruelty.
Once her nerves were settled, the Bennets finally did venture out in the driving cold rain. Mrs Bennet firmly believed summer and winter had done a foreign exchange visit. Either that or they were having an affair. In between showers, the Bennets hopped from cage to cage admiring the Lilac-breasted Roller, Bartlett's Bleeding Heart Pigeon and the Northern Helmeted Curassow which looked ready for war.
"I need a helmet like that to protect me from five daughters and a husband," thought Mrs Bennet, making a mental note to find one. It was then the Miss Bennets spotted the Roul Roul and announced:
"Mummy, this bird looks like you!"
Whether this was intended as a compliment or not, Mrs Bennet wasn't sure. Her red highlights indeed stuck up like this partridge and its pecking movements were familiar. However, what concerned her most was in reading about this particular bird later that evening, she discovered it was in fact the male. Her double was a bird man!
She did however take comfort in Miss Naomi Bennet's later observation. Listening intently to a live commentary on Emperor Penguins, she noted that the female only lays one egg, which is then rolled to the top of the male's feet where it's incubated. He can't cope with two eggs on his feet at once.
"That penguin can't do what you can do Mummy. It can't have twins!" she announced to the packed and silent audience of penguin viewers, who were incidentally being filmed for a BBC programme.
"That's OK then, I may look like a partridge but I have more skills than an Emperor Penguin. I wish Mr Bennet could have helped incubate my eggs though," she murmured.
Back at the car park, in desperate need of a natural break before the journey home, the Bennets were forced to make a difficult decision. It cost 20 pence to use the plush public conveniences, and all seven Bennets needed to use them. Mr Bennet, with the only 20 pence piece, survived on the "buy one, take three free" basis, leaving Mrs Bennet to change the twins, somewhat precariously on a car seat and cross her legs all the way home.
They say in life we all have a double. According to her daughters, Mrs Bennet met her's in Bourton-on-the-Water, the Venice of the Cotswolds. It was a Roul Roul Partridge, a charming aviary bird with a spectacular spiky reddish crest which apparently in its Asian tropical rainforest habitat, spends the day foraging on the forest floor, following wild pigs and feeding on their left-overs.
"Sounds about right," thought Mrs Bennet, who like most mothers ate her offspring's left-overs if they were appetising enough.
It was the last day of the school holidays and having won tickets to Birdland, Mr Bennet suggested a family day out. In theory Mrs Bennet thought this was a good idea, but the reality was, the last day of the holidays, for a mother, was probably worse than the first and the little Bennets very nearly didn't get to go. Rebellion in the Bennet camp had set in and refusals to have fringes cut was just about the last straw for frazzled Mrs Bennet, who realised too late that essential items - which also had to be labelled - were missing from the PE bags, as were white socks, ironed shirts and jumpers. With three children to kit out, it was practically impossible to keep tabs on who fitted what. What she thought fit, no longer did.
"Perhaps they've shrunk in the wash," she suggested, looking at a pair of trousers.
"Probably best to put the kids in the tumble dryer too. That way they might fit."
The way she was feeling, she could quite happily have done so but she didn't want Miss Kezia Bennet reporting her to the police for cruelty.
Once her nerves were settled, the Bennets finally did venture out in the driving cold rain. Mrs Bennet firmly believed summer and winter had done a foreign exchange visit. Either that or they were having an affair. In between showers, the Bennets hopped from cage to cage admiring the Lilac-breasted Roller, Bartlett's Bleeding Heart Pigeon and the Northern Helmeted Curassow which looked ready for war.
"I need a helmet like that to protect me from five daughters and a husband," thought Mrs Bennet, making a mental note to find one. It was then the Miss Bennets spotted the Roul Roul and announced:
"Mummy, this bird looks like you!"
Whether this was intended as a compliment or not, Mrs Bennet wasn't sure. Her red highlights indeed stuck up like this partridge and its pecking movements were familiar. However, what concerned her most was in reading about this particular bird later that evening, she discovered it was in fact the male. Her double was a bird man!
She did however take comfort in Miss Naomi Bennet's later observation. Listening intently to a live commentary on Emperor Penguins, she noted that the female only lays one egg, which is then rolled to the top of the male's feet where it's incubated. He can't cope with two eggs on his feet at once.
"That penguin can't do what you can do Mummy. It can't have twins!" she announced to the packed and silent audience of penguin viewers, who were incidentally being filmed for a BBC programme.
"That's OK then, I may look like a partridge but I have more skills than an Emperor Penguin. I wish Mr Bennet could have helped incubate my eggs though," she murmured.
Back at the car park, in desperate need of a natural break before the journey home, the Bennets were forced to make a difficult decision. It cost 20 pence to use the plush public conveniences, and all seven Bennets needed to use them. Mr Bennet, with the only 20 pence piece, survived on the "buy one, take three free" basis, leaving Mrs Bennet to change the twins, somewhat precariously on a car seat and cross her legs all the way home.
Monday, 1 September 2008
Mrs Bennet doesn't bounce
Monday, September 1 08
“Phew we’ve reached September!” declared Mrs Bennet with an air of triumph. “A few bruises, a sore tooth, a bit soggy and frayed nerves, but we're near the end. The Summer Horridays are almost over.”
For some reason the children’s voices were reaching heights they shouldn’t reach and their bodies were doing much the same. And that was without E numbers.
“What can we do Mummy?” and “I’m bored, there’s nothing to do,” were the resounding cries, mingled with the usual “I’m hungry,” “She’s being horrible to me,” and “No, I’m not putting it away!” It was the final leg of the school holiday marathon and everyone was flagging.
To cheer the tired athletes, Mrs Bennet thought it would be a good idea if the Miss Bennets invited a few friends to the Bennet cinema complex. The mashed potato weather meant meeting in the park was off. So tickets were created, a seating plan devised, lounge lights went out and film viewers were shown their allocated numbered chairs by torchlight. All was going well until the twin Bennets were added to the auditorium. Bewildered by four extra screaming females and the fact their playground was plunged in darkness, they freaked out and had to be rescued. Behaviour which normally applied in cinema settings no longer applied and what Mrs Bennet thought would be an easy couple of hours, involved little people wondering about in search of popcorn, chocolate and toilet; loud chatter from the older viewers in the back row and outcries from those on the small front seats, who really wanted to watch the film thank you very much. The cinema owner was forced to expel the two elder Bennets and their friends to the projector room upstairs, where their voices and bodies continued to bounce in ping-ball fashion.
Mrs Bennet's body didn’t bounce as well as her children’s. Her bare feet slipped on the stairs, plunging her undaintily downwards. She was holding Miss Kezia Bennet at the time. So concerned was she for her daughter's well being, she forgot her own, tightened her grip round the babe and left no free hand to stop the fall. A chest of drawers did it for her. Mrs Bennet sat in a crumbled heap, confused and hurt. Miss Kezia Bennet was full of smiles, enjoyed the ride and was clearly up for more. However Mrs Bennet's lack of bounce momentarily cured the bouncing problem of the Miss Bennets. So stunned by her performance, the elder Miss Bennets stopped their Tigger antics. Instead in Pooh Bear-like, they were ready to offer their last lick of honey to revive their poor mother. She would have preferred something stronger, but having someone to hand over an excited flapping child was enough to give her time to stop shaking and get her legs reworking.
In the car a few hours later she got lost looking for a willow sculptor she was supposed to be interviewing and had to call in on close friends for help. It would have been acceptable if it was miles away. But it was in the very village she had spent her childhood! She blamed it on the fall.
Three hours later she returned to a concerned Mr Bennet, who was not at all surprised by his wife's explanation. Distinguishing left and right was not one of Mrs Bennet’s strengths and she knew for once Mr Latte couldn’t be blamed. Realising she wouldn't get sympathy from her husband, she turned to the bath for comfort. As she sunk below the bubbles, she vowed a) to choose a safer way of getting down the stairs and b) not to have nine children.
“Phew we’ve reached September!” declared Mrs Bennet with an air of triumph. “A few bruises, a sore tooth, a bit soggy and frayed nerves, but we're near the end. The Summer Horridays are almost over.”
For some reason the children’s voices were reaching heights they shouldn’t reach and their bodies were doing much the same. And that was without E numbers.
“What can we do Mummy?” and “I’m bored, there’s nothing to do,” were the resounding cries, mingled with the usual “I’m hungry,” “She’s being horrible to me,” and “No, I’m not putting it away!” It was the final leg of the school holiday marathon and everyone was flagging.
To cheer the tired athletes, Mrs Bennet thought it would be a good idea if the Miss Bennets invited a few friends to the Bennet cinema complex. The mashed potato weather meant meeting in the park was off. So tickets were created, a seating plan devised, lounge lights went out and film viewers were shown their allocated numbered chairs by torchlight. All was going well until the twin Bennets were added to the auditorium. Bewildered by four extra screaming females and the fact their playground was plunged in darkness, they freaked out and had to be rescued. Behaviour which normally applied in cinema settings no longer applied and what Mrs Bennet thought would be an easy couple of hours, involved little people wondering about in search of popcorn, chocolate and toilet; loud chatter from the older viewers in the back row and outcries from those on the small front seats, who really wanted to watch the film thank you very much. The cinema owner was forced to expel the two elder Bennets and their friends to the projector room upstairs, where their voices and bodies continued to bounce in ping-ball fashion.
Mrs Bennet's body didn’t bounce as well as her children’s. Her bare feet slipped on the stairs, plunging her undaintily downwards. She was holding Miss Kezia Bennet at the time. So concerned was she for her daughter's well being, she forgot her own, tightened her grip round the babe and left no free hand to stop the fall. A chest of drawers did it for her. Mrs Bennet sat in a crumbled heap, confused and hurt. Miss Kezia Bennet was full of smiles, enjoyed the ride and was clearly up for more. However Mrs Bennet's lack of bounce momentarily cured the bouncing problem of the Miss Bennets. So stunned by her performance, the elder Miss Bennets stopped their Tigger antics. Instead in Pooh Bear-like, they were ready to offer their last lick of honey to revive their poor mother. She would have preferred something stronger, but having someone to hand over an excited flapping child was enough to give her time to stop shaking and get her legs reworking.
In the car a few hours later she got lost looking for a willow sculptor she was supposed to be interviewing and had to call in on close friends for help. It would have been acceptable if it was miles away. But it was in the very village she had spent her childhood! She blamed it on the fall.
Three hours later she returned to a concerned Mr Bennet, who was not at all surprised by his wife's explanation. Distinguishing left and right was not one of Mrs Bennet’s strengths and she knew for once Mr Latte couldn’t be blamed. Realising she wouldn't get sympathy from her husband, she turned to the bath for comfort. As she sunk below the bubbles, she vowed a) to choose a safer way of getting down the stairs and b) not to have nine children.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
