Friday, May 29 ‘09
Mrs Bennet took off her sky blue Crocs and let the new carpet caress her feet. The carpet fitters were still on their knees but for once she was off hers. She seemed only to have prayed one recurring prayer over the past few months - for grace and humour to get her through to this point. It had worked and today marked the start of a new era. The old and the new parts of the Bennet home were finally joined together with a rolling field of beige – opening it up into the spacious place they so needed. The building project had taken as long as Miss Megan and Miss Emily Bennet’s pregnancies and 10 days short of Spag and Bol’s. Mrs Bennet had felt the growing pains, the heartburn, the cravings, and the discomfort of the house gestation and labour. Like in her four pregnancies, she had born the brunt of it, although Mr Bennet had been there at the birth and beyond. Before bite-size Pemberley even began, Mrs Bennet had told him very firmly that if he wanted a wife at the end of it, then they would have to move out while the Darcys in the Dirt moved in. They didn’t move out and after eight months of dust and disruption, Mrs Bennet was still Mr Bennet’s wife.
Leaving Mr Bennet to put up cots and pay the carpet men, she escaped to celebrate in her own quiet way. It couldn’t be a bottle of chilled rose thanks to a dose of antibiotics to get rid of a nasty infection which set in after that problem tooth had been removed. Incidentally Mrs Bennet had now forgiven the tooth fairy, who apparently had relented and left a pound coin underneath her pillow. It wasn’t quite enough to pay for a stool so Mrs Bennet could reach the chutney and chocolate, but it did help pay for her celebratory drink.
Steaming hot Mr Latte after all had become quite a friend during this whole process of change. He didn’t give her any answers, he didn’t judge and he didn’t give her direction. But he did give her time out from Miss Bennet demands and made her sit down, take stock and more importantly escape when there was just no room to run too.
As the big 4-0 was now approaching, Mrs Bennet had wondered if she had experienced some kind of “I-don’t-want-to-be-forty” moment, or whether it was just the pressure of having five children, a major building extension and grappling with her own anger at her dear mother’s cancer issue. As much as she enjoyed having the Darcys in the Dirt around, she was looking forward to enjoying the spaciousness and places to hide when it all got too much. For a while bite-size Pemberley would look a bit odd, as they didn’t have enough money to buy the furniture needed to fill it. But a few cushions would do for now. Her shed was to be called The Space. It would be hers to go whenever she wanted. There was the problem of finding a desk, but as she’d earmarked an old piece of lounge carpet, which the carpet fitters had kindly laid for her, and the battered futon, all she needed was her laptop, some classical music, her laptop, sketchbook and Mr Latte and she would be in her own world for a few minutes – a world where she could just be and dream again. Having five children was such a privilege, but if she was honest at times, it could be a little too much. Her octopus had never arrived, so she did her best to provide a loving arm to which ever Miss Bennet needed it at the time. It did mean that Miss Kezia or Bol was forever hanging in monkey-fashion around her shin while she did so, but although she didn’t like it even Bol knew Mrs Bennet’s love had to go around.
During the whole Pemberley episode, Mrs Bennet had learnt a valuable lesson. That it was vital, while she was attending to the needs of her growing brood, she had to attend to her own needs too. In recent weeks having written about the plethora of artists and creative people living in her area, she had succumbed to her own long-forgotten painting cravings, and gone out and bought some canvases and paints. Now the Darcys in the Dirt were gone and the drilling had stopped, Mrs Bennet could concentrate on being a mother, a friend, a lover and the creative being she knew she was. Life in bite-sized Pemberley would no doubt have its moments of excitement and frustrations, but it would be a house of laughter and life, providing volumes and volumes of memories for her to capture with her pen. So long as she kept off the spicy olives, she could concentrate on bringing up her Bennet production line and not add to it any further.
Showing posts with label darcys in the dirt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label darcys in the dirt. Show all posts
Friday, 29 May 2009
Saturday, 2 May 2009
Ghosts of kitchens past
Thursday, April 30 09
Ghosts of kitchens past echoed around the walls. It made an interesting sight and one which, in places, required a pair of shades. Whatever had possessed her to paint a kitchen sunshine yellow and sky blue? In her defence, it was a decade ago. An era of rag rolling, sponging and vivid colours which clashed, yet no one had been brave enough to admit their effects were painful to the eye. Or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to offend those who considered them beautiful. At the time, being a creative sort, Mrs Bennet had given her all. Every part of the house had been touched by turquoises, terracotta reds, yellow, vivid blues and sea greens. The gaudy yellow – which had been hidden these past three years by grown-up, sophisticated beige kitchen units – was now once again exposed. Mrs Bennet remembered painting it to hide the mustard offering the owners before her had left behind.
It was 10 years ago. At 29, she hadn’t known what pregnancy meant, hadn’t known her stomach would, over the coming decade, stretch like a contortionist and provide the nurturing home for five offspring. Now at 39, waiting to enter another era, she didn’t like to think what was before her. She was older, greyer, and wrinklier but she had learnt the valuable lesson of living one day at a time. Yet the last seven weeks of watching, waiting and feeling her mother’s pain, had taken its toll. If the biopsy results weren’t good, she wasn’t sure how she could face tomorrow let alone the next 10 years. The unsightly yellow was just that, unsightly, far too bright for her current situation.
The Darcys in the Dirt were dismantling units and moving them to the back of the house. Ironically that morning, the kitchen had looked immaculate and the tidiest it had been since Mr and Mrs Bennet had lived there.
Now it was battered and bruised. Drawers lay on work surfaces, no longer attached to brackets; holes and rubble appeared where they hadn’t been seen before; and unsightly yet impressively large cobwebs were now on show for all to see. A tumble dryer sat in the middle of the lounge, and boxes full of cereals, food, saucepans, oven cleaner, bleach and tea towels were scattered wherever there was an empty floor space. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was an exciting place to explore for the little Miss Bennets. They had already attacked one box and enjoyed drumming a few saucepans with wooden spoons.
Mrs Bennet did enjoy having the Darcys in the Dirt around. Spag and Bol willingly accepted them as extra faces to study and grin at. But having her house pulled about whilst her emotions were also experiencing a battering was a further strain on Mrs Bennet’s nerves, if she was honest.
It was biopsy day. And her nerves were in tatters. She had sat in the hospital waiting room for two hours, but had been forced to leave her mum, dad and sister in order to pick up the little Miss Twin Bennets, who were being looked after by a friend. Walking away not knowing, had been awful. Walking into a house, which was feeling the effects of upheaval, echoed her anguish. The phone was relentlessly ringing. She knew it would be Jannie’s friends and her own wanting to know the results. She had no wish to talk to them.
On the fifth call, she felt the need to pick up the receiver.
“It’s me. I just had to ring you myself. It’s the best news I could have had today. It hasn’t spread and they're convinced they’ve caught it all,” the voice of Jannie sang in her ear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t hear anymore. She dissolved into tears. The worry, the weight of what might have been, the waiting, the hoping, erupted into an emotional torrent. Her precious mum, the grandmother of her children, was going to be alright. The bright yellow exposed in her kitchen was now bearable. Mrs Bennet could now even consider it as a sunshine yellow. Her bubble, last seen floating over Bristol had returned. Jannie’s hope was back, and so was hers.
Ghosts of kitchens past echoed around the walls. It made an interesting sight and one which, in places, required a pair of shades. Whatever had possessed her to paint a kitchen sunshine yellow and sky blue? In her defence, it was a decade ago. An era of rag rolling, sponging and vivid colours which clashed, yet no one had been brave enough to admit their effects were painful to the eye. Or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to offend those who considered them beautiful. At the time, being a creative sort, Mrs Bennet had given her all. Every part of the house had been touched by turquoises, terracotta reds, yellow, vivid blues and sea greens. The gaudy yellow – which had been hidden these past three years by grown-up, sophisticated beige kitchen units – was now once again exposed. Mrs Bennet remembered painting it to hide the mustard offering the owners before her had left behind.
It was 10 years ago. At 29, she hadn’t known what pregnancy meant, hadn’t known her stomach would, over the coming decade, stretch like a contortionist and provide the nurturing home for five offspring. Now at 39, waiting to enter another era, she didn’t like to think what was before her. She was older, greyer, and wrinklier but she had learnt the valuable lesson of living one day at a time. Yet the last seven weeks of watching, waiting and feeling her mother’s pain, had taken its toll. If the biopsy results weren’t good, she wasn’t sure how she could face tomorrow let alone the next 10 years. The unsightly yellow was just that, unsightly, far too bright for her current situation.
The Darcys in the Dirt were dismantling units and moving them to the back of the house. Ironically that morning, the kitchen had looked immaculate and the tidiest it had been since Mr and Mrs Bennet had lived there.
Now it was battered and bruised. Drawers lay on work surfaces, no longer attached to brackets; holes and rubble appeared where they hadn’t been seen before; and unsightly yet impressively large cobwebs were now on show for all to see. A tumble dryer sat in the middle of the lounge, and boxes full of cereals, food, saucepans, oven cleaner, bleach and tea towels were scattered wherever there was an empty floor space. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was an exciting place to explore for the little Miss Bennets. They had already attacked one box and enjoyed drumming a few saucepans with wooden spoons.
Mrs Bennet did enjoy having the Darcys in the Dirt around. Spag and Bol willingly accepted them as extra faces to study and grin at. But having her house pulled about whilst her emotions were also experiencing a battering was a further strain on Mrs Bennet’s nerves, if she was honest.
It was biopsy day. And her nerves were in tatters. She had sat in the hospital waiting room for two hours, but had been forced to leave her mum, dad and sister in order to pick up the little Miss Twin Bennets, who were being looked after by a friend. Walking away not knowing, had been awful. Walking into a house, which was feeling the effects of upheaval, echoed her anguish. The phone was relentlessly ringing. She knew it would be Jannie’s friends and her own wanting to know the results. She had no wish to talk to them.
On the fifth call, she felt the need to pick up the receiver.
“It’s me. I just had to ring you myself. It’s the best news I could have had today. It hasn’t spread and they're convinced they’ve caught it all,” the voice of Jannie sang in her ear.
Mrs Bennet didn’t hear anymore. She dissolved into tears. The worry, the weight of what might have been, the waiting, the hoping, erupted into an emotional torrent. Her precious mum, the grandmother of her children, was going to be alright. The bright yellow exposed in her kitchen was now bearable. Mrs Bennet could now even consider it as a sunshine yellow. Her bubble, last seen floating over Bristol had returned. Jannie’s hope was back, and so was hers.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
More than one punch up
Monday, April 27 ‘09
It was three o’clock in the morning and to say Mrs Bennet was feeling angry was an understatement. She hadn’t gone to bed as early as she had liked because she had had a writing deadline to meet. It was past one o’clock when she finally crawled into bed. Mr Bennet had made his appointment to see Mr Sleep hours before and no crying child would wake him. As Mrs Bennet had missed her appointment, the crying child woke her instead – just as she had eventually drifted off, even though her mind was troubled. The annoying alarm bell wasn’t going to be switched off and it was quickly joined by its neighbouring bell. Mrs Bennet’s head was spinning. She was fuming over everything. Time of the month hormones only served to fuel the rage within. Why was life so cruel at times? Why did it come and bulldoze emotions? Seeing the hurt and pain in her dad’s eyes, and the fear and worry in her mum’s, only echoed her own. She’d taken it out on Mr Bennet that night and accused him of being useless at emotional stuff. Not being one to have angry outbursts, she had surprised herself but the words had slipped out before she could stop them and the man from Mars withdrew to his cave, wounded.
Shortly afterward Miss Bennet Number Three bolted in with a problem he could fix.
“Daddy can you punch up my tyres please? They’re flat and need punching up!” she declared, with hands on hips.
Glad to be able to assist Mr Bennet did the punching required. Mrs Bennet having punched him with words, did apologise later for her unkind words. The truth was she couldn’t cope with emotional pain either. It was far more draining and difficult to handle than anything physical. There were no easy answers and the waiting game was horrid.
It was these raw emotions which surfaced again as Spag and Bol’s demanding cries robbed Mrs Bennet’s appointment with Mr Sleep. Grabbing her pillow she resumed her sandwich position between cots. It worked for one child, but it wasn’t enough for the other, who wanted a drink.
Cold and fed up, Mrs Bennet went on the hunt for a beaker. As the Darcys in the Dirt were taking her kitchen apart in the morning, the cupboards were now empty. Their contents were on the floor in boxes. But at 3am Mrs Bennet couldn’t remember which box contained the cups and drink bottles. She stubbed her toe on a ceramic dish that hadn’t yet found a temporary home and wanted to cry – cry at the mess before her. The upheaval of building bite-size Pemberley epitomized the disruption and disturbance the word cancer achieved with emotions. At this very moment in time she wanted to howl as Rosie was doing so well upstairs. She knew her mum would be up, unable to sleep too. It wasn’t fair. Jannie didn’t deserve this. Her dad didn’t deserve this.
She stood motionless in the midst of the kitchen chaos. The nearly two-year-old's crying suddenly stopped. Fed up with waiting for her mother to return, Miss Bennet Number Four had given up and had fallen asleep. Peace was in the camp. And now her raging had quietened down, Mrs Bennet was also starting to whimper instead of whale. In the coming weeks, the storms would come and go. But despite them, she knew it was vital to hold on to the arms of Peace – and warn Mr Bennet he might be needed as a punch-bag now and then.
It was three o’clock in the morning and to say Mrs Bennet was feeling angry was an understatement. She hadn’t gone to bed as early as she had liked because she had had a writing deadline to meet. It was past one o’clock when she finally crawled into bed. Mr Bennet had made his appointment to see Mr Sleep hours before and no crying child would wake him. As Mrs Bennet had missed her appointment, the crying child woke her instead – just as she had eventually drifted off, even though her mind was troubled. The annoying alarm bell wasn’t going to be switched off and it was quickly joined by its neighbouring bell. Mrs Bennet’s head was spinning. She was fuming over everything. Time of the month hormones only served to fuel the rage within. Why was life so cruel at times? Why did it come and bulldoze emotions? Seeing the hurt and pain in her dad’s eyes, and the fear and worry in her mum’s, only echoed her own. She’d taken it out on Mr Bennet that night and accused him of being useless at emotional stuff. Not being one to have angry outbursts, she had surprised herself but the words had slipped out before she could stop them and the man from Mars withdrew to his cave, wounded.
Shortly afterward Miss Bennet Number Three bolted in with a problem he could fix.
“Daddy can you punch up my tyres please? They’re flat and need punching up!” she declared, with hands on hips.
Glad to be able to assist Mr Bennet did the punching required. Mrs Bennet having punched him with words, did apologise later for her unkind words. The truth was she couldn’t cope with emotional pain either. It was far more draining and difficult to handle than anything physical. There were no easy answers and the waiting game was horrid.
It was these raw emotions which surfaced again as Spag and Bol’s demanding cries robbed Mrs Bennet’s appointment with Mr Sleep. Grabbing her pillow she resumed her sandwich position between cots. It worked for one child, but it wasn’t enough for the other, who wanted a drink.
Cold and fed up, Mrs Bennet went on the hunt for a beaker. As the Darcys in the Dirt were taking her kitchen apart in the morning, the cupboards were now empty. Their contents were on the floor in boxes. But at 3am Mrs Bennet couldn’t remember which box contained the cups and drink bottles. She stubbed her toe on a ceramic dish that hadn’t yet found a temporary home and wanted to cry – cry at the mess before her. The upheaval of building bite-size Pemberley epitomized the disruption and disturbance the word cancer achieved with emotions. At this very moment in time she wanted to howl as Rosie was doing so well upstairs. She knew her mum would be up, unable to sleep too. It wasn’t fair. Jannie didn’t deserve this. Her dad didn’t deserve this.
She stood motionless in the midst of the kitchen chaos. The nearly two-year-old's crying suddenly stopped. Fed up with waiting for her mother to return, Miss Bennet Number Four had given up and had fallen asleep. Peace was in the camp. And now her raging had quietened down, Mrs Bennet was also starting to whimper instead of whale. In the coming weeks, the storms would come and go. But despite them, she knew it was vital to hold on to the arms of Peace – and warn Mr Bennet he might be needed as a punch-bag now and then.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Jannie’s Jamaican Courage
Monday, April 20 09
Jamaica the rag doll was sitting on Mrs Bennet’s lap, being held rather too tightly. Miss Bennet Number Two was perched on a doctor’s couch, grimacing as the doctor sapped her verruca with liquid nitrogen. As Miss Bennet winced, Mrs Bennet squeezed the doll, complete with its hospital tagged-wrist, which bore the date of her last hospital visit three years ago. Miss Emily had needed an operation and the doll had gone in with her for comfort. Mrs Bennet recalled the awful moment when she had to walk away from her anaesthetised daughter – leaving her on the operating table. It was why she was clutching the doll now. Not because her daughter was pained by the freezing treatment, but because at this very moment her own mum was being put to sleep ready for an operation for breast cancer. Jamaica – bought on holiday in the Caribbean – lived at Jannie’s house. She came out when she was needed to escort an anxious child to hospital or the doctor’s surgery to provide courage and comfort. It was Jannie who needed her the most today, and it was Jannie Mrs Bennet was thinking and praying about at each squirt of the liquid nitrogen.
But Jamaica was soothing Mrs Bennet the most at this moment. Looking at the perfect tropical blue sky outdoors, Mrs Bennet could quite easily imagine being in the “land of wood and water,” where waterfalls, springs, rivers and streams flowed to fertile plains from its forest-clad mountains. The thought of biting into a luscious tropical fruit with a weird and wonderful name or sniffing the tempting aroma of a world-famous Blue Mountain coffee was almost tangible. The latter would probably taste better than Mr Latte. Mrs Bennet had gone off him. He no longer hit the spot. There were issues here too emotional for him to soothe. He could make her feel better about living on a building site, but he couldn’t take away the scary and almost surreal journey her precious mum was now facing. If only a dose of hot frothy milk and a shot of caffeine could make it better. But it couldn’t. It was a long waiting game where there was no control. However Mrs Bennet knew if anyone could walk this new uncertain path with dignity, humour and strength, her mum could.
“Mummy, can I have Jamaica back now please?” asked the small patient leaping off the couch, quickly forgetting her painful toe and bouncing as she normally did in Tigger-like-fashion. This polite request relieved Mrs Bennet's knuckles of their clenching and snapped her back into mother mode.
Back at the almost finished bite-size Pemberley, the rest of the little Bennets were being looked after by friends. The Darcys in the Dirt had incidentally returned that morning, marking the start of the last chapter. They had originally planned to rip the kitchen out that morning, but due to the more pressing operation, had looked kindly on Mrs Bennet and gave her an extra week to pack the cupboard contents into boxes. Instead they were at the bottom of the garden insulating her office.
Now Jamaica’s job had been done, Mrs Bennet did contemplate taking her into hospital to sit at the bottom of her mum’s bed, but thought better of it. Instead she took a handful of home-made cards, the older Miss Bennets had insisted on making, to cheer the patient on. Looking as pale as her blond-streaked hair, Jannie managed a smile. Drained of colour, she was still the beautiful woman they all loved. Her inner strength and positive nature was shining through. And Mrs Bennet knew Jannie was everything Jamaica, the rag doll stood for – heart and courage.
Jamaica the rag doll was sitting on Mrs Bennet’s lap, being held rather too tightly. Miss Bennet Number Two was perched on a doctor’s couch, grimacing as the doctor sapped her verruca with liquid nitrogen. As Miss Bennet winced, Mrs Bennet squeezed the doll, complete with its hospital tagged-wrist, which bore the date of her last hospital visit three years ago. Miss Emily had needed an operation and the doll had gone in with her for comfort. Mrs Bennet recalled the awful moment when she had to walk away from her anaesthetised daughter – leaving her on the operating table. It was why she was clutching the doll now. Not because her daughter was pained by the freezing treatment, but because at this very moment her own mum was being put to sleep ready for an operation for breast cancer. Jamaica – bought on holiday in the Caribbean – lived at Jannie’s house. She came out when she was needed to escort an anxious child to hospital or the doctor’s surgery to provide courage and comfort. It was Jannie who needed her the most today, and it was Jannie Mrs Bennet was thinking and praying about at each squirt of the liquid nitrogen.
But Jamaica was soothing Mrs Bennet the most at this moment. Looking at the perfect tropical blue sky outdoors, Mrs Bennet could quite easily imagine being in the “land of wood and water,” where waterfalls, springs, rivers and streams flowed to fertile plains from its forest-clad mountains. The thought of biting into a luscious tropical fruit with a weird and wonderful name or sniffing the tempting aroma of a world-famous Blue Mountain coffee was almost tangible. The latter would probably taste better than Mr Latte. Mrs Bennet had gone off him. He no longer hit the spot. There were issues here too emotional for him to soothe. He could make her feel better about living on a building site, but he couldn’t take away the scary and almost surreal journey her precious mum was now facing. If only a dose of hot frothy milk and a shot of caffeine could make it better. But it couldn’t. It was a long waiting game where there was no control. However Mrs Bennet knew if anyone could walk this new uncertain path with dignity, humour and strength, her mum could.
“Mummy, can I have Jamaica back now please?” asked the small patient leaping off the couch, quickly forgetting her painful toe and bouncing as she normally did in Tigger-like-fashion. This polite request relieved Mrs Bennet's knuckles of their clenching and snapped her back into mother mode.
Back at the almost finished bite-size Pemberley, the rest of the little Bennets were being looked after by friends. The Darcys in the Dirt had incidentally returned that morning, marking the start of the last chapter. They had originally planned to rip the kitchen out that morning, but due to the more pressing operation, had looked kindly on Mrs Bennet and gave her an extra week to pack the cupboard contents into boxes. Instead they were at the bottom of the garden insulating her office.
Now Jamaica’s job had been done, Mrs Bennet did contemplate taking her into hospital to sit at the bottom of her mum’s bed, but thought better of it. Instead she took a handful of home-made cards, the older Miss Bennets had insisted on making, to cheer the patient on. Looking as pale as her blond-streaked hair, Jannie managed a smile. Drained of colour, she was still the beautiful woman they all loved. Her inner strength and positive nature was shining through. And Mrs Bennet knew Jannie was everything Jamaica, the rag doll stood for – heart and courage.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Mrs Bennet decides it’s time to fly
Wednesday, February 4 09
The duster was fed up. She felt overwhelmed. Mrs Bennet couldn’t fault any one of the builders. The Darcys in the Dirt had become her friends and it was reassuring to have them around. She’d missed them this morning. It was strangely quiet as snow and ice prevented the Darcys living on steep hills and isolated lanes reaching her quiet cul-de-sac. The little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t like it either. Their mother’s attention was no longer enough. They wanted more. Mrs Bennet hoped it wasn’t a sign of what was to come.
Drilling filled the air once more. The Darcys in the Dirt were back, determined to finish the job in hand. Mrs Bennet couldn’t wait to have her home back. A tent would do if it was spacious, dust and clutter-free. There were now four chests of drawers in Mr and Mrs Bennet’s bedroom. And four chests in one bedroom were far too many!
Mrs Bennet was furiously writing at her computer, frantically hammering the keys. There were only two things in life which made her unwind, writing and running. And as she couldn’t physically get to the gym because of the weather, she did what she knew would boost her spirits: write.
To be honest she was upset. She had just been told her weekly column and creative page was to be dropped due to the recession. It meant more to her than money. It was her lifeline. She loved meeting the plethora of artists and inspirational people her town was proud to have. And she would miss them. Writing for her was like a window – a window into another world where imagination, and freedom prevailed as well as an ability to be who she wanted to be. At the moment her lounge had no light filtering into it. The double doors were so dirty, you couldn’t see out and it made those sitting inside feel claustrophobic and trapped. Mrs Bennet had her back to it and gazed at the computer screen in front of her.
“Well, if this particular publication doesn’t want Mrs Bennet, maybe it’s time she spread her wings and fulfilled her dream. Mrs Bennet, let’s get published! Let’s get a book off the ground to help save your sanity and that of fellow mums and dads who at times feel overwhelmed by this emotional parenting roller-coaster,” she told herself.
“And if that fails, Mrs Bennet you can always get a job being a teas maid to the Darcys in the Dirt!”
The duster was fed up. She felt overwhelmed. Mrs Bennet couldn’t fault any one of the builders. The Darcys in the Dirt had become her friends and it was reassuring to have them around. She’d missed them this morning. It was strangely quiet as snow and ice prevented the Darcys living on steep hills and isolated lanes reaching her quiet cul-de-sac. The little Miss Twin Bennets didn’t like it either. Their mother’s attention was no longer enough. They wanted more. Mrs Bennet hoped it wasn’t a sign of what was to come.
Drilling filled the air once more. The Darcys in the Dirt were back, determined to finish the job in hand. Mrs Bennet couldn’t wait to have her home back. A tent would do if it was spacious, dust and clutter-free. There were now four chests of drawers in Mr and Mrs Bennet’s bedroom. And four chests in one bedroom were far too many!
Mrs Bennet was furiously writing at her computer, frantically hammering the keys. There were only two things in life which made her unwind, writing and running. And as she couldn’t physically get to the gym because of the weather, she did what she knew would boost her spirits: write.
To be honest she was upset. She had just been told her weekly column and creative page was to be dropped due to the recession. It meant more to her than money. It was her lifeline. She loved meeting the plethora of artists and inspirational people her town was proud to have. And she would miss them. Writing for her was like a window – a window into another world where imagination, and freedom prevailed as well as an ability to be who she wanted to be. At the moment her lounge had no light filtering into it. The double doors were so dirty, you couldn’t see out and it made those sitting inside feel claustrophobic and trapped. Mrs Bennet had her back to it and gazed at the computer screen in front of her.
“Well, if this particular publication doesn’t want Mrs Bennet, maybe it’s time she spread her wings and fulfilled her dream. Mrs Bennet, let’s get published! Let’s get a book off the ground to help save your sanity and that of fellow mums and dads who at times feel overwhelmed by this emotional parenting roller-coaster,” she told herself.
“And if that fails, Mrs Bennet you can always get a job being a teas maid to the Darcys in the Dirt!”
Friday, 23 January 2009
Midwife Darcys announce: “The waters have broken!”
Friday, January 23 09
It wasn’t very often Mrs Bennet remembered the details of her dreams. But last night was such a strange cocktail of ridiculous images, she couldn’t help but recall them. Mrs Bennet had to physically shake herself to prove they couldn’t be real. She’d dreamt her own mum had given birth to twins at 64, but her father didn’t appear once. Twin granddaughters were enough, and no doubt the thought of having any more children of his own, shocked him out of the picture, probably because he knew they couldn’t possibly be his. Mind you if Mrs Bennet’s recurring dream of having twins, triplets and quads ever came true, she would most definitely be suing the NHS.
Equally as strange was a dream which quickly followed her mother’s twins - that the Bennet house was in fact pregnant, with Mr and Mrs Bennet and all five Miss Bennets tucked tightly in its belly, which of course was the lounge.
Mrs Bennet remembered only too well how it felt to have two little Bennets growing inside her, pushing her organs up so tightly she could hardly breathe. At one point she feared her ribs would break. It was like being a human “Stretch Armstrong,” a super rubbery childhood doll which would stretch when you pulled its arms and legs – only all its faculties went back to where they should afterwards. Mrs Bennet’s stomach would never be the same. She realised that the house dream was really about space. Crammed inside a lounge, the Bennet babies were head down and ready to come out.
Ironically an hour after waking up, the Darcys in the Dirt announced that they would be breaking through that very morning. Now the scaffolding had disappeared, they needed access to upstairs which meant the inevitable. Armed with saws, they marched upstairs. Mrs Bennet couldn’t resist sharing her unusual dream with them.
“Today’s the day then. This is the exciting part. The waters have broken!” declared one of them.
Too right the labour pains were starting. Mrs Bennet had the urge to push – push the front door and escape and leave the midwives to it. Yet, they were right. This was exciting. Soon the birth of bite-size Pemberley would be over and the space she so yearned for would be deliciously hers.
It wasn’t very often Mrs Bennet remembered the details of her dreams. But last night was such a strange cocktail of ridiculous images, she couldn’t help but recall them. Mrs Bennet had to physically shake herself to prove they couldn’t be real. She’d dreamt her own mum had given birth to twins at 64, but her father didn’t appear once. Twin granddaughters were enough, and no doubt the thought of having any more children of his own, shocked him out of the picture, probably because he knew they couldn’t possibly be his. Mind you if Mrs Bennet’s recurring dream of having twins, triplets and quads ever came true, she would most definitely be suing the NHS.
Equally as strange was a dream which quickly followed her mother’s twins - that the Bennet house was in fact pregnant, with Mr and Mrs Bennet and all five Miss Bennets tucked tightly in its belly, which of course was the lounge.
Mrs Bennet remembered only too well how it felt to have two little Bennets growing inside her, pushing her organs up so tightly she could hardly breathe. At one point she feared her ribs would break. It was like being a human “Stretch Armstrong,” a super rubbery childhood doll which would stretch when you pulled its arms and legs – only all its faculties went back to where they should afterwards. Mrs Bennet’s stomach would never be the same. She realised that the house dream was really about space. Crammed inside a lounge, the Bennet babies were head down and ready to come out.
Ironically an hour after waking up, the Darcys in the Dirt announced that they would be breaking through that very morning. Now the scaffolding had disappeared, they needed access to upstairs which meant the inevitable. Armed with saws, they marched upstairs. Mrs Bennet couldn’t resist sharing her unusual dream with them.
“Today’s the day then. This is the exciting part. The waters have broken!” declared one of them.
Too right the labour pains were starting. Mrs Bennet had the urge to push – push the front door and escape and leave the midwives to it. Yet, they were right. This was exciting. Soon the birth of bite-size Pemberley would be over and the space she so yearned for would be deliciously hers.
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
Outnumbered by Darcys
Wednesday, January 14 09
The Darcys in the Dirt were breeding. There were now seven of them working on the house and to say Mrs Bennet felt surrounded was an understatement. The sub-contractor Darcys were now on site, wiring up and putting sockets in place and asking Mrs Bennet questions she wasn’t sure she was getting correct. She didn’t have a manual to consult, only a man, who didn’t know the answers either, so together they muddled through.
It was one of those days, when the hormones were raging, the head was pounding and the belly was aching and all she wanted to do was curl up in a black room and sleep. But there were sub-Darcys in her bedroom and nowhere to go. The little twin-Bennets were asleep so she couldn’t escape either. Instead she shut herself in the lounge and eventually fell asleep on the sofa – ignoring the comings and goings of sub-Darcys running up and down the stairs and the banging and drilling all around her.
For the first time in her life she was outnumbered by men. She was now having a taste of what Mr Bennet’s mum must have gone through bringing up five boys. She must have given up asking them to take their shoes off and not leaving the toilet seat up. Mrs Bennet didn’t really mind having so many men around. It was almost reassuring, but she longed to have her house back. But then again, she would miss her original Darcys, who only this morning had yet again helped her de-ice the Scooby Doo van, which just didn’t want to de-ice. It took at least 20 minutes – 20 minutes she didn’t have – to see through the windscreen. The scraper was in Mr Bennet’s car and a credit card wasn’t so efficient – especially when it came to scraping the large windscreen inside.
“Girls when it comes to have children, take my advice, only have two children! You’re car won’t be so big!” she declared, feeling more stressed as every minute passed. In the end she resorted to ringing the school and apologising in advance that the Miss Bennets would be late – better that than driving a car which had no visibility.
The Darcys in the Dirt were her heroes that morning. Their reward - a box of biscuits. They could breed as much as they liked, drink her coffee as much as they liked – so long as they rescued her now and then.
The Darcys in the Dirt were breeding. There were now seven of them working on the house and to say Mrs Bennet felt surrounded was an understatement. The sub-contractor Darcys were now on site, wiring up and putting sockets in place and asking Mrs Bennet questions she wasn’t sure she was getting correct. She didn’t have a manual to consult, only a man, who didn’t know the answers either, so together they muddled through.
It was one of those days, when the hormones were raging, the head was pounding and the belly was aching and all she wanted to do was curl up in a black room and sleep. But there were sub-Darcys in her bedroom and nowhere to go. The little twin-Bennets were asleep so she couldn’t escape either. Instead she shut herself in the lounge and eventually fell asleep on the sofa – ignoring the comings and goings of sub-Darcys running up and down the stairs and the banging and drilling all around her.
For the first time in her life she was outnumbered by men. She was now having a taste of what Mr Bennet’s mum must have gone through bringing up five boys. She must have given up asking them to take their shoes off and not leaving the toilet seat up. Mrs Bennet didn’t really mind having so many men around. It was almost reassuring, but she longed to have her house back. But then again, she would miss her original Darcys, who only this morning had yet again helped her de-ice the Scooby Doo van, which just didn’t want to de-ice. It took at least 20 minutes – 20 minutes she didn’t have – to see through the windscreen. The scraper was in Mr Bennet’s car and a credit card wasn’t so efficient – especially when it came to scraping the large windscreen inside.
“Girls when it comes to have children, take my advice, only have two children! You’re car won’t be so big!” she declared, feeling more stressed as every minute passed. In the end she resorted to ringing the school and apologising in advance that the Miss Bennets would be late – better that than driving a car which had no visibility.
The Darcys in the Dirt were her heroes that morning. Their reward - a box of biscuits. They could breed as much as they liked, drink her coffee as much as they liked – so long as they rescued her now and then.
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!”
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.
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