Thursday, December 25, 08
Mrs Bennet was suitably impressed with Santa this year, although she was a little put out that he hadn’t eaten all her mince pie. It was only a mini one and he still hadn't eaten all of it. He’d drunk the bottle of beer though. Still, he had taken into account that there was literally no room in the inn for large and unnecessary presents. The Misses Bennets didn’t seem to mind. They were thrilled with their toothbrushes, personalised baubles, pens and doll's house treats. The twins were impressed with the wrapping paper. Miss Emily Bennet couldn’t believe Father Christmas had slipped three mini tins of tuna in her stocking and Mr Bennet couldn’t believe his wife had given him an ironing board cover. It was to pay him back for the t-towel and dish cloth he’d bought her the Christmas before.
Unlike last year, Miss Naomi Bennet got up at a reasonable hour. The three o’clock wake up call was replaced by an even earlier alarm from Miss Rosie Bennet who decided she’d like to play thank you very much and wouldn’t hear otherwise. As Mr and Mrs Bennet had only hit the sack half an hour before, it was yet another sleepless night. It was just as well their family was complete, because the Bennet tribe may have stayed at two, if the twins had arrived first. They shared a room with their parents for the first 12 months because there was just no where else to put them. Being spied on by active babies, who liked to peer over their cots and stare at Mr and Mrs Bennet late at night, meant passionate moments were non-existent. The little twin Bennets had front row seats and were quite happy to stay awake to get their money’s worth. The fact that the parental bedroom door didn’t shut properly didn’t help matters either. Children had a habit of sniffing out intimate embraces as they did chocolate, and would suddenly appear from nowhere. Thankfully Mr and Mrs Bennet had a good sense of humour. The fact they had more than one child was an achievement in itself.
But this year, the cot was not at the bottom of the bed. Mrs Bennet was no longer a cow and for once did not have to get up to feed a calf. After almost nine years, her husband could feed the child by getting a bottle of milk from the fridge and she could resume her once close relationship with her good friend Sleep.
Of course she didn’t mind a warm embrace with her husband, but as disturbed nights were still the norm, an extra few minutes with Mr Sleep was far more appealing.
It was almost a relief to wake up on Christmas Day. Nothing more could be done. The baby Jesus was happily sleeping in his crib and hadn’t been lost as in past years. A friend had told her to keep him in the cutlery drawer so he didn’t get thrown out by mistake. The Christmas presents, neatly wrapped were now undone and the turkey was bronzing nicely in the oven.
Mrs Bennet was content. She lacked for nothing. For once there were no colds, no bickering, just five little children, faces excited and a Mr Bennet who, this year, didn’t have a broken arm and could give her a hug without the risk of knocking her out with his plaster.
Instead of a kitchen utensil, which he knew would have been thrown at him, he’d given her a brain trainer game - no doubt to put right what five births had destroyed - but as the gentleman on her eldest daughter’s Nintendo DS had informed her that unfortunately her brain age was 80, she decided she’d better get practising. Still, it was better than trying out a new ironing board cover!
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
Tuesday, 23 December 2008
Cat food aisle proves festive refuge
Tuesday, December 23 08
It was the morning before the morning before Christmas and Mrs Bennet was sleep deprived. She’d just wiped cream all over her face to discover it wasn’t cream at all, but hair gel. Half asleep, her eyes hadn’t registered the difference in the two pots. But her skin quickly did when the stinging started. It was with a certain red glow about her person, that she made another mistake – venturing into a certain supermarket with the twin Bennets due to a desperate need for wet wipes and nappies. She hadn’t meant to leave supplies so empty, but festivities, present hunting, wrapping, delivering, card writing, visiting and nursing poorly children had been her main pre-occupation. It was only when the twins were wearing the last nappies in the house, she realised something had to be done. She didn’t want to be caught short like last month, when Miss Rosie Bennet had been wearing a make-shift nappy – a t-towel of the Scottish Highlands, knotted either side of her hips – because once cleaning a rather dirty derriere, Mrs Bennet realised she had nothing to put on it.
Running on empty was something she was guilty of doing as was running out of nappies. However the rest of the town were not buying nappies, but were ravaging the store of every sprout, carrot, brandy butter, chestnut and indigestion tablets.
They were so short of trolleys, Mrs Bennet had to opt for a double trolley consisting of a baby and toddler seat, which suited the twins perfectly.
“You’ve left one of the twins at home I see,” remarked one of the supermarket assistants. Mrs Bennet raised her eyebrows, bemused.
“No, they’re both here.”
“Oh, I thought you’d brought your middle one along instead. Gosh they’re so different aren’t they?”
The twins just grinned, lapping up the attention. And off they went, happily pointing at people in Clanger-like voices as their driver swerved sharply to the right to avoid the vegetable scrum. A double trolley and a determined mass of bodies vying for the last bag of parsnips was a recipe for disaster and Mrs Bennet felt exhausted from her game of dodgem cars with shoppers and shelves. She took refuge in the cat and dog food aisle. It was empty. Five daughters and husband were enough mouths to feed, but she was half tempted to buy a pet just to stay in the oasis of Pedigree Chum.
On her return, she vowed not to go anywhere near the place again until New Year. But realised with horror, she’d forgotten the nappies after all so promptly used up her “phone-a-friend” card for assistance. As she did so, the doorbell rang. A handsome man presented her with a large festive bouquet as big as her dining table.
“Oh are they for me?”
“No Madam, they are for a Mr Bennet,” came the reply, “Does he live here?”
“Yes he does. Who are they from?” Mrs Bennet asked a little peeved that her husband had a secret admirer.
“He will have to look at the envelope attached Madam.” And with that the messenger had gone, before Mrs Bennet could reply.
“He won’t. I will,” she muttered, and tore open the accompanied note, which, she discovered, had been sent by another man.
Confused, she rang Mr Bennet, who laughed and confessed his so called “lover” was “another man and his wife” and the flowers were really for her.
Although Mrs Bennet’s gel-stung face matched the festive floral display, her relief helped her hot cheeks to lighten somewhat. After all Mr Darcy falling for Mr Bennet was definitely not in her plot.
It was the morning before the morning before Christmas and Mrs Bennet was sleep deprived. She’d just wiped cream all over her face to discover it wasn’t cream at all, but hair gel. Half asleep, her eyes hadn’t registered the difference in the two pots. But her skin quickly did when the stinging started. It was with a certain red glow about her person, that she made another mistake – venturing into a certain supermarket with the twin Bennets due to a desperate need for wet wipes and nappies. She hadn’t meant to leave supplies so empty, but festivities, present hunting, wrapping, delivering, card writing, visiting and nursing poorly children had been her main pre-occupation. It was only when the twins were wearing the last nappies in the house, she realised something had to be done. She didn’t want to be caught short like last month, when Miss Rosie Bennet had been wearing a make-shift nappy – a t-towel of the Scottish Highlands, knotted either side of her hips – because once cleaning a rather dirty derriere, Mrs Bennet realised she had nothing to put on it.
Running on empty was something she was guilty of doing as was running out of nappies. However the rest of the town were not buying nappies, but were ravaging the store of every sprout, carrot, brandy butter, chestnut and indigestion tablets.
They were so short of trolleys, Mrs Bennet had to opt for a double trolley consisting of a baby and toddler seat, which suited the twins perfectly.
“You’ve left one of the twins at home I see,” remarked one of the supermarket assistants. Mrs Bennet raised her eyebrows, bemused.
“No, they’re both here.”
“Oh, I thought you’d brought your middle one along instead. Gosh they’re so different aren’t they?”
The twins just grinned, lapping up the attention. And off they went, happily pointing at people in Clanger-like voices as their driver swerved sharply to the right to avoid the vegetable scrum. A double trolley and a determined mass of bodies vying for the last bag of parsnips was a recipe for disaster and Mrs Bennet felt exhausted from her game of dodgem cars with shoppers and shelves. She took refuge in the cat and dog food aisle. It was empty. Five daughters and husband were enough mouths to feed, but she was half tempted to buy a pet just to stay in the oasis of Pedigree Chum.
On her return, she vowed not to go anywhere near the place again until New Year. But realised with horror, she’d forgotten the nappies after all so promptly used up her “phone-a-friend” card for assistance. As she did so, the doorbell rang. A handsome man presented her with a large festive bouquet as big as her dining table.
“Oh are they for me?”
“No Madam, they are for a Mr Bennet,” came the reply, “Does he live here?”
“Yes he does. Who are they from?” Mrs Bennet asked a little peeved that her husband had a secret admirer.
“He will have to look at the envelope attached Madam.” And with that the messenger had gone, before Mrs Bennet could reply.
“He won’t. I will,” she muttered, and tore open the accompanied note, which, she discovered, had been sent by another man.
Confused, she rang Mr Bennet, who laughed and confessed his so called “lover” was “another man and his wife” and the flowers were really for her.
Although Mrs Bennet’s gel-stung face matched the festive floral display, her relief helped her hot cheeks to lighten somewhat. After all Mr Darcy falling for Mr Bennet was definitely not in her plot.
Monday, 22 December 2008
And lo the infant was found ..in a Barbie shoe!
Monday, December 22 08
The Bennet children’s excitement and anticipation were rising as Christmas Day loomed near. Their festive spirit was contagious and it rubbed off on Mrs Bennet. She fondly thought back on Christmas Past and wondered what Christmas Present and Christmas Future would bring. Christmas Day two years ago, Mrs Bennet, then four months pregnant with the twins; had been persuaded by aspiring actress, Miss Bennet Number One to play the part of Mary in a home impromptu nativity production, inspired by three grass skirts – a dressing-up present from Africa – which transformed into a realistic manger and stable straw. Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mum, obediently wore a t-towel on her head and carried a lamb; Mr Bennet played the part of all three kings while Grampie, Mrs Bennet’s dad, took great delight in being horrid Herod. He was so convincing he made Miss Megan Bennet, then two, cry.
Last year, Mrs Bennet endeavoured to be a “yummy mummy” and bake her own mince pies, but outbursts from the lounge prevented her culinary skills reaching perfection. An angel in the form of a small tornado appeared before her, whizzing into the hallway and coming to a sudden halt. Deliberate in its actions, the angel demanded a listening ear.
“Something terrible’s happened Mummy! We’ve lost baby Jesus! He fell into the toy box and we can’t find him!” the tornado cried.
Mentally ordering her curling lip to stay straight, Mrs Bennet tried to speak, but Miss Emily Bennet got their first.
“What are we going to do? We can’t possibly have Christmas without baby Jesus!”
“Well, that can’t do. I’ll come and help you find him,” replied Mrs Bennet, knowing this mission to find a 2cm-long baby, required divine intervention.
An hour later, mince pies long burnt and thrown in the garden to prevent a fire, Christmas was saved. Baby Jesus was discovered wedged inside a modern form of crib - a pink Barbie shoe.
But the highlight of Christmas 2007 had to be Miss Megan Bennet. Whilst the older Bennet girls wanted High School Musical gadgets and dolls, she had one desire.
“Mummy,” she announced, her face serious, “I want a real baby Jesus for Christmas. Do you think Father Christmas can get me one?”
Mrs Bennet smiled, reliving the memory.
"It’s moments like these which keep the true spirit of Christmas alive,” she muttered.
The Bennet children’s excitement and anticipation were rising as Christmas Day loomed near. Their festive spirit was contagious and it rubbed off on Mrs Bennet. She fondly thought back on Christmas Past and wondered what Christmas Present and Christmas Future would bring. Christmas Day two years ago, Mrs Bennet, then four months pregnant with the twins; had been persuaded by aspiring actress, Miss Bennet Number One to play the part of Mary in a home impromptu nativity production, inspired by three grass skirts – a dressing-up present from Africa – which transformed into a realistic manger and stable straw. Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mum, obediently wore a t-towel on her head and carried a lamb; Mr Bennet played the part of all three kings while Grampie, Mrs Bennet’s dad, took great delight in being horrid Herod. He was so convincing he made Miss Megan Bennet, then two, cry.
Last year, Mrs Bennet endeavoured to be a “yummy mummy” and bake her own mince pies, but outbursts from the lounge prevented her culinary skills reaching perfection. An angel in the form of a small tornado appeared before her, whizzing into the hallway and coming to a sudden halt. Deliberate in its actions, the angel demanded a listening ear.
“Something terrible’s happened Mummy! We’ve lost baby Jesus! He fell into the toy box and we can’t find him!” the tornado cried.
Mentally ordering her curling lip to stay straight, Mrs Bennet tried to speak, but Miss Emily Bennet got their first.
“What are we going to do? We can’t possibly have Christmas without baby Jesus!”
“Well, that can’t do. I’ll come and help you find him,” replied Mrs Bennet, knowing this mission to find a 2cm-long baby, required divine intervention.
An hour later, mince pies long burnt and thrown in the garden to prevent a fire, Christmas was saved. Baby Jesus was discovered wedged inside a modern form of crib - a pink Barbie shoe.
But the highlight of Christmas 2007 had to be Miss Megan Bennet. Whilst the older Bennet girls wanted High School Musical gadgets and dolls, she had one desire.
“Mummy,” she announced, her face serious, “I want a real baby Jesus for Christmas. Do you think Father Christmas can get me one?”
Mrs Bennet smiled, reliving the memory.
"It’s moments like these which keep the true spirit of Christmas alive,” she muttered.
Saturday, 6 December 2008
Toiletry shares needed!
Saturday, December 7 08
Mrs Bennet worked out that by the time the little twin Bennets were potty trained, she would have changed about 32,760 nappies. It was no wonder her hands were dry. But she had at least perfected her skill and achieved a personal best in terms of pit stop timing. With two little bottoms performing in sync, it was paramount the cleaning-up process was fast and efficient – to eliminate not only cries but smell.
Standing in a supermarket queue, it was obvious she wasn’t the only one who could do with taking out shares in baby toiletries. The lady in front of her was buying countless wet wipes, stacked like bricks on the conveyor belt. Mrs Bennet couldn’t help but comment.
“That’s an awful lot of wet wipes!” she remarked.
“They’re on offer – buy one get one free. I couldn’t resist and thought I’d build up a supply for my daughter who’s expecting in four months time. I’m buying 40 for the price of 20!”
Mrs Bennet didn’t know what to say. Calculating in her mind, she worked out that in four months, she too would get through the same amount. The thought of finding room for so many wet wipes however completely put her off the idea.
With five daughters, Mrs Bennet knew only full well how many pounds she would have to spend on toiletries in the coming years. Poor Mr Bennet - six lots of PMT were just too much for one man! She recalled getting her own dad to buy her sanitary towels because she couldn’t face the embarrassment of getting them herself. Mr Bennet, one of five sons, had no idea what he would be facing!
“I think I need to set up a “time of the month” account,” she thought.
Only yesterday, Miss Emily Bennet presented her with a small white bullet, she’d discovered on the driveway. Not yet aware of the significance of this highly important item, she happily gave it back to her mother.
“One day, she won’t be showing that around quite so innocently,” thought Mrs Bennet, relishing in her daughter’s innocence.
Mr Bennet followed grinning.
“Emily found it and told me: “I’m going to give this to Mummy. She’ll be pleased because did you know Daddy, she collects them!”
Mrs Bennet laughed. How true. Perhaps she should be collecting in bulk now, ready for the onslaught of Bennet hormonal periods in the coming years!
Mrs Bennet worked out that by the time the little twin Bennets were potty trained, she would have changed about 32,760 nappies. It was no wonder her hands were dry. But she had at least perfected her skill and achieved a personal best in terms of pit stop timing. With two little bottoms performing in sync, it was paramount the cleaning-up process was fast and efficient – to eliminate not only cries but smell.
Standing in a supermarket queue, it was obvious she wasn’t the only one who could do with taking out shares in baby toiletries. The lady in front of her was buying countless wet wipes, stacked like bricks on the conveyor belt. Mrs Bennet couldn’t help but comment.
“That’s an awful lot of wet wipes!” she remarked.
“They’re on offer – buy one get one free. I couldn’t resist and thought I’d build up a supply for my daughter who’s expecting in four months time. I’m buying 40 for the price of 20!”
Mrs Bennet didn’t know what to say. Calculating in her mind, she worked out that in four months, she too would get through the same amount. The thought of finding room for so many wet wipes however completely put her off the idea.
With five daughters, Mrs Bennet knew only full well how many pounds she would have to spend on toiletries in the coming years. Poor Mr Bennet - six lots of PMT were just too much for one man! She recalled getting her own dad to buy her sanitary towels because she couldn’t face the embarrassment of getting them herself. Mr Bennet, one of five sons, had no idea what he would be facing!
“I think I need to set up a “time of the month” account,” she thought.
Only yesterday, Miss Emily Bennet presented her with a small white bullet, she’d discovered on the driveway. Not yet aware of the significance of this highly important item, she happily gave it back to her mother.
“One day, she won’t be showing that around quite so innocently,” thought Mrs Bennet, relishing in her daughter’s innocence.
Mr Bennet followed grinning.
“Emily found it and told me: “I’m going to give this to Mummy. She’ll be pleased because did you know Daddy, she collects them!”
Mrs Bennet laughed. How true. Perhaps she should be collecting in bulk now, ready for the onslaught of Bennet hormonal periods in the coming years!
The cow’s empty
Friday, December 5 08
Mr Latte was still on strike and so was Mr Cappucino, Mr Mocha and all his frothy milk associates. Mrs Bennet wasn’t particularly bothered as she hadn’t been giving Mr Latte much of her time lately. She’d been feeling a little under par and hadn’t fancy him. Mrs Bennet thought he might be taking the hump, irked that she hadn’t needed him.
Milk was definitely off the menu. The Mother cow was also empty. She had closed the productive milk bar a couple of weeks ago. The calf (Miss Kezia Bennet) and cow (Mrs Bennet) had come to some mutual agreement and were happy to part company. It did make Mrs Bennet a little sad, but having fed five calves over the past nine years, she did think it was about time she reclaimed her valuable assets back. Sadly though they were no longer an impressive size. Her Dolly Parton days were now officially over, although she must admit it was a relief to run again without the risk of black eyes.
When the milk first came in, three days after the arrival of Miss Bennets Four and Five, she could quite easily have posed for Calendar Girls. Freshly returned from Lords, her midwife friend was stunned by her somewhat buxom appearance.
“The cameras would have picked those out in the crowd and panned in on you. Mr Bennet won’t believe his eyes,” she’d remarked laughing.
He didn’t. But Mrs Bennet made it very clear they were not for him.
The cleavage however was short lived and here she was with the dregs, the leftovers. Chicken fillets were tempting, but she couldn’t quite face it.
So the milk was empty. And Mr Latte wasn’t offering her any comfort either.
It was his loss. A bunch of roses was waiting for her when she got home. The Mr Darcy in Mr Bennet had come shining through instead.
Mr Latte was still on strike and so was Mr Cappucino, Mr Mocha and all his frothy milk associates. Mrs Bennet wasn’t particularly bothered as she hadn’t been giving Mr Latte much of her time lately. She’d been feeling a little under par and hadn’t fancy him. Mrs Bennet thought he might be taking the hump, irked that she hadn’t needed him.
Milk was definitely off the menu. The Mother cow was also empty. She had closed the productive milk bar a couple of weeks ago. The calf (Miss Kezia Bennet) and cow (Mrs Bennet) had come to some mutual agreement and were happy to part company. It did make Mrs Bennet a little sad, but having fed five calves over the past nine years, she did think it was about time she reclaimed her valuable assets back. Sadly though they were no longer an impressive size. Her Dolly Parton days were now officially over, although she must admit it was a relief to run again without the risk of black eyes.
When the milk first came in, three days after the arrival of Miss Bennets Four and Five, she could quite easily have posed for Calendar Girls. Freshly returned from Lords, her midwife friend was stunned by her somewhat buxom appearance.
“The cameras would have picked those out in the crowd and panned in on you. Mr Bennet won’t believe his eyes,” she’d remarked laughing.
He didn’t. But Mrs Bennet made it very clear they were not for him.
The cleavage however was short lived and here she was with the dregs, the leftovers. Chicken fillets were tempting, but she couldn’t quite face it.
So the milk was empty. And Mr Latte wasn’t offering her any comfort either.
It was his loss. A bunch of roses was waiting for her when she got home. The Mr Darcy in Mr Bennet had come shining through instead.
Monday, 1 December 2008
Mrs Bennet's cunning plan.....
Monday, December 1 08
Although Mrs Bennet loved the essence of Christmas, its message of joy and hope and the infectious excitement generated by her daughters, she did not enjoy writing Christmas cards. Mr Bennet shared her sentiments so didn't do any. Last year he even had the lame excuse of a broken arm. Mrs Bennet valued her arm too much to follow his example. Instead she put on her creative thinking cap. Watching her eldest daughters concentrate on their latest masterpieces - one was designing a made-up cartoon family she'd entitled The Wiggleworms; the other was mixing colour and shape in Picasso fashion - Mrs Bennet issued them a challenge:
"Girls, if you each write 25 Christmas cards each, I'll take you out to breakfast!"
Miss Bennets Numbers One and Two promptly put down their tools and instantly turned into festive writing mode. After one card, Miss Naomi Bennet returned to her Wiggleworms. Kathleen Wiggleworm's outfit wasn't quite right and she wanted to perfect it. Miss Emily Bennet however had a bacon roll firmly etched on her mind and wrote mechanically for 30 minutes.
"Mummy, what about me?" asked a voice from behind Pepper Pig's rocket, "I can't write like they can yet, but can I come out with you as well, otherwise that's not fair is it?"
"I'll tell you what, if Naomi does her share, I'll take you out as well. A bit like take two, take one free!" Mrs Bennet informed her third daughter, who didn't quite understand the concept.
Only one child earned the breakfast the next morning. After a disturbed night due to coughing twins, Mrs Bennet was woken up by her alarm clock - a gentle tapping on her arm. An eager fully-dressed second daughter peered over her, determined not to miss out on her wages. Half asleep, Mrs Bennet fulfilled her side of the bargain. Miss Bennet Number Two got her hot bacon butty. But Mrs Bennet did not get her Mr Latte. He obviously didn't approve of her bribery tactics and was on strike. Instead it was a Peely Wally start to the day - a mug of hot water and a longing to return home to the duvet.
Although Mrs Bennet loved the essence of Christmas, its message of joy and hope and the infectious excitement generated by her daughters, she did not enjoy writing Christmas cards. Mr Bennet shared her sentiments so didn't do any. Last year he even had the lame excuse of a broken arm. Mrs Bennet valued her arm too much to follow his example. Instead she put on her creative thinking cap. Watching her eldest daughters concentrate on their latest masterpieces - one was designing a made-up cartoon family she'd entitled The Wiggleworms; the other was mixing colour and shape in Picasso fashion - Mrs Bennet issued them a challenge:
"Girls, if you each write 25 Christmas cards each, I'll take you out to breakfast!"
Miss Bennets Numbers One and Two promptly put down their tools and instantly turned into festive writing mode. After one card, Miss Naomi Bennet returned to her Wiggleworms. Kathleen Wiggleworm's outfit wasn't quite right and she wanted to perfect it. Miss Emily Bennet however had a bacon roll firmly etched on her mind and wrote mechanically for 30 minutes.
"Mummy, what about me?" asked a voice from behind Pepper Pig's rocket, "I can't write like they can yet, but can I come out with you as well, otherwise that's not fair is it?"
"I'll tell you what, if Naomi does her share, I'll take you out as well. A bit like take two, take one free!" Mrs Bennet informed her third daughter, who didn't quite understand the concept.
Only one child earned the breakfast the next morning. After a disturbed night due to coughing twins, Mrs Bennet was woken up by her alarm clock - a gentle tapping on her arm. An eager fully-dressed second daughter peered over her, determined not to miss out on her wages. Half asleep, Mrs Bennet fulfilled her side of the bargain. Miss Bennet Number Two got her hot bacon butty. But Mrs Bennet did not get her Mr Latte. He obviously didn't approve of her bribery tactics and was on strike. Instead it was a Peely Wally start to the day - a mug of hot water and a longing to return home to the duvet.
Sunday, 30 November 2008
The birth anniversary of Modern Mrs Bennet
Saturday, November 29 08
Modern Mrs Bennet was born the moment she looked up at a tiny television screen and saw two fluttering heart beats. It only took a split second, but it sealed her destiny. Mr Bennet looked as grey and shocked as she felt. And she would never forget that look as long as she lived. It was one of those moments when the enormity was such that it was almost hysterically funny. Although neither Mr and Mrs Bennet knew at this stage what gender their unborn 13 week non-identical children were, the possibility of two more girls hung in the air. After all the sex couldn’t be changed – the facts were there, just not yet revealed to the parents concerned.
Recalling this moment, Mrs Bennet remembered the long walk back to the car, crying and shaking in disbelief and awe as Mr Bennet reassured her at every step.
“I didn’t know how I was going to carry one. How am I going to carry two!” she quivered. And yet here she was two years on, with five fantastically different daughters who had made her what she was – a fulfilled, often batty walking zombie. Her tummy muscles may have departed company since their birth, but she had welcomed two more exquisitely different individuals who made her laugh every day. Five daughters stretched her patience, emotions, management and juggling skills, not to mention filling what use to be a somewhat spacious living area for two.
“I don’t think I can have children,” she had once whispered to her husband in the lounge, now full of lively limbs, daily squeals and squabbles. Of course Mr Bennet no longer believed her. Five offspring in seven years was going some. It did open Mr and Mrs Bennet up to certain remarks and mutterings from those around them about not having a television and wasn’t it about time the “problem” was sorted? Mrs Bennet didn’t care what they thought. Her double surprise had not only taught her an invaluable lesson of living a day at a time, they had been the making (or breaking) of her. Without Miss Bennets Four and Five, there wouldn’t be a Modern Mrs Bennet.
She was however entering a new decade of ducking hormones, fleeing to the shed and one which definitely would not involve giving birth.
Modern Mrs Bennet was born the moment she looked up at a tiny television screen and saw two fluttering heart beats. It only took a split second, but it sealed her destiny. Mr Bennet looked as grey and shocked as she felt. And she would never forget that look as long as she lived. It was one of those moments when the enormity was such that it was almost hysterically funny. Although neither Mr and Mrs Bennet knew at this stage what gender their unborn 13 week non-identical children were, the possibility of two more girls hung in the air. After all the sex couldn’t be changed – the facts were there, just not yet revealed to the parents concerned.
Recalling this moment, Mrs Bennet remembered the long walk back to the car, crying and shaking in disbelief and awe as Mr Bennet reassured her at every step.
“I didn’t know how I was going to carry one. How am I going to carry two!” she quivered. And yet here she was two years on, with five fantastically different daughters who had made her what she was – a fulfilled, often batty walking zombie. Her tummy muscles may have departed company since their birth, but she had welcomed two more exquisitely different individuals who made her laugh every day. Five daughters stretched her patience, emotions, management and juggling skills, not to mention filling what use to be a somewhat spacious living area for two.
“I don’t think I can have children,” she had once whispered to her husband in the lounge, now full of lively limbs, daily squeals and squabbles. Of course Mr Bennet no longer believed her. Five offspring in seven years was going some. It did open Mr and Mrs Bennet up to certain remarks and mutterings from those around them about not having a television and wasn’t it about time the “problem” was sorted? Mrs Bennet didn’t care what they thought. Her double surprise had not only taught her an invaluable lesson of living a day at a time, they had been the making (or breaking) of her. Without Miss Bennets Four and Five, there wouldn’t be a Modern Mrs Bennet.
She was however entering a new decade of ducking hormones, fleeing to the shed and one which definitely would not involve giving birth.
Friday, 28 November 2008
Sinking in the arms of Darcy
Friday, November 28 08
Mr Bennet was sitting on the babies’ table, towel wrapped round his waist, his torso pink from bath heat, attempting to coax the DVD player to hand over a film firmly lodged in its jaw. The words “blocked” flashed up and try as he might, Mr Bennet couldn’t relinquish the DVD or get its mouth to open. Miss Rosie Bennet was like this. If she picked up something – particularly a fistful of Playdoh, Mrs Bennet couldn’t dislodge it. Although she wasn’t clutching on to a bath towel at the time.
The Bennet house was full of furniture badly needing limbs and joints replaced. Chests of drawers littered every room in the current squeeze while the Darcys in the dirt worked on building bite-size Pemberley around them. The lounge chest – dedicated to uniform – was constantly dropping its drawers and causing a scene. As Mrs Bennet pulled out Miss Megan’s drawer, those containing Miss Naomi and Miss Emily Bennets’ clothes, would crash down on top of her fingers. She couldn’t even open her own clothes drawers upstairs.
The fridge had a blocked tear duct and wasn’t draining properly. Instead a puddle of icy water gathered on the bottom shelf, threatening to flood on a daily basis. And the understairs cupboard and kitchen units were so crammed full of “stuff,” Mrs Bennet feared their wrath any time she approached them. She decided to look at something positive. As the seven Bennets had now outgrown Mr Bennet’s bachelor sofa, she was pouring over a certain catalogue to consider corner settee options which would accommodate the Bennet bottoms. She pointed out a suitable design to Mr Bennet, who by now had won his quest over the obstinate DVD player, his towel still in tact.
He nodded in agreement at the child-friendly deep chocolate brown hue, then started to chuckle.
Mrs Bennet did wonder if the bath water had been too hot for him. What was funny about a sofa?
“I don’t believe it," he started."You’ve got a certain gentleman on the brain. This sofa is called Darcy.”
"Let's see!" she cried. Mr Bennet was right. If they did plump for this design, she really could legitimately sink in the arms of Darcy!
Mr Bennet was sitting on the babies’ table, towel wrapped round his waist, his torso pink from bath heat, attempting to coax the DVD player to hand over a film firmly lodged in its jaw. The words “blocked” flashed up and try as he might, Mr Bennet couldn’t relinquish the DVD or get its mouth to open. Miss Rosie Bennet was like this. If she picked up something – particularly a fistful of Playdoh, Mrs Bennet couldn’t dislodge it. Although she wasn’t clutching on to a bath towel at the time.
The Bennet house was full of furniture badly needing limbs and joints replaced. Chests of drawers littered every room in the current squeeze while the Darcys in the dirt worked on building bite-size Pemberley around them. The lounge chest – dedicated to uniform – was constantly dropping its drawers and causing a scene. As Mrs Bennet pulled out Miss Megan’s drawer, those containing Miss Naomi and Miss Emily Bennets’ clothes, would crash down on top of her fingers. She couldn’t even open her own clothes drawers upstairs.
The fridge had a blocked tear duct and wasn’t draining properly. Instead a puddle of icy water gathered on the bottom shelf, threatening to flood on a daily basis. And the understairs cupboard and kitchen units were so crammed full of “stuff,” Mrs Bennet feared their wrath any time she approached them. She decided to look at something positive. As the seven Bennets had now outgrown Mr Bennet’s bachelor sofa, she was pouring over a certain catalogue to consider corner settee options which would accommodate the Bennet bottoms. She pointed out a suitable design to Mr Bennet, who by now had won his quest over the obstinate DVD player, his towel still in tact.
He nodded in agreement at the child-friendly deep chocolate brown hue, then started to chuckle.
Mrs Bennet did wonder if the bath water had been too hot for him. What was funny about a sofa?
“I don’t believe it," he started."You’ve got a certain gentleman on the brain. This sofa is called Darcy.”
"Let's see!" she cried. Mr Bennet was right. If they did plump for this design, she really could legitimately sink in the arms of Darcy!
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Wages in double portion
Monday, November 24 08
Mrs Bennet no longer required a television for entertainment purposes. She could quite happily live without it. Mr Bennet couldn’t. A certain ball kicked by a certain team meant it still had its uses – that, and taping certain children’s programmes for certain emergency calming-down moments.
Miss Bennets Four and Five deserved glowing reviews for their Oscar-winning dramas and comedies. They obediently sat in their feeding chairs with little rose-bud mouths opening in bird-like fashion as spaghetti came their way, scooping pasta worms as Mother bird gave them her morning’s work. Armed with a spoon, they relished the freedom of attacking yoghurt pots, giving a running commentary as they did so. Then suddenly, without warning they swapped pots and carried on eating. Mrs Bennet was intrigued. This habit had become intrinsic to meal times. If she gave them each a bowl containing a medley of bananas, raisins, apples, breadsticks and cheese, they’d cheerfully tuck in, then after five minutes, push their bowl at the other and finish their sister’s meal.
If Miss Kezia Bennet wanted to really upset her twin, she would crawl off with Rosie’s reassured, well-worn and well-cuddled rabbit. She’d then poke it through the playpen bars and tilt her head as if to say: “na,na,na,na,na!” But Miss Rosie Bennet had her ammunition ready. She’d find Kezia’s soothing tool – the dummy – wave it, chew it, then run off with it, leaving Kezia pursuing her bigger and stronger sister. It made fantastic viewing and their interludes were equally as comical to listen to, such as now.
Mrs Bennet was perched on the stair’s bottom step, listening to their animated babbling. For the past hour, instead of dozing for an afternoon nap, each peered at the other through cot bars, nodding heads and waving arms as if to explain their point. Mrs Bennet knew this as she peeped through the tiny gap where the door was slightly ajar.
Feeling excluded from this intimacy and secret language, she smiled and left them to their conversation, knowing eventually they’d run out of talk and fall asleep – bottoms in the air, limbs hanging out of each cot. It was moments like these when parenting wages were bountiful for Mrs Bennet. They were indeed her double portion.
Mrs Bennet no longer required a television for entertainment purposes. She could quite happily live without it. Mr Bennet couldn’t. A certain ball kicked by a certain team meant it still had its uses – that, and taping certain children’s programmes for certain emergency calming-down moments.
Miss Bennets Four and Five deserved glowing reviews for their Oscar-winning dramas and comedies. They obediently sat in their feeding chairs with little rose-bud mouths opening in bird-like fashion as spaghetti came their way, scooping pasta worms as Mother bird gave them her morning’s work. Armed with a spoon, they relished the freedom of attacking yoghurt pots, giving a running commentary as they did so. Then suddenly, without warning they swapped pots and carried on eating. Mrs Bennet was intrigued. This habit had become intrinsic to meal times. If she gave them each a bowl containing a medley of bananas, raisins, apples, breadsticks and cheese, they’d cheerfully tuck in, then after five minutes, push their bowl at the other and finish their sister’s meal.
If Miss Kezia Bennet wanted to really upset her twin, she would crawl off with Rosie’s reassured, well-worn and well-cuddled rabbit. She’d then poke it through the playpen bars and tilt her head as if to say: “na,na,na,na,na!” But Miss Rosie Bennet had her ammunition ready. She’d find Kezia’s soothing tool – the dummy – wave it, chew it, then run off with it, leaving Kezia pursuing her bigger and stronger sister. It made fantastic viewing and their interludes were equally as comical to listen to, such as now.
Mrs Bennet was perched on the stair’s bottom step, listening to their animated babbling. For the past hour, instead of dozing for an afternoon nap, each peered at the other through cot bars, nodding heads and waving arms as if to explain their point. Mrs Bennet knew this as she peeped through the tiny gap where the door was slightly ajar.
Feeling excluded from this intimacy and secret language, she smiled and left them to their conversation, knowing eventually they’d run out of talk and fall asleep – bottoms in the air, limbs hanging out of each cot. It was moments like these when parenting wages were bountiful for Mrs Bennet. They were indeed her double portion.
Friday, 21 November 2008
Darcy goes grey
Friday, November 21 08
One of the “Darcys in the dirt” was notably more grey than he had been when he first started building Pemberley. Mrs Bennet didn’t like to say anything, but she did hope the Bennet building project wasn’t causing him too much stress. Incidentally, although Jane Austen’s Bennet family lived at Longbourn, the Modern Mrs Bennet chose to go straight for a bite-size Pemberley. As Miss Bennet numbers one and two’s future husbands were currently between the ages of seven and nine, their pocket money wouldn’t stretch enough to provide for their “wives” just yet. It’s why Mr and Mrs Bennet had chosen to step in. As it happened the giddy, youngest Kitty and Lydia Bennet equivalents had already found their men. If they had been boys they’d have been “wowed” by the enormous cement mixers, various diggers and grinders. Full of baby hormones, they preferred to show their dimples at the Darcys in the dirt. Mrs Bennet had given up washing the hand and kiss marks off the lounge window.
It was a strange feeling being surrounded by an assault course of bricks, scaffolding, tiles and steel poles. It was fine during the day with just herself and the twins Bennets. But at six o’clock with seven bodies, school shoes, bags, lunch boxes, pens, crayons, doll’s arms, squashed raisins, a ball pool of rice crispies and a derailed train, it wasn’t so pleasant. Two objects epitomised how the Bennet parents felt at such moments - Dora the Explorer’s dad was spreadeagled on a cushion, while a lady’s voice warbled painfully slowly from a toy mobile phone as her battery was running low.
As light was getting obscured by Darcy activity, the dark winter days felt even darker. But it was reassuring to be surrounded by men, even if they did require the occasional cuppa. However, the leading Darcy in the dirt did look worryingly grey. As she handed him a cup of coffee, Mrs Bennet realised next door’s garage roof had also changed colour.
“I’m having a bad hair day today,” remarked the Darcy, tapping his head to create a dust cloud.
“I had noticed and did wonder if you were OK,” replied Mrs Bennet. “I only wish I could shake my grey hair out like that!”
One of the “Darcys in the dirt” was notably more grey than he had been when he first started building Pemberley. Mrs Bennet didn’t like to say anything, but she did hope the Bennet building project wasn’t causing him too much stress. Incidentally, although Jane Austen’s Bennet family lived at Longbourn, the Modern Mrs Bennet chose to go straight for a bite-size Pemberley. As Miss Bennet numbers one and two’s future husbands were currently between the ages of seven and nine, their pocket money wouldn’t stretch enough to provide for their “wives” just yet. It’s why Mr and Mrs Bennet had chosen to step in. As it happened the giddy, youngest Kitty and Lydia Bennet equivalents had already found their men. If they had been boys they’d have been “wowed” by the enormous cement mixers, various diggers and grinders. Full of baby hormones, they preferred to show their dimples at the Darcys in the dirt. Mrs Bennet had given up washing the hand and kiss marks off the lounge window.
It was a strange feeling being surrounded by an assault course of bricks, scaffolding, tiles and steel poles. It was fine during the day with just herself and the twins Bennets. But at six o’clock with seven bodies, school shoes, bags, lunch boxes, pens, crayons, doll’s arms, squashed raisins, a ball pool of rice crispies and a derailed train, it wasn’t so pleasant. Two objects epitomised how the Bennet parents felt at such moments - Dora the Explorer’s dad was spreadeagled on a cushion, while a lady’s voice warbled painfully slowly from a toy mobile phone as her battery was running low.
As light was getting obscured by Darcy activity, the dark winter days felt even darker. But it was reassuring to be surrounded by men, even if they did require the occasional cuppa. However, the leading Darcy in the dirt did look worryingly grey. As she handed him a cup of coffee, Mrs Bennet realised next door’s garage roof had also changed colour.
“I’m having a bad hair day today,” remarked the Darcy, tapping his head to create a dust cloud.
“I had noticed and did wonder if you were OK,” replied Mrs Bennet. “I only wish I could shake my grey hair out like that!”
Monday, 17 November 2008
Hot tubs and Champagne
Monday, November 18 08
Mrs Bennet drew herself up to her new height of five foot three and promptly fell over. High-heeled boots were all very well in enabling her to feel like an adult - and not just a Mummy - but it didn’t mean she necessarily walked like one. A friend she met 38 years ago in the playgroup Wendy House, was celebrating her 40th birthday, and Mrs Bennet couldn’t wait. She was off to spend a few hours in a luxury spa with fellow mums, who too needed a few hours off child responsibility.
She felt like a care-free giggly girl as she tried her spa slippers on. Her feet looked ridiculously small in the cumbersome white indoor shoes, which both veered sharply to the right, causing her to walk like a crab. And as the over-sized white gown wrapped round her twice, it had the amusing effect of making her feel like a four-year-old who’d raided her mother’s wardrobe, rather than an-almost-40-year-old.
But after a back massage which painfully ironed out her knotted shoulders, a relaxing swim and a leisurely 45 minutes, glass of Champagne in hand, chatting amicably with new friends in a bubbling hot tub in the cold night air, warmed sufficiently by a roaring fire, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to go back to being a Mummy. She wanted to stay here forever.
However as the clock struck midnight, she kicked off her glass slippers and retreated back to being Cinders. The silence of a sleeping house was shattered as an electronic toy teddy sensed her presence and started crying.
“Shhh! You’re not really hungry,” she told it, using the same tone she used on the little Bennets. But she knew if she didn’t stop and feed this tiny bear with its minute bottle, the real children would awake.
“Yum, yum, yum…” went the bear, until it finally sighed and said, “I love you.”
“That’s very kind of you, now go to sleep,” she automatically replied.
“Now I’m talking to toys. I really need to get out more. I wonder if Mr Bennet would notice if I hid a hot tub and a stash of Champagne in my shed?” she daydreamed, adding: “He mightn’t but the neighbours would!”
Mrs Bennet drew herself up to her new height of five foot three and promptly fell over. High-heeled boots were all very well in enabling her to feel like an adult - and not just a Mummy - but it didn’t mean she necessarily walked like one. A friend she met 38 years ago in the playgroup Wendy House, was celebrating her 40th birthday, and Mrs Bennet couldn’t wait. She was off to spend a few hours in a luxury spa with fellow mums, who too needed a few hours off child responsibility.
She felt like a care-free giggly girl as she tried her spa slippers on. Her feet looked ridiculously small in the cumbersome white indoor shoes, which both veered sharply to the right, causing her to walk like a crab. And as the over-sized white gown wrapped round her twice, it had the amusing effect of making her feel like a four-year-old who’d raided her mother’s wardrobe, rather than an-almost-40-year-old.
But after a back massage which painfully ironed out her knotted shoulders, a relaxing swim and a leisurely 45 minutes, glass of Champagne in hand, chatting amicably with new friends in a bubbling hot tub in the cold night air, warmed sufficiently by a roaring fire, Mrs Bennet didn’t want to go back to being a Mummy. She wanted to stay here forever.
However as the clock struck midnight, she kicked off her glass slippers and retreated back to being Cinders. The silence of a sleeping house was shattered as an electronic toy teddy sensed her presence and started crying.
“Shhh! You’re not really hungry,” she told it, using the same tone she used on the little Bennets. But she knew if she didn’t stop and feed this tiny bear with its minute bottle, the real children would awake.
“Yum, yum, yum…” went the bear, until it finally sighed and said, “I love you.”
“That’s very kind of you, now go to sleep,” she automatically replied.
“Now I’m talking to toys. I really need to get out more. I wonder if Mr Bennet would notice if I hid a hot tub and a stash of Champagne in my shed?” she daydreamed, adding: “He mightn’t but the neighbours would!”
Monday, 10 November 2008
Bears and Bennets
Monday, November 10 08
It was a huge responsibility to look after five lively girls. But it was an even bigger responsibility to look after the classroom teddy. Girls were one thing, a cuddly bear was another. The Miss Bennets were extremely vocal if they were unhappy or left out. A cute-faced furry bear couldn’t tell you if he had been left behind. Such was the case for poor Benjamin Bear who had gone missing. This high-flyer, accustomed to travelling all over the world and well-cuddled by four and five year olds, had somehow got lost on his recent vacation in his very own town. Last seen in a certain fast-food restaurant, the little bear was sorely missed. Even Mrs Bennet was sorry. Little Benjamin had been on holiday with the Bennets on numerous occasions. As the school was mourning his disappearance, Miss Emily Bennet walked out with Benjamin’s older brother Barnaby.
“Mummy, Barnaby can come with us to Liverpool!” declared Emily.
“That’s lovely for him!” Mrs Bennet replied, inwardly praying he and his red knitted trousers which were hanging round his knees, (he’d obviously lost weight worrying about his brother) would remain in one piece after a week with the Bennets. To report back that Benjamin’s next of kin was also lost, last seen wearing a red scarf at Anfield would be awful for both Mrs Bennet and school.
As it happened, Barnaby thoroughly enjoyed his time in the European Capital of Culture. He perched on a lambanana, a sculpture half-lamb, half-banana; was pressed against aquarium glass so he could watch humbug and puff fish; and was even allowed to sit on Ring Star’s drums, worth £30,000! Mrs Bennet was constantly counting heads – including Barnaby’s – to ensure no one was left behind.
Thankfully he wasn’t and Mrs Bennet breathed a sigh of relief as Emily with Barnaby and his photographic record of his Liverpool trip in tow, bounced back to school, where jubilations were in the air as little Benjamin had been found.
Mrs Bennet was eternally grateful that her children’s school no longer had real classroom pets. As a bachelor, Mr Bennet had accidentally killed a poor hamster after hitting a cricket bat at the ceiling to stop it running round its wheel in the flat upstairs. It died from shock three days later.
“Hmm, a cuddly bear is a much more sensible option. Five girls and a live four-legged animal on loan would be far too risky,” decided Mrs Bennet, adding: “And too much for the Bennet nerves!”
It was a huge responsibility to look after five lively girls. But it was an even bigger responsibility to look after the classroom teddy. Girls were one thing, a cuddly bear was another. The Miss Bennets were extremely vocal if they were unhappy or left out. A cute-faced furry bear couldn’t tell you if he had been left behind. Such was the case for poor Benjamin Bear who had gone missing. This high-flyer, accustomed to travelling all over the world and well-cuddled by four and five year olds, had somehow got lost on his recent vacation in his very own town. Last seen in a certain fast-food restaurant, the little bear was sorely missed. Even Mrs Bennet was sorry. Little Benjamin had been on holiday with the Bennets on numerous occasions. As the school was mourning his disappearance, Miss Emily Bennet walked out with Benjamin’s older brother Barnaby.
“Mummy, Barnaby can come with us to Liverpool!” declared Emily.
“That’s lovely for him!” Mrs Bennet replied, inwardly praying he and his red knitted trousers which were hanging round his knees, (he’d obviously lost weight worrying about his brother) would remain in one piece after a week with the Bennets. To report back that Benjamin’s next of kin was also lost, last seen wearing a red scarf at Anfield would be awful for both Mrs Bennet and school.
As it happened, Barnaby thoroughly enjoyed his time in the European Capital of Culture. He perched on a lambanana, a sculpture half-lamb, half-banana; was pressed against aquarium glass so he could watch humbug and puff fish; and was even allowed to sit on Ring Star’s drums, worth £30,000! Mrs Bennet was constantly counting heads – including Barnaby’s – to ensure no one was left behind.
Thankfully he wasn’t and Mrs Bennet breathed a sigh of relief as Emily with Barnaby and his photographic record of his Liverpool trip in tow, bounced back to school, where jubilations were in the air as little Benjamin had been found.
Mrs Bennet was eternally grateful that her children’s school no longer had real classroom pets. As a bachelor, Mr Bennet had accidentally killed a poor hamster after hitting a cricket bat at the ceiling to stop it running round its wheel in the flat upstairs. It died from shock three days later.
“Hmm, a cuddly bear is a much more sensible option. Five girls and a live four-legged animal on loan would be far too risky,” decided Mrs Bennet, adding: “And too much for the Bennet nerves!”
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Glow Baby Glow!
Tuesday, November 4 08
Mrs Bennet couldn’t believe it. Miss Rosie Bennet was sitting at the end of the bed shining like a glow worm. A strange aluminous green light radiated from her adorable chubby body. She was officially a glow baby in time for Bonfire night. The older Miss Bennets had discovered an unopened tube of glow sticks and decided they’d have their own firework display. Unbeknown to Mrs Bennet, they’ had handed a stick to their baby sisters, who promptly hit each other with their allotted lime green and fluorescent pink wands.
“Mummy can you come up and turn the light off please? We’ve got something to show you!” cried the Miss Bennets who could talk.
Mrs Bennet approached the bedroom with caution, but spotting their sticks, she realised five hands were ready to perform. In turning off the light however Mrs Bennet’s eyes were drawn to her fourth daughter who clearly stole the show.
Rosie’s stick had leaked. Her little arms and vest were now glowing impressively. Mrs Bennet did see the funny side, but concern about the liquid contents forced her to whip the stick and the vest off the glow baby, who didn’t want to be washed down by a warm flannel and shouted in protest.
The line between humour and danger was fine at times. Situations were only funny once the threat had vanished. A few months ago Mr and Mrs Bennet had found a 3cm-long screw lodged in Rosie’s belly button when they changed her nappy. Thankfully the long point was sticking upwards. It was at Rosie’s “I’m-now-a-speedy-crawler-and-I’m-going-to-pick-up-everything-I-find-stage.” She’d quite happily explored a friend’s kitchen floor, picked up the screw and dropped it down her vest.
And yesterday, Mrs Bennet had laughed aloud as she changed Miss Kezia Bennet’s nappy. Obviously not yet aware of belly-button piercing, Miss Kezia had opted for the safer option and a currant was nestling nicely in her belly button, tailor-made for her tiny body! Mrs Bennet couldn’t resist taking a photograph so to embarrass her daughter at a later stage in life. Unfortunately Mrs Bennet’s “safety first” approach, meant there was no photographic evidence of the glow baby to produce at her 18th birthday. But it was a memory Mrs Bennet would never forget.
Mrs Bennet couldn’t believe it. Miss Rosie Bennet was sitting at the end of the bed shining like a glow worm. A strange aluminous green light radiated from her adorable chubby body. She was officially a glow baby in time for Bonfire night. The older Miss Bennets had discovered an unopened tube of glow sticks and decided they’d have their own firework display. Unbeknown to Mrs Bennet, they’ had handed a stick to their baby sisters, who promptly hit each other with their allotted lime green and fluorescent pink wands.
“Mummy can you come up and turn the light off please? We’ve got something to show you!” cried the Miss Bennets who could talk.
Mrs Bennet approached the bedroom with caution, but spotting their sticks, she realised five hands were ready to perform. In turning off the light however Mrs Bennet’s eyes were drawn to her fourth daughter who clearly stole the show.
Rosie’s stick had leaked. Her little arms and vest were now glowing impressively. Mrs Bennet did see the funny side, but concern about the liquid contents forced her to whip the stick and the vest off the glow baby, who didn’t want to be washed down by a warm flannel and shouted in protest.
The line between humour and danger was fine at times. Situations were only funny once the threat had vanished. A few months ago Mr and Mrs Bennet had found a 3cm-long screw lodged in Rosie’s belly button when they changed her nappy. Thankfully the long point was sticking upwards. It was at Rosie’s “I’m-now-a-speedy-crawler-and-I’m-going-to-pick-up-everything-I-find-stage.” She’d quite happily explored a friend’s kitchen floor, picked up the screw and dropped it down her vest.
And yesterday, Mrs Bennet had laughed aloud as she changed Miss Kezia Bennet’s nappy. Obviously not yet aware of belly-button piercing, Miss Kezia had opted for the safer option and a currant was nestling nicely in her belly button, tailor-made for her tiny body! Mrs Bennet couldn’t resist taking a photograph so to embarrass her daughter at a later stage in life. Unfortunately Mrs Bennet’s “safety first” approach, meant there was no photographic evidence of the glow baby to produce at her 18th birthday. But it was a memory Mrs Bennet would never forget.
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
Mrs Bennet's whale
Monday, October 27 08
Mrs Bennet was apprehensive about entering the dark mouth of a multi-storey car park. She felt she was being swallowed whole by a giant beast then left to nervously navigate sharp bends of its intestines.
If she was lucky she was deposited unscathed at the bottom. Today she had obviously upset its delicate stomach.
At the ticket machine, she slipped the piece of card through the appropriate slot and waited for the computer to tell her how much she owed.
“Duration of stay: 2 days, 31 minutes. To pay: £10.80.”
“What? You must be joking!” cried Mrs Bennet in disbelief. She looked helplessly at the Miss Twin Bennets who were objecting that their chariot had stopped. Ordering herself to stay calm, she pressed the button labelled “call for assistance,” and was promptly and politely told: “Your call is in a queue, we will come to you shortly.”
Mrs Bennet didn’t feel polite after the voice repeated its message for the third time. By then other ticket holders were congregating around the talking machine. Like her they longed to get out of the dark beast’s belly. Rummaging in her back pocket, Mrs Bennet discovered another ticket and more importantly the reason for the confusion.
“I don’t believe it! Mr Bennet came to town on Saturday and I’ve only gone and put his old ticket into the machine. No wonder the machine thinks I’ve slept here for two nights!”
In laughing at her own mistake Mrs Bennet calmed herself down and noticed a cancel button she hadn’t spotted earlier. She pressed it and Mr Bennet’s ticket was returned. Mrs Bennet jumped as the machine, bereft of its £10.80 suddenly spoke.
“Can I help you?” asked the husky male voice from inside the tin box. Mrs Bennet expected Mr Darcy to open the door and walk out.
“No, it’s OK. I’ve been told I’ve been inside this car park for more than two days and I assure you that is not the case. I put the wrong ticket in, sorry,” she said, hating to admit her stupidity to the invisible man.
“No problem. Glad everything’s alright. Take care,” replied the kind voice.
Driving away, five minutes later, Mrs Bennet felt like Jonah after the whale spat him out – embarrassed yet relieved she was still intact.
Mrs Bennet was apprehensive about entering the dark mouth of a multi-storey car park. She felt she was being swallowed whole by a giant beast then left to nervously navigate sharp bends of its intestines.
If she was lucky she was deposited unscathed at the bottom. Today she had obviously upset its delicate stomach.
At the ticket machine, she slipped the piece of card through the appropriate slot and waited for the computer to tell her how much she owed.
“Duration of stay: 2 days, 31 minutes. To pay: £10.80.”
“What? You must be joking!” cried Mrs Bennet in disbelief. She looked helplessly at the Miss Twin Bennets who were objecting that their chariot had stopped. Ordering herself to stay calm, she pressed the button labelled “call for assistance,” and was promptly and politely told: “Your call is in a queue, we will come to you shortly.”
Mrs Bennet didn’t feel polite after the voice repeated its message for the third time. By then other ticket holders were congregating around the talking machine. Like her they longed to get out of the dark beast’s belly. Rummaging in her back pocket, Mrs Bennet discovered another ticket and more importantly the reason for the confusion.
“I don’t believe it! Mr Bennet came to town on Saturday and I’ve only gone and put his old ticket into the machine. No wonder the machine thinks I’ve slept here for two nights!”
In laughing at her own mistake Mrs Bennet calmed herself down and noticed a cancel button she hadn’t spotted earlier. She pressed it and Mr Bennet’s ticket was returned. Mrs Bennet jumped as the machine, bereft of its £10.80 suddenly spoke.
“Can I help you?” asked the husky male voice from inside the tin box. Mrs Bennet expected Mr Darcy to open the door and walk out.
“No, it’s OK. I’ve been told I’ve been inside this car park for more than two days and I assure you that is not the case. I put the wrong ticket in, sorry,” she said, hating to admit her stupidity to the invisible man.
“No problem. Glad everything’s alright. Take care,” replied the kind voice.
Driving away, five minutes later, Mrs Bennet felt like Jonah after the whale spat him out – embarrassed yet relieved she was still intact.
Sunday, 26 October 2008
Shaken but not stirred
Friday, October 24 08
The radiators rattled, Mrs Bennet’s bottom shook on her chair while three doors away her neighbour enjoyed a Jacuzzi. It was all thanks to the latest building brigade in the Bennet garden. The Bingleys had moved in. They were foundation specialists on loan for just five days to ensure the Bennet household didn’t crumble.
“If your house feels as if it’s moving, don’t worry it won’t fall down,” one of the Bingleys had reassured Mrs Bennet as they arrived with drills, long metal tubes and cement mixers.
As they drilled holes eight metres deep, she wasn’t convinced. This was serious dental treatment. Mrs Bennet was grateful it wasn’t her teeth on the receiving end.
Miss Bennets One, Two and Three were at school and therefore away from the excitement. But having been deprived of male action for a week, the little twin Bennets were ecstatic. Their tiny bodies were glued to the lounge window, button noses pressed against the glass and rose-bud lips creating kiss marks. The Bingleys gave them the occasional smile but remained focus on the job in hand. Mrs Bennet couldn’t focus so she took the twins out, long enough to tire them. Amazingly, on their return, they slept for two hours as the house – and their cots – shook beneath them. Mrs Bennet tried to edit a radio interview but as she couldn’t hear anything but drilling through her headphones, gave up. As her seat suddenly turned into a massage chair, she let it do its work. Relaxing, Mrs Bennet pondered, recalling her neighbour’s comments as she apologised for the disruption.
“The builders can stay as long as they like. I was having a bath this afternoon and it’s the first time I’ve ever had a Jacuzzi in it!”
Mrs Bennet, now soothed by her vibrating chair, was tempted.
“The twins are asleep, perhaps I’ll have a bath myself!” she contemplated.
Running upstairs to the bathroom, she turned on the hot water tap, then reconsidered.
“Better not. What if the Bingleys need the toilet and come in? That would take some explaining when Mr Bennet got home,” she thought. The Jacuzzi moment had gone so Mrs Bennet went back to her massage chair, stuck cotton wool in her ears and dozed off for half an hour.
The radiators rattled, Mrs Bennet’s bottom shook on her chair while three doors away her neighbour enjoyed a Jacuzzi. It was all thanks to the latest building brigade in the Bennet garden. The Bingleys had moved in. They were foundation specialists on loan for just five days to ensure the Bennet household didn’t crumble.
“If your house feels as if it’s moving, don’t worry it won’t fall down,” one of the Bingleys had reassured Mrs Bennet as they arrived with drills, long metal tubes and cement mixers.
As they drilled holes eight metres deep, she wasn’t convinced. This was serious dental treatment. Mrs Bennet was grateful it wasn’t her teeth on the receiving end.
Miss Bennets One, Two and Three were at school and therefore away from the excitement. But having been deprived of male action for a week, the little twin Bennets were ecstatic. Their tiny bodies were glued to the lounge window, button noses pressed against the glass and rose-bud lips creating kiss marks. The Bingleys gave them the occasional smile but remained focus on the job in hand. Mrs Bennet couldn’t focus so she took the twins out, long enough to tire them. Amazingly, on their return, they slept for two hours as the house – and their cots – shook beneath them. Mrs Bennet tried to edit a radio interview but as she couldn’t hear anything but drilling through her headphones, gave up. As her seat suddenly turned into a massage chair, she let it do its work. Relaxing, Mrs Bennet pondered, recalling her neighbour’s comments as she apologised for the disruption.
“The builders can stay as long as they like. I was having a bath this afternoon and it’s the first time I’ve ever had a Jacuzzi in it!”
Mrs Bennet, now soothed by her vibrating chair, was tempted.
“The twins are asleep, perhaps I’ll have a bath myself!” she contemplated.
Running upstairs to the bathroom, she turned on the hot water tap, then reconsidered.
“Better not. What if the Bingleys need the toilet and come in? That would take some explaining when Mr Bennet got home,” she thought. The Jacuzzi moment had gone so Mrs Bennet went back to her massage chair, stuck cotton wool in her ears and dozed off for half an hour.
Friday, 17 October 2008
A strange peace at Pemberley
Friday, October 17 08
There was a kind of hush in the Bennet household but it wasn't the sound of lovers in love. Quite the contrary. The little Twin Bennets were distraught. The Darcys in the dirt had disappeared. Their tools had gone, their digger had gone, and so had their smiling faces. Miss Kezia Bennet was most confused. Having had a week of entertainment watching the grown-up boys playing happily in their giant sandpit, she was now looking at an empty muddy back garden. Its only inhabitant was a neighbour's cat, which made her tremble in fright and reach up to her mother for a reassuring cuddle. The Darcys made her squeal in delight and point in their direction, encouraging Mrs Bennet to share the moment, which of course she couldn't because Mr Bennet might get jealous. But after much activity and sweat, this week there had been an eerie silence. Not one muscle or mound of earth moved. And the bite-size Pemberley was not even a morsel. To start with Mrs Bennet was relieved. With drills pounding at full pelt and daughters droning and demanding with equal force, the noise levels had hurt Mrs Bennet's poor ears. But the non-activity was bugging her now. The builders weren't at fault. It was the soil. It apparently wasn't very good and on looking at it, building regulation inspectors had ruled that foundations for the extension would have be of the most expensive variety which needed specialists in to do the job. It meant sadly for the moment the Darcys in the dirt were surplus to requirement. Trying to explain that to a 17-month-old twin was not an easy matter. All week Mrs Bennet lived with a fear that the cost would be so staggeringly high, that she and the rest of the Bennets would be left in a pile of rubble with a demolished garage and conservatory. In a calmer moment, she did think that if plans all went to pot, Mr Bennet could always turn the turned up soil and concrete in the back garden into an allotment. But in the stressed moments - which were unfortunately more common - Mrs Bennet felt she was living in a mess. There was something reassuring about activity. At least something was happening. And today, even she was missing the Darcys in the dirt. She had not yet got round to admitting that fact to Mr Bennet. He wanted to be the only Mr Darcy in her life. But thankfully he knew his wife well enough to know she wouldn't trade him in for another.
There was a kind of hush in the Bennet household but it wasn't the sound of lovers in love. Quite the contrary. The little Twin Bennets were distraught. The Darcys in the dirt had disappeared. Their tools had gone, their digger had gone, and so had their smiling faces. Miss Kezia Bennet was most confused. Having had a week of entertainment watching the grown-up boys playing happily in their giant sandpit, she was now looking at an empty muddy back garden. Its only inhabitant was a neighbour's cat, which made her tremble in fright and reach up to her mother for a reassuring cuddle. The Darcys made her squeal in delight and point in their direction, encouraging Mrs Bennet to share the moment, which of course she couldn't because Mr Bennet might get jealous. But after much activity and sweat, this week there had been an eerie silence. Not one muscle or mound of earth moved. And the bite-size Pemberley was not even a morsel. To start with Mrs Bennet was relieved. With drills pounding at full pelt and daughters droning and demanding with equal force, the noise levels had hurt Mrs Bennet's poor ears. But the non-activity was bugging her now. The builders weren't at fault. It was the soil. It apparently wasn't very good and on looking at it, building regulation inspectors had ruled that foundations for the extension would have be of the most expensive variety which needed specialists in to do the job. It meant sadly for the moment the Darcys in the dirt were surplus to requirement. Trying to explain that to a 17-month-old twin was not an easy matter. All week Mrs Bennet lived with a fear that the cost would be so staggeringly high, that she and the rest of the Bennets would be left in a pile of rubble with a demolished garage and conservatory. In a calmer moment, she did think that if plans all went to pot, Mr Bennet could always turn the turned up soil and concrete in the back garden into an allotment. But in the stressed moments - which were unfortunately more common - Mrs Bennet felt she was living in a mess. There was something reassuring about activity. At least something was happening. And today, even she was missing the Darcys in the dirt. She had not yet got round to admitting that fact to Mr Bennet. He wanted to be the only Mr Darcy in her life. But thankfully he knew his wife well enough to know she wouldn't trade him in for another.
Monday, 13 October 2008
Put a sock in it
Monday, October 13 08
Having emptied the contents of a pink waste bin, Mrs Bennet was surrounded by a sea of socks. Multi-coloured spotty socks, baby socks, white school socks, pink heart socks, "I love Mummy" socks, red socks, purple socks and striped blue and yellow socks surrounded a single male-sized black sock which looked out of place amongst the female foot warmers. To his credit, the male sock was in a minority for the right reason. All his male companions were still attached to their mates. The female versions on the other hand were having serious relationship problems. If they had once been married or committed to their partner, they were no longer attached. It didn't look good. The Bennet Socks were in desperate need of relationship counselling."Mr Bennet just what are we going to do with them all? I have 144 socks in front of me and only 14 are part of a pair. Where do they go? Some of them have hardly been worn!" she looked in desperation at her husband, who was rather proud that his socks obviously carried the anointing when it came to staying together."The vacuum cleaner sucked one up the other day and I managed to retrieve it from the dust," replied her husband. "That's only one sock? What about the rest? Pants and bras don't have this problem, so why do socks?!""My dear, I don't know," mumbled Mr Bennet, preferring to watch a television programme about big cats.Mrs Bennet turned to Mr Google for the answer. He came back with 595,000 references to odd socks. The Sock Monster was largely to blame, but among the explanations, was a suggestion that the socks were cannibals and ate each other up. Mrs Bennet wasn't convinced and was determined to love-match a few lost soles.
"I've found another pair...oh, and another!" declared an excited Mr Bennet, who hadn't given up hope after all. The sock bin was seven years old. With 18 socks now happily paired up, there were only 126 to find mates for. And there now wasn't one black sock among them. Mr Bennet was thrilled. His wife hadn’t noticed the lone male sock was hidden in his pocket.
Having emptied the contents of a pink waste bin, Mrs Bennet was surrounded by a sea of socks. Multi-coloured spotty socks, baby socks, white school socks, pink heart socks, "I love Mummy" socks, red socks, purple socks and striped blue and yellow socks surrounded a single male-sized black sock which looked out of place amongst the female foot warmers. To his credit, the male sock was in a minority for the right reason. All his male companions were still attached to their mates. The female versions on the other hand were having serious relationship problems. If they had once been married or committed to their partner, they were no longer attached. It didn't look good. The Bennet Socks were in desperate need of relationship counselling."Mr Bennet just what are we going to do with them all? I have 144 socks in front of me and only 14 are part of a pair. Where do they go? Some of them have hardly been worn!" she looked in desperation at her husband, who was rather proud that his socks obviously carried the anointing when it came to staying together."The vacuum cleaner sucked one up the other day and I managed to retrieve it from the dust," replied her husband. "That's only one sock? What about the rest? Pants and bras don't have this problem, so why do socks?!""My dear, I don't know," mumbled Mr Bennet, preferring to watch a television programme about big cats.Mrs Bennet turned to Mr Google for the answer. He came back with 595,000 references to odd socks. The Sock Monster was largely to blame, but among the explanations, was a suggestion that the socks were cannibals and ate each other up. Mrs Bennet wasn't convinced and was determined to love-match a few lost soles.
"I've found another pair...oh, and another!" declared an excited Mr Bennet, who hadn't given up hope after all. The sock bin was seven years old. With 18 socks now happily paired up, there were only 126 to find mates for. And there now wasn't one black sock among them. Mr Bennet was thrilled. His wife hadn’t noticed the lone male sock was hidden in his pocket.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Four Darcys and a little lady
Monday, October 6 08
The little Miss Twin Bennets were mesmerised. Never had they seen so many men in a confined space. To watch one male was plenty, to watch four was almost too much. Outside where the conservatory once stood, the building quartet was busy at work, drilling up rubble and knocking down walls. Miss Kezia was particularly hooked. A dainty sandwich which normally went straight into her mouth was stuck half-way between face and plate. She could not possibly watch and eat at the same time. The other hand was pointing at the foreign human objects, accompanied by “ooh” and “aah” sounds which she did well. If the twins were seventeen rather than 17 months, the scene might have provoked a different response. As it was, the Darcys in the dirt, rippling their muscles, were out of bounds, despite Miss Kezia’s efforts to get their attention.
After almost two years in limbo, failing to sell and waiting for planning permission, change was finally in the air for the Bennet family. Builders were building a pint-sized Pemberley out of the three-bedroom semi to accommodate the five Bennet daughters and their parents. Mrs Bennet had only agreed to this on one condition.
“Do you want a wife at the end of all this? Because if you do, the only way I’m putting up with this is by moving out,” she’d told her husband and that was that. But that was not that and they were all still there, living most of the day in a lounge. They were surrounded. Surrounded by a group of very friendly and polite builders, but surrounded none the less.
At least from Mr Bennet’s point of view, the hormones were balanced out by a surge of testosterone, something the Bennet girls knew nothing about - yet. Miss Kezia Bennet watched it all, goggle-eyed through a pane of glass. Miss Rosie Bennet soon lost interest. Pulling the newspapers out of the magazine rack was far more fun.
Mrs Bennet on the other hand, wasn’t sure Mr Bennet would have a wife at the end of it. She had left her mind somewhere. She acknowledged this when she went upstairs to put one of the twins to bed and leaning over the cot, realised the baby was still in the car! Mrs Bennet seriously considered getting into the cot herself.
The little Miss Twin Bennets were mesmerised. Never had they seen so many men in a confined space. To watch one male was plenty, to watch four was almost too much. Outside where the conservatory once stood, the building quartet was busy at work, drilling up rubble and knocking down walls. Miss Kezia was particularly hooked. A dainty sandwich which normally went straight into her mouth was stuck half-way between face and plate. She could not possibly watch and eat at the same time. The other hand was pointing at the foreign human objects, accompanied by “ooh” and “aah” sounds which she did well. If the twins were seventeen rather than 17 months, the scene might have provoked a different response. As it was, the Darcys in the dirt, rippling their muscles, were out of bounds, despite Miss Kezia’s efforts to get their attention.
After almost two years in limbo, failing to sell and waiting for planning permission, change was finally in the air for the Bennet family. Builders were building a pint-sized Pemberley out of the three-bedroom semi to accommodate the five Bennet daughters and their parents. Mrs Bennet had only agreed to this on one condition.
“Do you want a wife at the end of all this? Because if you do, the only way I’m putting up with this is by moving out,” she’d told her husband and that was that. But that was not that and they were all still there, living most of the day in a lounge. They were surrounded. Surrounded by a group of very friendly and polite builders, but surrounded none the less.
At least from Mr Bennet’s point of view, the hormones were balanced out by a surge of testosterone, something the Bennet girls knew nothing about - yet. Miss Kezia Bennet watched it all, goggle-eyed through a pane of glass. Miss Rosie Bennet soon lost interest. Pulling the newspapers out of the magazine rack was far more fun.
Mrs Bennet on the other hand, wasn’t sure Mr Bennet would have a wife at the end of it. She had left her mind somewhere. She acknowledged this when she went upstairs to put one of the twins to bed and leaning over the cot, realised the baby was still in the car! Mrs Bennet seriously considered getting into the cot herself.
Monday, 6 October 2008
Nothing fits!
Saturday, October 4 08
Mrs Bennet shot out of her noisy, cluttered house into the plush, immaculate courtesy car on the drive and sank into its luxurious leather seat. She rested her head on the steering wheel and resisted the urge to press the horn very loudly. This was not good. She knew it was going to be tough, but living in a lounge with six other bodies for hours on end, was doing her head in. The Sat Nav didn't work so she couldn't programme it to take her off to some exotic place, so instead she sat motionless, allowing the silence to wash over her in calming waves. It took at least 10 minutes for it to have any effect. She was so worked up. Never in her life had she felt so stressed. She stared straight ahead at the empty garage. Change was afoot, she knew that, but it didn't take away the immediate problem. There was just nowhere to get a minute's peace. She so related to Jill Murphy's Large Family stories where Mother Elephant couldn't even have a bath without her children following her.
She'd just returned from doing the weekly shop. But she'd bought too many frozen items and had forgotten the garage's chest freezer was now sitting on the front lawn waiting to be collected. The garage was being pulled down within days. The tiny kitchen freezer desperately needed defrosting and wouldn't let Mrs Bennet give it any more offerings. Instead it gave her an offering - several shards of ice which fell on the floor and formed a puddle around the unpacked shopping. Meanwhile, one by one little Bennets appeared, expecting her to respond immediately to their requests.
Miss Naomi Bennet wanted her mother to find oil pastels for an important picture she intended to draw; Miss Emily Bennet needed Mrs Bennet to find two pairs of baby socks for her dolls the twins no longer used and Miss Megan suddenly announced that she had to have a blanket for her doll because it needed a nap. And only Mummy was allowed to fetch it. Miss Kezia Bennet was shaking the milk out of its bottle to create a white mottled effect on the lounge carpet and Miss Rosie Bennet was pulling anything and everything she could out of every drawer she could find. She had also perfected her throwing technique and was particularly good at hurling playdough at her poor mother.
Mrs Bennet was also struggling under a mound of washing, work commissions which had tight deadlines and sleepless nights due to wakeful twins. She didn't have enough arms, hours or space. But for now, this plush brand new car, which she knew would have to go back in a couple of days, was her life saver. She listened to a track which included the lyric, "I'm gonna fly, no one knows where, I'm gonna fly, soaring through the air...."
She looked up through the sun roof and watched an aeroplane overhead leave its vapour trail behind. "One day I'll fly," she thought. Just another six months and she'd have a house to spread her wings in and a shed to fly to when she needed it.
"I just might need something stronger than Mr Latte to help me get there," she decided, "mmmm I think Mr Champagne would do very well."
Mrs Bennet shot out of her noisy, cluttered house into the plush, immaculate courtesy car on the drive and sank into its luxurious leather seat. She rested her head on the steering wheel and resisted the urge to press the horn very loudly. This was not good. She knew it was going to be tough, but living in a lounge with six other bodies for hours on end, was doing her head in. The Sat Nav didn't work so she couldn't programme it to take her off to some exotic place, so instead she sat motionless, allowing the silence to wash over her in calming waves. It took at least 10 minutes for it to have any effect. She was so worked up. Never in her life had she felt so stressed. She stared straight ahead at the empty garage. Change was afoot, she knew that, but it didn't take away the immediate problem. There was just nowhere to get a minute's peace. She so related to Jill Murphy's Large Family stories where Mother Elephant couldn't even have a bath without her children following her.
She'd just returned from doing the weekly shop. But she'd bought too many frozen items and had forgotten the garage's chest freezer was now sitting on the front lawn waiting to be collected. The garage was being pulled down within days. The tiny kitchen freezer desperately needed defrosting and wouldn't let Mrs Bennet give it any more offerings. Instead it gave her an offering - several shards of ice which fell on the floor and formed a puddle around the unpacked shopping. Meanwhile, one by one little Bennets appeared, expecting her to respond immediately to their requests.
Miss Naomi Bennet wanted her mother to find oil pastels for an important picture she intended to draw; Miss Emily Bennet needed Mrs Bennet to find two pairs of baby socks for her dolls the twins no longer used and Miss Megan suddenly announced that she had to have a blanket for her doll because it needed a nap. And only Mummy was allowed to fetch it. Miss Kezia Bennet was shaking the milk out of its bottle to create a white mottled effect on the lounge carpet and Miss Rosie Bennet was pulling anything and everything she could out of every drawer she could find. She had also perfected her throwing technique and was particularly good at hurling playdough at her poor mother.
Mrs Bennet was also struggling under a mound of washing, work commissions which had tight deadlines and sleepless nights due to wakeful twins. She didn't have enough arms, hours or space. But for now, this plush brand new car, which she knew would have to go back in a couple of days, was her life saver. She listened to a track which included the lyric, "I'm gonna fly, no one knows where, I'm gonna fly, soaring through the air...."
She looked up through the sun roof and watched an aeroplane overhead leave its vapour trail behind. "One day I'll fly," she thought. Just another six months and she'd have a house to spread her wings in and a shed to fly to when she needed it.
"I just might need something stronger than Mr Latte to help me get there," she decided, "mmmm I think Mr Champagne would do very well."
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Mrs Bennet the new cleaner
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."
"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."
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
