Wednesday, July 15 2010
Her head throbbed and her thumb hurt. Mrs. Bennet sat in a crumpled heap in the playroom floor surrounded by playdough tools, hardened lumps, tiny sunglasses with bent arms, princess shoes missing their precious jewels and shape sorters stuffed with everything(breakfast toast remains included) but the rightful triangular, circular and square residents. Towering above her in a mocking fashion as it gently wobbled from side to side was the latest acquisition to the Bennet household - a punchbag and its boxing glove companions. The younger twin, Miss Kezia Spiers called it a hot air balloon. Mrs. Bennet decided this was an excellent name for it. The whole idea of buying this strange toy was to get rid of the hot air between two of her offspring. Miss Emily and Miss Megan Bennet were in the midst of a "you're the worst sister ever" season and it was driving Mrs. Bennet mad.
They knew how to wind each other up and purposely pushed the boundaries to get a reaction. Voices would rise, punches would fly and tears would flow - all before breakfast which made passing go almost impossible for the school run. The "go directly to gaol" card was frequently issued by the mother. Not to the offenders. To herself.
Sometimes a night in a cell sounded quite appealing if it avoided waking up to fights. In desperation rather than in wisdom, Mrs. Bennet hunted down the local shops for a punchbag - as you do - so that the argumentative Miss Bennets could lash out at the bag rather than each other. Impressed by this novelty item, they immediately pledged to be friends then promptly argued over who would try it out first. Miss Kezia Bennet enjoyed it the most, hitting her black air balloon proudly with tiny fists and huge grin. But it soon became obvious to Mrs. Bennet who the punchbag was really for - her.
An hour or so later, after yet another bout of Miss Bennet blues and battles, Mrs. Bennet walked out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet walked in and counted to 100 whilst hitting the steering wheel. Let it be said quickly here that she was not driving - just taking much needed time out in the safety of her four tin walls. She was too frustrated and angry to let herself near the punchbag in case she boxed it off its stand. Ten minutes on she let herself go back in, headed straight for the boxing gloves and jabbed at the bag with all her might. Hot in the face, she finally stopped punching. It was only then, once her passionate display had cooled, that she realised her thumb was really sore.
"You do realise broken thumbs are a common injury for boxers, don't you?!" offered a voice from the adjoining kitchen. No doubt intrigued by his wife's sudden burst of energy and need to improve her upper body muscle-tone, Mr. Bennet had been secretly watching.
Mrs. Bennet felt like punching him, but at risk of making her thumb worse, decided to poke her tongue out at him instead. Once her thumb had recovered its first bout of boxing, she knew Mr. Punchbag would be her new friend. She could punch him as hard as she liked and he would never ever complain.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Friday, 9 July 2010
I don't like being 40
Friday, July 9th 2010
Mrs. Bennet wanted her money back. Being forty was not what it promised to be. Life was supposed to begin. But her body had obviously rebelled about being such an age. Certain bits were in decline rather than in blooming mode. In order to write this, she was now wearing glasses. Having realised that she was holding her book further and further away in order to read the small print, she reluctantly made a long-overdue eye test. Armed with her new purple-starred reading specs the long-sighted road had begun. So now by her bedside table lay her glasses alongside her passion-killing mouth guard, acquired a couple if months ago. Apparently she ground her teeth in the night which caused her jaw to ache in the day! She'd lost a tooth, broke another one on an olive stone, had trouble with her varicose veins thanks to the twins' pregnancy, now had to wear padded bras as the five Miss Bennets had munched what little she had at the milk bar; and to depressingly she had recently discovered a white hair in a place she didn't wish to disclose! But as she had always vowed to grow old disgracefully she had booked up a hair appointment to have purple and burgundy streaks. She could run 10k quite comfortably thank you and more importantly she knew how to laugh with and at herself. But to be honest being forty hadn't been fun. Her children still loved her even if they chuckled at her new support aids. Miss Bennet Number Three,spotting her mouth shield had even boldly asked: "Mummy what's it like wearing false teeth?!" But considering she had five little girls to look after, a job, a husband to love and a very active life - although her socially her children seemed to have far more exciting things to do - she wasn't doing too badly. She just hoped being 41 would prove to be better and she hold all her working bits together!
Mrs. Bennet wanted her money back. Being forty was not what it promised to be. Life was supposed to begin. But her body had obviously rebelled about being such an age. Certain bits were in decline rather than in blooming mode. In order to write this, she was now wearing glasses. Having realised that she was holding her book further and further away in order to read the small print, she reluctantly made a long-overdue eye test. Armed with her new purple-starred reading specs the long-sighted road had begun. So now by her bedside table lay her glasses alongside her passion-killing mouth guard, acquired a couple if months ago. Apparently she ground her teeth in the night which caused her jaw to ache in the day! She'd lost a tooth, broke another one on an olive stone, had trouble with her varicose veins thanks to the twins' pregnancy, now had to wear padded bras as the five Miss Bennets had munched what little she had at the milk bar; and to depressingly she had recently discovered a white hair in a place she didn't wish to disclose! But as she had always vowed to grow old disgracefully she had booked up a hair appointment to have purple and burgundy streaks. She could run 10k quite comfortably thank you and more importantly she knew how to laugh with and at herself. But to be honest being forty hadn't been fun. Her children still loved her even if they chuckled at her new support aids. Miss Bennet Number Three,spotting her mouth shield had even boldly asked: "Mummy what's it like wearing false teeth?!" But considering she had five little girls to look after, a job, a husband to love and a very active life - although her socially her children seemed to have far more exciting things to do - she wasn't doing too badly. She just hoped being 41 would prove to be better and she hold all her working bits together!
Thursday, 1 July 2010
I know what you’re up to
Wednesday, June 30 '10
The little boy shuffled his bottom along the window ledge closer to Mrs. Bennet’s table. She was quietly working, tapping away on her computer keys in an attempt to meet a writing deadline. Her office, being a glorified shed which thought it was a sauna during summer months, melted her brain cells so she opted for the sanctuary of a cool spacious supermarket café. There were distractions around her – a screaming baby, noisy chairs, loud speaker announcements calling for certain members of staff, and the general hub of merged conversations – but as they weren’t her distractions, she therefore somehow knuckled down and got her work done. From the corner of her left eye she could see a dirty-kneed toddler approaching. Armed with his toy train, he had perfected his bottom manoeuvring skills and had moved away from his father, two tables away, until he could touch Mrs. Bennet’s improvisation desk. He then broke wind and immediately left the lift off pad and shuffled back to his dad and milkshake. The fragrance left behind wasn’t pleasant and it forced Mrs. Bennet to hold her breath for a few seconds. An adult couldn’t have done a better job in changing the atmosphere. Any fly buzzing near by would have head-butted the window in shock.
“You’ve come back then Jack. What were you doing?” the boy’s father asked.
“I know very well what he’s been up to,” muttered Mrs. Bennet, “and I am sure he feels much better for it, unlike me!”
A couple of days ago, she had been at the tail end of an enormous bottom burp whilst innocently running on a treadmill in her local gym. It was so unbearable, she felt like she’d just passed a sewage farm, but as she didn’t want to stop her athletic workout, she pressed on, unpleasant as it was. And the smell never left. It didn’t help that it was a warm, humid day. Even the fans couldn’t blow the putrid clouds away. And yet, she noticed, she immediately felt guilty.
“As there’s only two of us in here, anyone walking into this room could think it was me!” she thought. It certainly wouldn’t encourage the reluctant fitness enthusiast to venture forth. More like venture out. But she did empathise with the guilty bottom. There was nothing worse than being caught in a public place with a need to break wind. It was fine in the confinements of one’s own home, but surrounded by people, was a highly different and embarrassing matter.
She therefore forgave both the bottoms on these occasions because she knew it could be hers on another occasion. The secret was to do the deed and not be found out. The little boy and the athlete were both guilty. And she knew it.
The little boy shuffled his bottom along the window ledge closer to Mrs. Bennet’s table. She was quietly working, tapping away on her computer keys in an attempt to meet a writing deadline. Her office, being a glorified shed which thought it was a sauna during summer months, melted her brain cells so she opted for the sanctuary of a cool spacious supermarket café. There were distractions around her – a screaming baby, noisy chairs, loud speaker announcements calling for certain members of staff, and the general hub of merged conversations – but as they weren’t her distractions, she therefore somehow knuckled down and got her work done. From the corner of her left eye she could see a dirty-kneed toddler approaching. Armed with his toy train, he had perfected his bottom manoeuvring skills and had moved away from his father, two tables away, until he could touch Mrs. Bennet’s improvisation desk. He then broke wind and immediately left the lift off pad and shuffled back to his dad and milkshake. The fragrance left behind wasn’t pleasant and it forced Mrs. Bennet to hold her breath for a few seconds. An adult couldn’t have done a better job in changing the atmosphere. Any fly buzzing near by would have head-butted the window in shock.
“You’ve come back then Jack. What were you doing?” the boy’s father asked.
“I know very well what he’s been up to,” muttered Mrs. Bennet, “and I am sure he feels much better for it, unlike me!”
A couple of days ago, she had been at the tail end of an enormous bottom burp whilst innocently running on a treadmill in her local gym. It was so unbearable, she felt like she’d just passed a sewage farm, but as she didn’t want to stop her athletic workout, she pressed on, unpleasant as it was. And the smell never left. It didn’t help that it was a warm, humid day. Even the fans couldn’t blow the putrid clouds away. And yet, she noticed, she immediately felt guilty.
“As there’s only two of us in here, anyone walking into this room could think it was me!” she thought. It certainly wouldn’t encourage the reluctant fitness enthusiast to venture forth. More like venture out. But she did empathise with the guilty bottom. There was nothing worse than being caught in a public place with a need to break wind. It was fine in the confinements of one’s own home, but surrounded by people, was a highly different and embarrassing matter.
She therefore forgave both the bottoms on these occasions because she knew it could be hers on another occasion. The secret was to do the deed and not be found out. The little boy and the athlete were both guilty. And she knew it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
