Thursday, March 26 '09
Spag and Bol were a pair of comedians. They were poles apart in many respects, yet they had one delightful attribute in common - a sense of humour. Mrs Bennet affectionately referred to them as Spag and Bol (although not to their faces) simply because they were like the combination Spaghetti Bolognese: different components, yet together a delicious item. Miss Bennets Numbers Four and Five were Mrs Bennet's gin and tonic. They kept her going and never failed to make her smile or laugh no matter how stressed, hormonal or sleep-deprived she might feel.
Mrs Bennet was crouched down behind Spag and Bol's bedroom door with her radio microphone held to the gap. They were doing what they did best - an excellent impression of two animated old ladies leaning over the garden fence. Both girls were holding on to their respective cot bars bouncing up and down and giggling at each other.
"Woobedooodeegoooaaahhh. Goodeeebaaa?"
"Woobedoooo, ahhhh."
"Hee hee, hee hee."
From an audio point of view, it reminded Mrs Bennet of The Clangers or Bill and Ben. Mrs Bennet thought she was probably the Soup Dragon or Weed, as the two lead characters always got suitably excited when she appeared. Her hand wobbled from holding the microphone still for so long, but she had what she needed. This was Spagbolese - the Bennet twins' official language. A language which excluded their mother, who hadn't been given a Spagbolese dictionary. The authors however were fluent and felt they didn't need to learn English. Oh, they knew what Mrs Bennet said alright. When she said: "OK girls time to go up," they proceeded to climb the stairs as fast as their little legs could take them. Over the past few months they'd uttered Mummy, Daddy, gone, baby, down, up, Kezzie, Jannie, bath, biscuit etc. but apart from the first two words, they had said these only once and refused point blank with a "no" and a nod of the head to repeat them. Kezia Bennet had even announced "see you soon," after hearing a toy phone declare the sentiment. But no matter how hard Mrs Bennet tried to persuade her to repeat it, Bol kept her lips sealed. Both twins were forever chatting and singing in Spagbolese and Mrs Bennet wondered if she should try and learn it for herself, because whilst her nearly two-year-olds had a vast vocabulary, it was unfortunately not understood by anyone else.
"Your child should now have a vocabulary of about 200 words," a recent email had informed her. If it had referred to Miss Bennet Number Three at 22 months, then it would have been quite accurate.
"Mmm..two more like," she muttered, "What do they know? And what do i know more like, I've never had twins before." She wasn't too worried though. She'd met up with two fellow twin mums and their boy/girl combinations were conversing in a similar way. The boys took great delight in pulling their sisters' hair on a daily basis. Mrss Bennet hadn't had this issue to deal with, but Spag and Bol were far from perfect. Their comical tendencies just outweighed the strops and mini scraps which sometimes broke out over a toy pushchair.
Mrs Bennet put her recording equipment away and decided to do something creative with the sound effects, perhaps presenting it to her daughters in 16 years time.
At six o'clock, the time when World War III was at its most dangerous, Mr Bennet came home.
"Woobedegoootea,do bego?" Mrs Bennet asked him.
"Sorry...."
"My dear, it's a new language. It's "do you want a cup of tea," in Spagbolese."
"Never heard of it, but yes please," he replied.
"Well we had better both start learning it. It's been devised by our youngest daughters who already have an A level in it."
As if on cue, Spag and Bol burst through the lounge door, ran to Mr Bennet and proceeded to excitedly babble away in Spagbolese.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Sunday, 22 March 2009
Mrs Bennet’s lost bubble
Saturday, March 21 ‘09
The signs were there all around her indicating that she was a mother under stress, overwhelmed by life’s responsibilities. She was run down; empty and just wanted to hide away from everyone. Mrs Bennet had lost her bubbly-ness. Her bubble was last seen floating in the Bristol direction, preferring a city life for a while no doubt. Mrs Bennet listed the evidence of her bubble-less-ness.
1. She’d poured herself a cup of coffee without boiling the kettle first.
2. She’d tried feeding her Boots advantage card into the hole in the wall.
3. She’d turned the dishwasher on, with the newly-cleaned dishes and pots still inside.
4. She’d put her favourite cream cardigan inside the washing machine, turned it on, forgetting there were already pink and red items inside. The cardigan came out an uneven looking pink.
Some would argue that this was quite normal for a mother of five. Perhaps it was but she prided herself on doing one of those things now and again, NOT all in the same morning!
Mrs Bennet was cheered up somewhat when her own dear mother – known affectionately to her daughters as Jannie – announced that not only had Mr Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s father, mistakenly sprayed the fence with weed killer instead of wood stain and had subsequently killed the plants in the flower beds, but had locked his car keys in the boot after watching his beloved team Bristol City lose a vital match. They eventually got home six hours later.
“You’re becoming more like your daughter every day,” Jannie had told her husband.
Mrs Bennet didn’t know if that was a complement or not. She didn’t ask. Instead she hoped her father had managed to trap her lost bubble in the boot as well. Unfortunately it hadn’t been seen for a couple of weeks and any chance of survival was pretty slight, particularly if it had hovered over Ashton Gate. It would have got burst by angry City fans.
However hearing of her own dad’s mishaps Mrs Bennet was reassured. Perhaps her sense of clumsiness or scatty-ness wasn’t due to her losing her bubble. Perhaps it was after all hereditary.
Thursday, 19 March 2009
The Darcys and de Burghs
Thursday, March 19 ‘09
Mrs Bennet was grateful there wasn’t a Mr Collins in her life. Jane Austen’s version sent Mrs Bennet in a frenzy, particularly as he stood to inherit the estate at Longbourne when Mr Bennet died. Ordered to marry by the insufferable Lady Catherine de Burgh, considered “far superior to the handsomest of her sex”, he aimed his so-called affections at Miss Jane Bennet, then quickly transferred them to Elizabeth, when told Jane may well be taken.
As far as she was aware Modern Mrs Bennet didn’t have any Lady Catherine characters lurking in the background either. Although at times she did quiver in her size three Dr Marten boots, if in the presence of overwhelming forthright females. It probably stemmed back to her days at an all girls grammar school, where “truth, honour, freedom and courtesy” was the motto, and respect for authority drummed in. Times were different now and long were the days when girls had to wear six-panel A-line skirts, six inches below the knee and beige socks that really didn’t go with the shocking cerise tie and striped pink and white shirt. If caught without the top button done up, with its partner in crime, a rebelliously threaded tie, it meant an instant order mark or worse still detention.
The voice of authority, the voice of someone who could easily have played the part of Lady Catherine de Burgh, still echoed on occasion in Mrs Bennet’s ears. But they were only echoes. She did wonder whether there might be a few Mr Collins about in the infant playground. Some – according to her daughters - seemed to change their affections towards certain little ladies on a daily basis. There were always the faithful Bingleys though who remained glued to the side of only one female and remained on good terms with her by Year 2.
Amazed that the search for Darcys began at playgroup, Mrs Bennet was intrigued by the Miss Bennets’ thoughts on the subject of marriage, which regularly popped up. What she hadn’t anticipated was the subject matter arising at such a young age. All three of her elder daughters’ quest for the ideal man had begun before they even knew what a playground was. Their mullings over the latest dish in the home corner or sandpit had been a frequent topic of conversation as their role plays with each other, various plastic characters or dolls revealed.
School and the introduction to a new batch of boys just added to their intrigue and interest. Miss Megan Bennet was particularly drawn to a sweet dark-haired little Darcy, slightly smaller than herself. After the first week in reception class, she boldly announced:
“I just love him, he’s so cute!” And this from a four-year-old! Miss Bennet’s teacher had also noted this particular attraction.
“I don’t like to say this, but I think you may have a Lydia Bennet on your hands!”
Mrs Bennet made a mental note to keep Miss Megan away from soldiers. Much as she wanted her to have a Darcy, she didn’t particularly wish for her daughter to elope at 16.
“I did want to marry Harry first Mummy, but he wants to marry Hannah, but Sean says he’ll marry me,” Miss Bennet explained.
So that was alright then. At four, life was so simple. At 40, Mrs Bennet knew it was not.
Mrs Bennet was grateful there wasn’t a Mr Collins in her life. Jane Austen’s version sent Mrs Bennet in a frenzy, particularly as he stood to inherit the estate at Longbourne when Mr Bennet died. Ordered to marry by the insufferable Lady Catherine de Burgh, considered “far superior to the handsomest of her sex”, he aimed his so-called affections at Miss Jane Bennet, then quickly transferred them to Elizabeth, when told Jane may well be taken.
As far as she was aware Modern Mrs Bennet didn’t have any Lady Catherine characters lurking in the background either. Although at times she did quiver in her size three Dr Marten boots, if in the presence of overwhelming forthright females. It probably stemmed back to her days at an all girls grammar school, where “truth, honour, freedom and courtesy” was the motto, and respect for authority drummed in. Times were different now and long were the days when girls had to wear six-panel A-line skirts, six inches below the knee and beige socks that really didn’t go with the shocking cerise tie and striped pink and white shirt. If caught without the top button done up, with its partner in crime, a rebelliously threaded tie, it meant an instant order mark or worse still detention.
The voice of authority, the voice of someone who could easily have played the part of Lady Catherine de Burgh, still echoed on occasion in Mrs Bennet’s ears. But they were only echoes. She did wonder whether there might be a few Mr Collins about in the infant playground. Some – according to her daughters - seemed to change their affections towards certain little ladies on a daily basis. There were always the faithful Bingleys though who remained glued to the side of only one female and remained on good terms with her by Year 2.
Amazed that the search for Darcys began at playgroup, Mrs Bennet was intrigued by the Miss Bennets’ thoughts on the subject of marriage, which regularly popped up. What she hadn’t anticipated was the subject matter arising at such a young age. All three of her elder daughters’ quest for the ideal man had begun before they even knew what a playground was. Their mullings over the latest dish in the home corner or sandpit had been a frequent topic of conversation as their role plays with each other, various plastic characters or dolls revealed.
School and the introduction to a new batch of boys just added to their intrigue and interest. Miss Megan Bennet was particularly drawn to a sweet dark-haired little Darcy, slightly smaller than herself. After the first week in reception class, she boldly announced:
“I just love him, he’s so cute!” And this from a four-year-old! Miss Bennet’s teacher had also noted this particular attraction.
“I don’t like to say this, but I think you may have a Lydia Bennet on your hands!”
Mrs Bennet made a mental note to keep Miss Megan away from soldiers. Much as she wanted her to have a Darcy, she didn’t particularly wish for her daughter to elope at 16.
“I did want to marry Harry first Mummy, but he wants to marry Hannah, but Sean says he’ll marry me,” Miss Bennet explained.
So that was alright then. At four, life was so simple. At 40, Mrs Bennet knew it was not.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Knocked out by Chicken Tonight
Friday, March 13 ‘09
Mrs Bennet rubbed her head. It hurt and had a funny spongy feel when she pressed it. The Chicken Tonight had done a good job and had almost knocked her out. She was only looking in the cupboard to see what she could cook for the Bennet’s nightly nosh and promptly got attacked by a bottle of Soya sauce. In ducking her head, while her hand skilfully caught the falling bottle, a jar of Chicken Tonight creamy mushroom sauce had walloped her where the Soya sauce had missed and stunned her momentarily. Half an hour later she was at the school gate, with chirping twins, still feeling out of it. Mind you it was a feeling she felt regularly these days.
Before marriage and babies, Mrs Bennet had been a morning bird. Up at six and in bed by 10pm on the nights she wasn’t working. Nowadays, she was often rudely woken up by a five-year old, demanding where her school tights were, or a Mr Bennet politely informing her he was now leaving the building and perhaps it would be a good idea if she surfaced. It was a miracle how she ever left the building herself and she hoped the teachers didn’t notice that she’d missed brushing one of the Miss Bennet’s hair or that their shoes hadn’t been polished for quite a while now. She was lucky to get to bed before 1am. With five packed lunches to prepare, school books to write in, trip money to find, nappy bags to stock up, toys to put away and her own work deadlines to meet, Mrs Bennet would often find the bath water she ran two hours before, stone cold; but not wanting to waste it, washed herself in it anyway before crawling into bed exhausted.
“You must get to bed earlier. I’m concerned about you,” said her husband on a rare date out at a local restaurant. Going to bed earlier was not a passionate invitation by the way.
“You’re always on the computer working when you get a spare moment. You never watch the television or sit down and read the paper! If you went to bed earlier, you’d get up a lot fresher,” he declared.
And of course he was quite right, but she was in a Catch 22 situation. It was a chicken (tonight) and egg case. It didn’t help that she disliked living in her house right now. Six months on – although the extension was built, it wasn’t in a liveable state and the Bennet septuplets, cooped up in the living room womb desperately wanted to be born into a bigger world. For the past two weeks a strange and eerie silence had enveloped the bite-size Pemberley. As the mortgage hadn’t yet been cleared, the money wasn’t available to finish what could be finished and as the Darcys in the Dirt were going through what could only be described as a “family crisis,” the work had quite suddenly come to a halt. One of the Darcys had in fact run away and if the truth be known, Mrs Bennet was rather concerned about him, as were his colleagues. But at risk of upsetting them, she pledged not to elaborate any further.
But today with her Chicken Tonight egg head pounding like a chick desperate to break through its shell, Mrs Bennet faced a sudden surge of activity. The sub-contractor Darcys were back. This time to drill holes in the lounge and ceiling to sort out the electrics. Dishy and charming as they were, Mrs Bennet couldn’t handle any more disruption. She knew she had no choice, but she also had nowhere to go. The little Miss Twin Bennets – who she now affectionately called Spag and Bol – were giggling loudly cot to cot, showing how much they intended to have their lunchtime nap. Mrs Bennet walked in as they shouted in unison: “Mummy!” The whiff of dirty nappy gave her the information she needed. Spag – the older twin was not going to settle until she was cleaned up.
Mrs Bennet knew the power was about to be turned off, so got to work before she couldn’t see what she was doing. A knock at the door, followed by a
“There’s a man here to pick up the scaffolding!” made her work extra fast. Putting Spag back in her cot, she ran down the stairs with her smelly present in hand.
It was times like this she felt like swearing. But as she didn’t know any appropriate words, she muttered “Sugar!” and went outside to sort out Mr Scaffolding.
Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mum was clutching a mug of Mr Peely Wally (hot water) and watching the circus of activity move around her.
“Why don’t you go off for a break,” she urged Mrs Bennet, convinced her mother was an angel in disguise.
Glad of the invitation. Mrs Bennet handed in her RSVP and ran out the door. Her Chicken Tonight egg head finally hatched, relieving the pressure on her brain. Perhaps she would think straight again.
“I may not come back!” she shouted as she tripped over her feet and landed on her face. Perhaps the Chicken Tonight had done more damage than she had feared. She vowed to take revenge and watch it bubble away in the oven when she got back.
Mrs Bennet rubbed her head. It hurt and had a funny spongy feel when she pressed it. The Chicken Tonight had done a good job and had almost knocked her out. She was only looking in the cupboard to see what she could cook for the Bennet’s nightly nosh and promptly got attacked by a bottle of Soya sauce. In ducking her head, while her hand skilfully caught the falling bottle, a jar of Chicken Tonight creamy mushroom sauce had walloped her where the Soya sauce had missed and stunned her momentarily. Half an hour later she was at the school gate, with chirping twins, still feeling out of it. Mind you it was a feeling she felt regularly these days.
Before marriage and babies, Mrs Bennet had been a morning bird. Up at six and in bed by 10pm on the nights she wasn’t working. Nowadays, she was often rudely woken up by a five-year old, demanding where her school tights were, or a Mr Bennet politely informing her he was now leaving the building and perhaps it would be a good idea if she surfaced. It was a miracle how she ever left the building herself and she hoped the teachers didn’t notice that she’d missed brushing one of the Miss Bennet’s hair or that their shoes hadn’t been polished for quite a while now. She was lucky to get to bed before 1am. With five packed lunches to prepare, school books to write in, trip money to find, nappy bags to stock up, toys to put away and her own work deadlines to meet, Mrs Bennet would often find the bath water she ran two hours before, stone cold; but not wanting to waste it, washed herself in it anyway before crawling into bed exhausted.
“You must get to bed earlier. I’m concerned about you,” said her husband on a rare date out at a local restaurant. Going to bed earlier was not a passionate invitation by the way.
“You’re always on the computer working when you get a spare moment. You never watch the television or sit down and read the paper! If you went to bed earlier, you’d get up a lot fresher,” he declared.
And of course he was quite right, but she was in a Catch 22 situation. It was a chicken (tonight) and egg case. It didn’t help that she disliked living in her house right now. Six months on – although the extension was built, it wasn’t in a liveable state and the Bennet septuplets, cooped up in the living room womb desperately wanted to be born into a bigger world. For the past two weeks a strange and eerie silence had enveloped the bite-size Pemberley. As the mortgage hadn’t yet been cleared, the money wasn’t available to finish what could be finished and as the Darcys in the Dirt were going through what could only be described as a “family crisis,” the work had quite suddenly come to a halt. One of the Darcys had in fact run away and if the truth be known, Mrs Bennet was rather concerned about him, as were his colleagues. But at risk of upsetting them, she pledged not to elaborate any further.
But today with her Chicken Tonight egg head pounding like a chick desperate to break through its shell, Mrs Bennet faced a sudden surge of activity. The sub-contractor Darcys were back. This time to drill holes in the lounge and ceiling to sort out the electrics. Dishy and charming as they were, Mrs Bennet couldn’t handle any more disruption. She knew she had no choice, but she also had nowhere to go. The little Miss Twin Bennets – who she now affectionately called Spag and Bol – were giggling loudly cot to cot, showing how much they intended to have their lunchtime nap. Mrs Bennet walked in as they shouted in unison: “Mummy!” The whiff of dirty nappy gave her the information she needed. Spag – the older twin was not going to settle until she was cleaned up.
Mrs Bennet knew the power was about to be turned off, so got to work before she couldn’t see what she was doing. A knock at the door, followed by a
“There’s a man here to pick up the scaffolding!” made her work extra fast. Putting Spag back in her cot, she ran down the stairs with her smelly present in hand.
It was times like this she felt like swearing. But as she didn’t know any appropriate words, she muttered “Sugar!” and went outside to sort out Mr Scaffolding.
Jannie, Mrs Bennet’s mum was clutching a mug of Mr Peely Wally (hot water) and watching the circus of activity move around her.
“Why don’t you go off for a break,” she urged Mrs Bennet, convinced her mother was an angel in disguise.
Glad of the invitation. Mrs Bennet handed in her RSVP and ran out the door. Her Chicken Tonight egg head finally hatched, relieving the pressure on her brain. Perhaps she would think straight again.
“I may not come back!” she shouted as she tripped over her feet and landed on her face. Perhaps the Chicken Tonight had done more damage than she had feared. She vowed to take revenge and watch it bubble away in the oven when she got back.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Mrs Bennet off her leash
Wednesday, March 11 ‘09
Mrs Bennet watched Miss Bennet Number Two cartwheel into the lounge. Most children walked in. This Miss Bennet generally bounced in – not always taking note where she landed or on whom she landed. The object in question was usually a smaller sibling, her mother’s foot or a baby doll’s head. Miss Bennet was in many respects like Winnie the Pooh’s Tigger friend, or a puppy dog. And the more Mrs Bennet got to know the intricate workings of her young daughter, the more she realised she was a mini version of herself.
Mrs Bennet also regularly needed a run to release her energy. But it was largely due to the fact she wanted to escape from responsibility for half an hour. It was mental space. Space where there were no demands, no sticky fingers clinging onto her legs, no runny noses to wipe, no nappy smells to deal with and no hungry mouths to feed.
The road or the treadmill didn’t expect anything of her. They welcomed her pounding footsteps and asked no questions. They provided a place where she could disappear to and forget she was a mother just for a few minutes, until the crèche lady came and asked if she could kindly sort out a stinking bottom or two. As the rain was in full pelt mode, Mrs Bennet joined the line-up of joggers on their respective running machines and got to work. And work it was. Running in heavy rain would have been easy compared to this. She stared at the machine. It was swaying side to side as she stood on it. And that was before she’d even started moving. The sheer force of the pounding feet in front and behind her was giving Mrs Bennet’s own running machine an inferiority complex. It couldn’t cope with the pressure. Trying to put aside the increasing seasickness, Mrs Bennet pushed the buttons and attempted to run. But after a mile, the swaying motion hadn’t ceased. She was beginning to feel quite peculiar and decided to wait until the running sharks had left and the waves had calmed down.
Incidentally Mrs Bennet knew the sharks were harmless. Indeed they were very friendly, but for a mother who wanted a quiet, uneventful run into oblivion, the waves were just too much.
A few minutes later, the sharks were off climbing mountains and rowing across rapids. She jumped on her favoured machine, turned up her MP3 player to drown out everything and everyone, and pretended to run away into a world, where for 35 minutes, no one demanded anything of her and her mind was allowed to drift off, turn off and enjoy the moment.
Tired, but refreshed, Mrs Bennet returned to reality. As she walked through the door, the Tigger child came towards her, landing a perfect cartwheel at her feet. It was obvious this puppy dog needed her daily run too. Mrs Bennet made a mental note to buy a lead and a tin of Pedigree Chum.
Mrs Bennet watched Miss Bennet Number Two cartwheel into the lounge. Most children walked in. This Miss Bennet generally bounced in – not always taking note where she landed or on whom she landed. The object in question was usually a smaller sibling, her mother’s foot or a baby doll’s head. Miss Bennet was in many respects like Winnie the Pooh’s Tigger friend, or a puppy dog. And the more Mrs Bennet got to know the intricate workings of her young daughter, the more she realised she was a mini version of herself.
Mrs Bennet also regularly needed a run to release her energy. But it was largely due to the fact she wanted to escape from responsibility for half an hour. It was mental space. Space where there were no demands, no sticky fingers clinging onto her legs, no runny noses to wipe, no nappy smells to deal with and no hungry mouths to feed.
The road or the treadmill didn’t expect anything of her. They welcomed her pounding footsteps and asked no questions. They provided a place where she could disappear to and forget she was a mother just for a few minutes, until the crèche lady came and asked if she could kindly sort out a stinking bottom or two. As the rain was in full pelt mode, Mrs Bennet joined the line-up of joggers on their respective running machines and got to work. And work it was. Running in heavy rain would have been easy compared to this. She stared at the machine. It was swaying side to side as she stood on it. And that was before she’d even started moving. The sheer force of the pounding feet in front and behind her was giving Mrs Bennet’s own running machine an inferiority complex. It couldn’t cope with the pressure. Trying to put aside the increasing seasickness, Mrs Bennet pushed the buttons and attempted to run. But after a mile, the swaying motion hadn’t ceased. She was beginning to feel quite peculiar and decided to wait until the running sharks had left and the waves had calmed down.
Incidentally Mrs Bennet knew the sharks were harmless. Indeed they were very friendly, but for a mother who wanted a quiet, uneventful run into oblivion, the waves were just too much.
A few minutes later, the sharks were off climbing mountains and rowing across rapids. She jumped on her favoured machine, turned up her MP3 player to drown out everything and everyone, and pretended to run away into a world, where for 35 minutes, no one demanded anything of her and her mind was allowed to drift off, turn off and enjoy the moment.
Tired, but refreshed, Mrs Bennet returned to reality. As she walked through the door, the Tigger child came towards her, landing a perfect cartwheel at her feet. It was obvious this puppy dog needed her daily run too. Mrs Bennet made a mental note to buy a lead and a tin of Pedigree Chum.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Toothpaste goo and passing go
Friday, March 6 ‘09
Absentmindedly, Mrs Bennet pushed the plunger on the liquid soap, nestling on the bathroom sink. Only it wasn’t soap. It was toothpaste. The little Miss Bennets preferred the dispenser method of extracting their striped toothpaste and had placed it at easy reach.
“Yuk,” cried Mrs Bennet, trying to wash away the sticky goo in her palm, which now matched its caked companions in the sink itself. At least it wasn’t on the floor or down the front of the Miss Bennets’ clean green uniform sweatshirts this morning.
“They’re aiming straight at last,” she muttered as a mother of boys would perhaps for another purpose.
Counting to 10, Mrs Bennet ventured downstairs to resolve a conflict with Miss Bennet Number Two. Miss Naomi Bennet, being a proud school councillor had left early that morning for an important breakfast meeting, where hot chocolate and croissants were readily available for the young politicians. Perhaps a little jealous of her sister’s VIP treatment, Miss Emily Bennet wanted some VIP treatment of her own. And so to get it she refused to pick up her lunch box. The Scooby Doo van had to leave in five minutes to guarantee an on-time arrival at the school gate. With four children to get strapped in – one of them refusing to budge – Mrs Bennet feared the Scooby Doo flight might be slightly turbulent.
“Mummy, I wanted school dinners today, not sandwiches!” declared the miniature teenager.
“I’m sorry, but you can have them tomorrow. I didn’t have any change today,” explained the mother.
“But I wanted them today!” replied the persistent seven-year-old, with a stamping action from the left food for good effect.
Mrs Bennet chose to ignore the fine acting, scooped up a surprised twin and carried her to the car. Miss Megan Bennet – knowing it was perhaps wise to keep quiet right now – meekly followed, while Miss Rosie Bennet waited patiently for the scooping mechanism to return.
Mrs Bennet did note Miss Megan’s behaviour. Why was it that as soon as one sibling was told off, another immediately went into perfect child mode? Even the little Miss Twin Bennets did this.
Amazingly because Mrs Bennet clearly wasn’t biting at Miss Emily’s bait, the issue resolved itself, partly because Miss Bennet realised she could so easily lose her lunch altogether – to her youngest two sisters who would have readily ripped into it, and had done on occasion.
Some days the effort of passing go – i.e. the front door – was such that Mrs Bennet felt she'd run a marathon by the time she got to the school gate. Some days she didn’t get her £200, others she felt she’d been sent to gaol and the days when there weren’t any hiccups, she’d felt she’d bought Mayfair and Park Lane. Today she would have been lucky if she’d acquired Old Kent Road. One finished house would be nice. Thanks to the credit crunch, the Bennet’s six month building project looked likely to stretch to a three year one. But at least the roof was on.
The school bell interrupted Mrs Bennet's monopoly thoughts. It was nine o’clock. She wondered if she lifted the Miss Twin Bennets out of their pushchair and allowed them to follow their sisters into their various classrooms – which they most definitely would do – the teachers would notice? Then she could slump over their double buggy, bottom in one side, feet in the other and sleep until 3.15pm. It was a nice thought.
Absentmindedly, Mrs Bennet pushed the plunger on the liquid soap, nestling on the bathroom sink. Only it wasn’t soap. It was toothpaste. The little Miss Bennets preferred the dispenser method of extracting their striped toothpaste and had placed it at easy reach.
“Yuk,” cried Mrs Bennet, trying to wash away the sticky goo in her palm, which now matched its caked companions in the sink itself. At least it wasn’t on the floor or down the front of the Miss Bennets’ clean green uniform sweatshirts this morning.
“They’re aiming straight at last,” she muttered as a mother of boys would perhaps for another purpose.
Counting to 10, Mrs Bennet ventured downstairs to resolve a conflict with Miss Bennet Number Two. Miss Naomi Bennet, being a proud school councillor had left early that morning for an important breakfast meeting, where hot chocolate and croissants were readily available for the young politicians. Perhaps a little jealous of her sister’s VIP treatment, Miss Emily Bennet wanted some VIP treatment of her own. And so to get it she refused to pick up her lunch box. The Scooby Doo van had to leave in five minutes to guarantee an on-time arrival at the school gate. With four children to get strapped in – one of them refusing to budge – Mrs Bennet feared the Scooby Doo flight might be slightly turbulent.
“Mummy, I wanted school dinners today, not sandwiches!” declared the miniature teenager.
“I’m sorry, but you can have them tomorrow. I didn’t have any change today,” explained the mother.
“But I wanted them today!” replied the persistent seven-year-old, with a stamping action from the left food for good effect.
Mrs Bennet chose to ignore the fine acting, scooped up a surprised twin and carried her to the car. Miss Megan Bennet – knowing it was perhaps wise to keep quiet right now – meekly followed, while Miss Rosie Bennet waited patiently for the scooping mechanism to return.
Mrs Bennet did note Miss Megan’s behaviour. Why was it that as soon as one sibling was told off, another immediately went into perfect child mode? Even the little Miss Twin Bennets did this.
Amazingly because Mrs Bennet clearly wasn’t biting at Miss Emily’s bait, the issue resolved itself, partly because Miss Bennet realised she could so easily lose her lunch altogether – to her youngest two sisters who would have readily ripped into it, and had done on occasion.
Some days the effort of passing go – i.e. the front door – was such that Mrs Bennet felt she'd run a marathon by the time she got to the school gate. Some days she didn’t get her £200, others she felt she’d been sent to gaol and the days when there weren’t any hiccups, she’d felt she’d bought Mayfair and Park Lane. Today she would have been lucky if she’d acquired Old Kent Road. One finished house would be nice. Thanks to the credit crunch, the Bennet’s six month building project looked likely to stretch to a three year one. But at least the roof was on.
The school bell interrupted Mrs Bennet's monopoly thoughts. It was nine o’clock. She wondered if she lifted the Miss Twin Bennets out of their pushchair and allowed them to follow their sisters into their various classrooms – which they most definitely would do – the teachers would notice? Then she could slump over their double buggy, bottom in one side, feet in the other and sleep until 3.15pm. It was a nice thought.
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