Love Tank Empty

Friday, February 27 ‘09

Mrs Bennet’s Love Tank was empty. There wasn’t a single gold penny left in it. She’d ensured her daughters’ love tanks were full, but hadn’t anticipated them emptying hers in the process.
Earlier that day while the Miss Twin Bennets were having their lunch time nap, Mrs Bennet was preparing a session on emotional security for a parent facilitator’s qualification. The illustration she was using was a love tank – representing a child’s emotional bank account. By adding credit through praise, encouragement, kind works, spending time and having fun, a child’s love tank could be filled so they felt good about themselves. Love coins were lost if a child hurt himself, was treated unkindly by friends or shouted at. By the end of the day, although Mrs Bennet had done her utmost to ensure her five children’s bank accounts looked healthy; her own love tank was anything but.
She was sitting on the bottom stair, nursing a scorched shin. She had pulled out one of the oven shelves too far, causing her prized expensive square stone baking dish to tip out and smash its hot chicken contents on to the tiled kitchen floor and its boiling hot olive oil over the unsuspecting Mrs Bennet. The double pain of burning fat and watching her favourite dish crash to the ground was just too much after a trying and torturous afternoon counteracting an onslaught of moans, groans, whines and demands. She burst into tears, rubbing her stinging leg while Mr Bennet rushed to her aid, ordered her to put cold water on it and proceeded to clear up the mess.
A few love tokens were added to her empty tank by that gesture alone. She had thought she was in credit, but once school had ended, it didn’t take long before her bank balance was in the red.
To have one of the Bennet girls go off on a rebellious tangent was bad enough. To have four of them do so – and in full view of a very captive audience in her favourite supermarket café - was too much for one mother to cope with.
“Emily’s been nasty to me and Naomi Mummy. When you weren’t looking she punched me and pulled a face!” cried an unhappy nearly five-year-old.
Before she could answer, an avalanche of woos followed.
“I didn’t like the sandwiches you gave me today Mummy!” yelled daughter number two.
“Why did you put those crisps in my lunchbox? You know I don’t like them!” joined in daughter number one. Not to be left out, daughter number three added: “And Mummy why do you only give me water. It’s not fair because my friends get blackcurrant in their lunch bags and you never give me any!”
At this point Miss Kezia Bennet, who had been quite happily munching on her modest flapjack portion, noticed her sisters had something far more exciting and protested with all she was worth, causing heads to turn and eyes to stare. How could this angelic looking child make such a racket? And please not now, I am trying to enjoy a quiet cup of coffee, thank you very much.
Try as hard as she might to control and contain her children, Mrs Bennet knew it was a losing battle. Although her parents were there as reinforcement, her Dad was trying to pluck up the courage to tell his wife that in trying to fix a shower he had somehow caused a flood in the kitchen. He was therefore not engaged as he normally would and being deaf in one ear, conveniently blocked out the Bennet discords. Mrs Bennet was quite relieved her own husband didn’t have a bodging talent. She knew her mother’s silent frustrations only too well. Mrs Bennet’s dad was sent home to locate a friendly neighbour who, being a plumber, had conveniently bailed them out when bodges had gone wrong in the past.
Mrs Bennet tried to patch up her own situation. She needed to get her children out of the shop and into the car as quickly as possible. Miss Bennets Number One and Two however quickly reminded her that they had been promised they could spend their pocket money. Miss Bennet Number Three had already picked a magazine before the rude eruption and therefore it was only fair they could do so. Mrs Bennet should have refused, but the trouble was daughter number three had behaved no better than they had. Of course apologies were given very freely then and because Mrs Bennet was desperately trying to turn down the noise volume on Miss Bennet Number Five, she allowed them five minutes in which to choose their chosen item.
A minute later, as Mrs Bennet was tucking an angry twin under her arm, her eldest daughter returned.
“Mummy, can I have this please? It was on the shelf with all the books,” she asked, producing a small box called “Sleepovers,” naturally the “in” word for nine-year-olds.
Mrs Bennet held it with her free hand and read the small print.
“Pads with wings to ensure extra comfort.”
“Naomi, I would put it back and look for something else,” Mrs Bennet responded gently, slightly annoyed (and amused) that a shopper had abandoned such an item next to a collection of children’s books. It wouldn’t be long before she’d have to broach the whole subject of “wings” with her daughter.
Helped by her mother, Mrs Bennet arrived safely at the car. Relieved to have got out alive, she informed her children that never again would she take them en masse to her favourite café. One to one, yes. One to five, no.
Exhausted, Mrs Bennet ushered her children into the building site, and clumsily prepared tea. The moaning hadn’t stopped, sibling fall-out was high and the twins were fighting over a baby doll. She pretended she was deaf, worked on auto-pilot and tried to put a six pint bottle of milk in the microwave instead of the fridge. It was hardly surprising then that the chicken decided to adopt the “wings” she’d left behind in the supermarket and fly out of the oven.
For once she was grateful that there were no Darcys in the Dirt around. The empty bank account meant a sudden lull in activity. No money, no work. Probably the underlying reason as to why Mrs Bennet’s own love tank had drained more quickly than it would normally.
Tears brushed away, leg sufficiently nursed; the love tank was soon to be refilled. One by one, her children silently surrounded her and hugged her. Concerned by her cries, they each threw their small arms round her legs and knees, causing the love coins to refill her tank.
“We’re sorry Mummy,” announced Miss Bennets One, Two and Three remorsefully.
“And I’m sorry I got upset,” she replied, looking at her boot, now boasting an olive oil glow.
“Look at my boot!” she cried. “It’s all shiny.”
“That’s probably the cleanest it’s been since you had them,” shouted a voice from the kitchen.
The panda-eyed Mrs Bennet smiled. Her largest love coin was displaying his care by taking over tea, mopping the floor and picking up broken pieces of ceramic without one word of complaint.
Her love tank might lose credit on a daily basis, but the very ones who drained the coffers, were the very ones who refilled her love tank. She was a rich lady indeed.

Surrounded!

Tuesday, February 17 09

Mrs Bennet was surrounded by children, plasterers, electricians, builders, rubble and dust - and it was half-term. She had done her best to get all five daughters and herself out of the way. But it meant dividing the day up into bite-sized chunks and ensuring she wasn’t in one place too long to cause rebellion and boredom amongst the ranks. It wasn’t the older three girls so much she had to worry about, it was the smaller two of her brood who if allowed to sit still too long, wriggled and writhed so much it caused all heads to look and stare. Mrs Bennet was already a talking point just by walking into a shop or building. Like a mother duck with all the baby ducks following, she could hear the whispers around her. If anyone of them started quacking even more eyes looked at her. She felt like walking around with a sticker on her back. The sticker would read something like this: “Yes, I know I have my hands full, so if you have a spare one and you can lend it I would be most grateful.” Going to the toilet alone was a major expedition and not to be considered unless the utmost preparation was in place – i.e. one or two of those wet wipe bricks, spare vests, nappies and clothes for herself as inevitably one of her girls would spill a cup of water over her trousers in an embarrassing place.
Because there was only one room to play, eat and work in, this room - once a comfortable lounge – was now a dumping ground for coats, toys and endless creative productions the Miss Bennets generated. Mrs Bennet had an article to write, but for some reason she couldn’t think. The room was in such a mess, it bugged her and she knew she’d have to tackle the mountains around her before she could climb her own. Armed with a bottle of root beer – which was she knew an acquired (peculiar more like, according to Mr Bennet) taste, she pulled every thing off shelves, out from under sofas and anything offending her. She was in the mood for tackling it and had that ruthless edge and any armless, headless or legless animal or doll a chance wasn’t going to stand a chance. Even the sock bin, now overflowing with 143 man-black, school-white, ballet-pink, baby-striped and lady-spots was in Mrs Bennet’s firing line.
“Why have I still got oodles of oddies desperately waiting for their sole-mates when I know full well they’re never going to find them! I’m just going to take them out of their misery. Seven years of waiting is long enough!” And with that she emptied the Bennet collection into a black bin-liner and thus removing their hope.
It was just as well the Bennet girls weren’t in the room. Their mother worked relentlessly, trying to regain an inch here and there to make the lounge - and week - more bearable, largely for her sake rather than for anyone else.
The caffeine fix from the root beer kept her going until midnight, when she sunk into a now cold bath to prepare herself for another day. She couldn’t sleep but watched her husband enjoying his. She wondered where he went when he dreamt and whether she was part of his dreamful world. Eventually at 3.30am she dropped off refusing to believe it was morning when the alarm informed her it was day two of the half-term holidays. She put a pillow over her head and pretended it wasn’t.

Valentine Love

Saturday, February 14 ‘09

The little twin Bennets were sitting at Mrs Bennet’s feet contentedly feeding each other Cheerios. Miss Rosie, the elder and more confident sister was pushing the tiny hoops into Kezia’s mouth. They both were grinning. Occasionally they lent forward, touching noses and giggled. As they did so Rosie pinched a few more cereal snacks from Kezia’s bowl and fed her twin again. They were biding their time. They did not want to go to bed.
This was Valentine’s weekend and Mr and Mrs Bennet were staying in a four star hotel. It was just as well it wasn’t a romantic break because the room they had been given had two single beds which had no intention of becoming a couple. They were firmly attached to the wall and no amount of reconciliation was going to unit them. The fact there were two travel cots in the room was a double insurance of uninterrupted passion.
It was a church leader’s conference and as there were crèche facilities for the under two’s during the day sessions, Mrs Bennet decided she would join her husband. Finding childcare for three daughters was slightly easier than five. She was used to handling the needs of five little people at once. But most of her friends and indeed family, were not, apart from Mr and Mrs Bennet Senior who had brought up five children of their own, albeit of the male species. They were now having a taste of the female variety. Hopefully it wasn’t too much of a shock.
The little twin Bennets were relishing having their parents to themselves – happily running down corridors, invariably in different directions and wooing both hotel guest and staff alike with their cheeky and mischievous grins. As the conference didn’t provide childcare in the evening, Mrs Bennet stayed back with her daughters. Sleeping – certainly in strange cots and in a strange room – was clearly not on their agenda, even it was on Mrs Bennet’s. One of her friends had instructed her: “Get some rest!” But his children were 21 and 17. Hers were 21 months and rest wasn’t yet part of their vocabulary. So for the next four hours Mrs Bennet did her best to entertain them. Although they did quite a lot of that themselves by doing a pretty good impression of the Andrex puppy, pulling toilet paper and running with it, stretching it as far as they could from the disabled bathroom the Bennets had been allocated, to the bedroom. Thankfully the twins didn’t think to pull the red emergency cords which dangled from both rooms. Mrs Bennet thought about it though. As both girls spent two hours crying and protesting about bedtime, she did debate calling for help. In the end, she turned the lights down and shut herself in the bathroom so she could sit on the toilet seat and read a chick lit novel until the sounds of her angry daughters dissipated to more of a whimper.
This was Valentine’s Day and her evening was spent cooped up in a bathroom. It would have been easier if she had a bath to soak in. But a hole in the floor didn’t quite do the trick on the relaxation front. To keep her spirits up, she rang her older three girls from her bathroom throne, who were only too delighted to tell her about their adventure that afternoon. Granddad’s car had broken down and they had had to be rescued in a tow truck. Just hearing their cheerful voices was a great compensation for the grumpy ones filtering through the bathroom door. Half an hour later, the cries from the cots were still strong. A further call was needed. Mrs Bennet rang her mum, affectionately known as Jannie, who made her laugh. Away for the weekend with Mrs Bennet’s dad, Jannie answered her mobile phone rang while she was in her hotel bathroom in Torquay - also sitting on the throne. That alone made Mrs Bennet giggle. Loo to loo, their chat was almost surreal but enough to maintain Mrs Bennet’s sanity. Although she knew she was in for a long night.
She was right. Having forgotten any spare socks for the twins, Mrs Bennet tried washing and drying the ones they’d been wearing. Having rinsed them with soap in the sink, Mrs Bennet realised her only drying option was the room’s hairdryer. In trying to quietly unplug it so she could do her laundry in her throne room, Mrs Bennet pressed the on switch, and promptly woke one sleeping baby and upset the one who was almost asleep. She was back to square one. Mr Bennet returned to find three unhappy ladies in his room – one jumping up and down in her cot, the other trying to escape from hers and the other knelt on the floor trying to dry four baby socks with a hairdryer. He sent his wife out for a much needed drink at the bar, calmed both babies and dried the socks in the trouser press. Mrs Bennet decided a man’s “fix it” qualities were sometimes just what a woman needed.

Out of control – and not liking it very much

Tuesday, February 10 09

The Scooby-Doo van was in trouble. It was slipping and sliding. Mrs Bennet was in trouble. She was streaming and screaming. The more the car cruised out of control, the more the driver cried. It was a horrible sound. Mrs Bennet turned the steering wheel, pressed the accelerator, but the car couldn’t obey. Caught on a patch of ice, it could only swerve.
Mrs Bennet – with the twins on board – was in a car park, which like most of her home town, was based on a slope. She was desperately trying to avoid crashing into the collection of metal objects before her. So many tears were forming in her eyes, the cars no longer resembled cars. They looked more like a colour swatch. Earlier, a blob of snow had fallen off the car roof onto her head as she got into the driver’s seat. Now it had melted and was joining the tear stream. Mrs Bennet sat crumbled over the steering wheel. The Scooby-Doo van sat motionless on its ice blanket. As Mrs Bennet’s mobile phone was sitting on the dusty kitchen work top, the crying mother couldn’t ring for help. Instead she sat like Alice in Wonderland in her own pool of salty tears, with her twin dormice for company. Of course it wasn’t really the scary-out-of-control-feeling of this experience which had provoked the outburst. Rather it was the fact the experience epitomized what she felt inside. Last night Mr Bennet had walked through the door with such a long face, she feared a death had occurred. But it wasn’t the death of a person, it was the death of a dream. A dream that sometime soon bite-size Pemberley would be finished. Mr Bennet explained that the house – with all its extended glory – was, in the current climate, only worth £10,000 more than what it had originally been valued. As the next phase of the build was dependent on borrowing 75% of that figure, it now meant Pemberley could not be completed. It would be built, but there would not be enough funds for carpets, windows, furniture, cupboards, driveway, bathroom refurbishment, porch and even a front door – all the essentials which made the house a home. Today it was too much for Mrs Bennet’s nerves and she cried - cried because she was fed up with dust and upheaval and because even after all of this, the house would not be finished.
After her emotional outburst - made even more dramatic with the twins’ whimpering discords - she felt marginally better and somehow managed to cajole the Scooby-Doo to swing into a car park space. It was only when the snow had melted, she realised just how badly she had parked. Thankfully she was not alone. Cars were jutting out at strange angles all over the place.
Momentarily back in control, her emotions and car in order, Mrs Bennet got through the day. Wearing her heart on her sleeve, she later revealed her frustrations to a couple of ballet mums, who had asked about the building project. Eager to help, one of them came up with the obvious solution.
“Well you can always sell one of your girls!” she announced.
Mrs Bennet smiled. She would live in a shack rather than do that. And some people did live in shacks which to them were their mini-Pemberley and they were grateful. Mrs Bennet knew really where her riches lay. After all without her five daughters and Mr Bennet there would be no need for a home. It was just that sometimes life didn’t always go the way she wanted. But press on with a smile she would.

Mrs Bennet decides it’s time to fly

Wednesday, February 4 09

The duster was fed up. She felt overwhelmed. Mrs Bennet couldn’t fault any one of the builders. The Darcys in the Dirt had become her friends and it was reassuring to have them around. She’d missed them this morning. It was strangely quiet as snow and ice prevented the Darcys living on steep hills and isolated lanes reaching her quiet cul-de-sac. The little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t like it either. Their mother’s attention was no longer enough. They wanted more. Mrs Bennet hoped it wasn’t a sign of what was to come.
Drilling filled the air once more. The Darcys in the Dirt were back, determined to finish the job in hand. Mrs Bennet couldn’t wait to have her home back. A tent would do if it was spacious, dust and clutter-free. There were now four chests of drawers in Mr and Mrs Bennet’s bedroom. And four chests in one bedroom were far too many!
Mrs Bennet was furiously writing at her computer, frantically hammering the keys. There were only two things in life which made her unwind, writing and running. And as she couldn’t physically get to the gym because of the weather, she did what she knew would boost her spirits: write.
To be honest she was upset. She had just been told her weekly column and creative page was to be dropped due to the recession. It meant more to her than money. It was her lifeline. She loved meeting the plethora of artists and inspirational people her town was proud to have. And she would miss them. Writing for her was like a window – a window into another world where imagination, and freedom prevailed as well as an ability to be who she wanted to be. At the moment her lounge had no light filtering into it. The double doors were so dirty, you couldn’t see out and it made those sitting inside feel claustrophobic and trapped. Mrs Bennet had her back to it and gazed at the computer screen in front of her.
“Well, if this particular publication doesn’t want Mrs Bennet, maybe it’s time she spread her wings and fulfilled her dream. Mrs Bennet, let’s get published! Let’s get a book off the ground to help save your sanity and that of fellow mums and dads who at times feel overwhelmed by this emotional parenting roller-coaster,” she told herself.
“And if that fails, Mrs Bennet you can always get a job being a teas maid to the Darcys in the Dirt!”

Where's the wife?

Tuesday, February 3 ‘09

A year ago Mrs Bennet had very strongly suggested to Mr Bennet that if he wanted a wife at the end of the proposed building project, he had better consider moving out. To his credit, he did consider. To her dismay, he then reconsidered. So being the good wife she was, she agreed to live through it. But now, four months after work had started, Mrs Bennet wondered whether she really was a good wife and questioned where the wife had in fact gone? She no longer recognised herself. She had a strange tinge of grey about her, which, if you touched her was so tangible, it rubbed off. Mrs Bennet had surreptitiously turned into the duster. It was the house’s pay-back time – revenge for all the years she had failed to clear, duster or remove its cobwebs. The Bennet duster was huddled next to a small halogen heater, which radiated light and heat, subsequently melting any ice in its wake. As the Darcys in the Dirt had now broken through in two places: in the hallway as well as the landing, it meant the unheated brand new half of bite-size Pemberley stole the heat of its older half, at a time when Britain was experiencing its worst winter for 18 years. Mrs Bennet didn’t do cold well. She couldn’t function, think or concentrate. She drank far too much tea on these occasions and no matter how many layers she wore, she couldn’t get warm. She took great delight in robbing Mr Bennet of his body heat with her icepack feet. It was his punishment for not allowing her to move out. Of course the older three Miss Bennets were oblivious of mess and disorder; their twin siblings just relished the attention from the growing breed of Darcys in the Dirt and Mr Bennet had left the building before work started and returned when work had finished. So why should any of them complain? Thankfully the duster had a sense of humour. But it was getting drier. The wit was edging towards sarcasm and she didn’t like it. The day was drawing near when she’d have to pack the kitchen away as well. Today Mrs Bennet, feeling and acting like a whinge-bucket, had snapped at the children and had felt even worse for doing so. Then she apologised and spent the rest of the evening undoing what damage she may have done. Perhaps there was one consolation. Having never been very religious about dusting, she felt no obligation to start now when the house was at its worse.“My dear Mr Bennet, I promise to duster every day for the rest of our married life, so long as I don’t have to live through another building project!” she informed her warm-blooded-who-never-feels-the-cold-husband.“Are you renewing your wedding vows? Because I’ll need a witness for this,” he remarked. The duster hit him, covering him in a shower of grey soot.

Meeting the Italian Mr Cappuccino part two

Friday, January 30 09

Apart from the frisking, the journey itself to Milan was painless. No children to worry about or chase, Mr and Mrs Bennet could read at leisure and shut their eyes, without the fear of a little Miss Bennet pushing up their eyelids.
Despite it being such a short trip, Mrs Bennet did manage a small taste of Italy. Mozzerella balls, which Mrs Bennet mistook for eggs; nuggets of aubergine accompanied by battered zucchini flowers (courgette) stuffed with melted cheese; toasted bread, dripping with olive oil and topped with tomato, fried chicken, salad and tiramisu to end. This was a true Italian restaurant and plates of endless tasty morsels appeared from nowhere; the waiter only too keen to educate Mrs Bennet who was intrigued by what was set before her; he, equally intrigued as to why she ordered a cappuccino at the end of a meal. It was past six o'clock and obviously not the done thing. But he gave her one anyway, much to her delight. At least she hadn't ordered a cup of tea!
They were leaving before six the next day, so she could avoid making the same mistake. She did think about home, her children, her parents, her Darcys in the Dirt and wondered how they all were. But she did so need this break. She needed the sleep, but unlike Mr Cappuccino who obviously managed to recharge his batteries. Neither Mr or Mrs Bennet could do so. They both woke continually throughout the night thanks to an extremely noisy fan in their room, which neither of them knew how to turn off. Mr Bennet worked out where the off switch was in the morning - far too late.
He left Mrs Bennet early for a breakfast briefing and then for a morning of meetings. She felt oddly alone. For weeks she craved some quiet, some space, some time where she didn’t pretend to have six heads and twelve arms to meet the demands of Mr Bennet and the Bennet brood. But now, sitting alone in the hotel’s dining room, sampling Italian cheeses and meats, the romance of Italy had left her. Surrounded by men in suits, talking animatedly in their singing tongue, she missed the familiar noise of home. Who would want to spend hours in a hotel room tied to a computer, sitting on their own at a table looking lost and jumping from plane to plane to make the next meeting? One night away was enough. Italy without a partner must be tough. The last time she visited, she’d got lost in Venice, the capital of romance and had spent two hours aimlessly wandering the streets and attractive arched bridges looking for her friend, who was aimlessly wandering about looking for her. All Mrs Bennet remembered was celebrating their reunion with a cappuccino. Both single at the time, they then questioned what they were doing in such a romantic place without a beau. A question Mrs Bennet was asking herself some 14 years later...and she was married. She spent her time writing, reading, researching and putting together a feature on Bourton-on-the-Water, the Venice of the Cotswolds, for a glossy magazine. Sad as it was, it was refreshing to be able to use what was left in her brain without the interruption of drills and demands from little children. But after 24 hours confined in a small hotel room with just a bottle of carbonated water for company, she was ready to go home. A shuttle bus, a Metro experience, a double decker train trip (her first), a bumpy flight and car journey later, Mrs Bennet arrived back at the part-built bite-size Pemberley and dashed upstairs to kiss all five sleeping heads. That night, Mr and Mrs Bennet slept fitfully - he dreaming of business deals going wrong; she of handsome young Italians making her go through a never ending tunnel of security arches.