Wednesday, June 30 '10
The little boy shuffled his bottom along the window ledge closer to Mrs. Bennet’s table. She was quietly working, tapping away on her computer keys in an attempt to meet a writing deadline. Her office, being a glorified shed which thought it was a sauna during summer months, melted her brain cells so she opted for the sanctuary of a cool spacious supermarket café. There were distractions around her – a screaming baby, noisy chairs, loud speaker announcements calling for certain members of staff, and the general hub of merged conversations – but as they weren’t her distractions, she therefore somehow knuckled down and got her work done. From the corner of her left eye she could see a dirty-kneed toddler approaching. Armed with his toy train, he had perfected his bottom manoeuvring skills and had moved away from his father, two tables away, until he could touch Mrs. Bennet’s improvisation desk. He then broke wind and immediately left the lift off pad and shuffled back to his dad and milkshake. The fragrance left behind wasn’t pleasant and it forced Mrs. Bennet to hold her breath for a few seconds. An adult couldn’t have done a better job in changing the atmosphere. Any fly buzzing near by would have head-butted the window in shock.
“You’ve come back then Jack. What were you doing?” the boy’s father asked.
“I know very well what he’s been up to,” muttered Mrs. Bennet, “and I am sure he feels much better for it, unlike me!”
A couple of days ago, she had been at the tail end of an enormous bottom burp whilst innocently running on a treadmill in her local gym. It was so unbearable, she felt like she’d just passed a sewage farm, but as she didn’t want to stop her athletic workout, she pressed on, unpleasant as it was. And the smell never left. It didn’t help that it was a warm, humid day. Even the fans couldn’t blow the putrid clouds away. And yet, she noticed, she immediately felt guilty.
“As there’s only two of us in here, anyone walking into this room could think it was me!” she thought. It certainly wouldn’t encourage the reluctant fitness enthusiast to venture forth. More like venture out. But she did empathise with the guilty bottom. There was nothing worse than being caught in a public place with a need to break wind. It was fine in the confinements of one’s own home, but surrounded by people, was a highly different and embarrassing matter.
She therefore forgave both the bottoms on these occasions because she knew it could be hers on another occasion. The secret was to do the deed and not be found out. The little boy and the athlete were both guilty. And she knew it.
Showing posts with label mrs bennet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mrs bennet. Show all posts
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Conception in the bedroom – not guilty, says Mrs. Bennet
Tuesday, April 13 2010
The bedroom was a hive of sexual activity. The problem was it didn’t involve Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Normally the creak of a floorboard meant a little Miss Bennet was on her way, so any night time activity had to quickly come to an end. But this night time activity wasn’t going to stop despite any interruptions. It was certainly noisy and no doubt passionate but it knocked any romantic notions on the head for the real owners of the bedroom in question. The mice were back. Weeks of silence had ended abruptly. And tonight for some reason the creatures which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had convinced themselves had disappeared were taking revenge by either inviting their friends in for a party or by practising some loud mating ritual. Either way their antics echoed around the cavity walls where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were lying. They were so vocal squeaks could be heard until at least three o’clock in the morning. In fact for once Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could make as much noise as they liked if they so desired. But visions of what might be happening behind the wall dampened any passion.
“I reckon that mouse has eaten about five others and is now one gigantic creature. It sounds cat-size, it’s making so much noise,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.
“Perhaps it’s in labour,” suggested Mr. Bennet.
Had she been that noisy? She certainly hadn’t squealed. No, they were definitely having a party, thought Mrs. Bennet. Too much fun going on up there and labour was not a word associated with fun. Although there had been funny moments during Miss Megan Bennet’s birth and surreal memories of Hyacinth Bucket appearing on the television screen.
Never once in the 10 years of living in their current house had they had active visitors like this. Yes there had been spiders and nits. But not mice. With the arrival of two more Miss Bennets, the stretch marks had affected not just the mother’s body they once lived in, but the house. And for some reason just before Christmas the rodents had smuggled themselves into the bite-size modern Pemberley and had set up residence in the marital bedroom – the cause for the house growth in the first place.
“What are they doing?” cried Mrs. Bennet as any hope of sleep was destroyed by an almighty bang.
“I don’t know but they’re obviously having a great time,” replied her husband.
Reproducing was clearly not a problem in this particular household. But just because Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had drawn a line under any more Bennet offspring appearing, Mrs. Bennet didn’t think it was right that uninvited occupants in the household could take on the challenge. But obviously now the house was bigger in size, the mice had decided there were more walls to fill. If Mrs. Bennet had the energy she would have thought if you can’t beat them, join them. But her desire for Mr. Sleep was greater. So instead she turned to kiss Mr. Bennet, grabbed her pillow and buried her head under it until the romping faded.
The bedroom was a hive of sexual activity. The problem was it didn’t involve Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. Normally the creak of a floorboard meant a little Miss Bennet was on her way, so any night time activity had to quickly come to an end. But this night time activity wasn’t going to stop despite any interruptions. It was certainly noisy and no doubt passionate but it knocked any romantic notions on the head for the real owners of the bedroom in question. The mice were back. Weeks of silence had ended abruptly. And tonight for some reason the creatures which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had convinced themselves had disappeared were taking revenge by either inviting their friends in for a party or by practising some loud mating ritual. Either way their antics echoed around the cavity walls where Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were lying. They were so vocal squeaks could be heard until at least three o’clock in the morning. In fact for once Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could make as much noise as they liked if they so desired. But visions of what might be happening behind the wall dampened any passion.
“I reckon that mouse has eaten about five others and is now one gigantic creature. It sounds cat-size, it’s making so much noise,” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.
“Perhaps it’s in labour,” suggested Mr. Bennet.
Had she been that noisy? She certainly hadn’t squealed. No, they were definitely having a party, thought Mrs. Bennet. Too much fun going on up there and labour was not a word associated with fun. Although there had been funny moments during Miss Megan Bennet’s birth and surreal memories of Hyacinth Bucket appearing on the television screen.
Never once in the 10 years of living in their current house had they had active visitors like this. Yes there had been spiders and nits. But not mice. With the arrival of two more Miss Bennets, the stretch marks had affected not just the mother’s body they once lived in, but the house. And for some reason just before Christmas the rodents had smuggled themselves into the bite-size modern Pemberley and had set up residence in the marital bedroom – the cause for the house growth in the first place.
“What are they doing?” cried Mrs. Bennet as any hope of sleep was destroyed by an almighty bang.
“I don’t know but they’re obviously having a great time,” replied her husband.
Reproducing was clearly not a problem in this particular household. But just because Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had drawn a line under any more Bennet offspring appearing, Mrs. Bennet didn’t think it was right that uninvited occupants in the household could take on the challenge. But obviously now the house was bigger in size, the mice had decided there were more walls to fill. If Mrs. Bennet had the energy she would have thought if you can’t beat them, join them. But her desire for Mr. Sleep was greater. So instead she turned to kiss Mr. Bennet, grabbed her pillow and buried her head under it until the romping faded.
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Christmas Day Mark Two
Sunday, March 28 10
Friends might consider she had lost the plot, but Mrs. Bennet was 40 now so she didn't care. She had purple and red streaked hair. And yes she was conscious her body parts weren’t as they once were. But as a friend had kindly built her a wardrobe; a commodity she hadn’t had for 10 years, she was now able to hang her clothes up instead of shoving them under the bed. So it meant for the first time since she had seen the first blue line which had started the baby production years, she had weeded her wardrobe. So ruthless was she, there weren’t too many garments left to hang. But she decided from now on she would wear only what she liked, regardless of fashion and sense. And to her and Mr. Bennet’s amazement this now included the occasional dress.
Turning 40 had turned something inside. Mrs. Bennet would create memories. She would laugh more, try and relax more and not worry about what tomorrow brought. As it was today was Christmas Day in the Bennet household. It was also the birthdays of Mrs. Bennet’s dad and Miss Megan Bennet. Without her dad or her mother-in-law around the Christmas Dinner table back in December, the day hadn’t seemed complete. Both her own mum, Jannie and her father-in-law Ed, hadn’t spent a Christmas without their respective spouses for 50 years. So Mrs. Bennet felt it was only right they should celebrate the occasion again once the couples were reunited and hospital visits were a past and distant memory. Only life didn’t work out like that.
By Saturday, both birthday boy and girl had, between them, visited hospital five times. Megan had been accidentally dropped in the school playground, banged her head and subsequently suffered from concussion. Mrs. Bennet had arrived at the scene a few minutes after the incident to find her daughter ghostly white and throwing up in a brown tub, labelled “sick bowl,” and literally carried her 200 yards to the local hospital. The poorly child was then transferred to Cheltenham General before being let out for showing her precious cheek dimples sufficiently to be declared fit and well, much to the dismay of the patient concerned who quite relished the fact she had both Mummy and Daddy to herself.
Meanwhile her grandfather had managed to break his wrist whilst climbing on a table to put up some balloons for Megan’s birthday party. His knee gave way and down he fell. Three hospital visits later he was finally sitting at the Christmas table; arm in plaster looking rather vulnerable and shaken. Mrs. Bennet was convinced he was allergic to her cooking, but despite needing some assistance, he quite happily chomped his way through the festive delights - although he did manage to unconsciously clobber a couple of relatives with his cast.
Next Sunday it would be Easter, so it was only right Christmas should be celebrated before rather than after. The tree came out, the crackers got pulled, the silly jokes got told, a few trivial gifts opened and the Christmas pudding got set alight. They did not sing carols. The Bennet family might be considered a little eccentric at times. But creating memories was precious, and it would be an event the little Miss Bennets would remember for days and years to come. And at least this year they wouldn’t have to wait too long for the next one…only 233 days!
Friends might consider she had lost the plot, but Mrs. Bennet was 40 now so she didn't care. She had purple and red streaked hair. And yes she was conscious her body parts weren’t as they once were. But as a friend had kindly built her a wardrobe; a commodity she hadn’t had for 10 years, she was now able to hang her clothes up instead of shoving them under the bed. So it meant for the first time since she had seen the first blue line which had started the baby production years, she had weeded her wardrobe. So ruthless was she, there weren’t too many garments left to hang. But she decided from now on she would wear only what she liked, regardless of fashion and sense. And to her and Mr. Bennet’s amazement this now included the occasional dress.
Turning 40 had turned something inside. Mrs. Bennet would create memories. She would laugh more, try and relax more and not worry about what tomorrow brought. As it was today was Christmas Day in the Bennet household. It was also the birthdays of Mrs. Bennet’s dad and Miss Megan Bennet. Without her dad or her mother-in-law around the Christmas Dinner table back in December, the day hadn’t seemed complete. Both her own mum, Jannie and her father-in-law Ed, hadn’t spent a Christmas without their respective spouses for 50 years. So Mrs. Bennet felt it was only right they should celebrate the occasion again once the couples were reunited and hospital visits were a past and distant memory. Only life didn’t work out like that.
By Saturday, both birthday boy and girl had, between them, visited hospital five times. Megan had been accidentally dropped in the school playground, banged her head and subsequently suffered from concussion. Mrs. Bennet had arrived at the scene a few minutes after the incident to find her daughter ghostly white and throwing up in a brown tub, labelled “sick bowl,” and literally carried her 200 yards to the local hospital. The poorly child was then transferred to Cheltenham General before being let out for showing her precious cheek dimples sufficiently to be declared fit and well, much to the dismay of the patient concerned who quite relished the fact she had both Mummy and Daddy to herself.
Meanwhile her grandfather had managed to break his wrist whilst climbing on a table to put up some balloons for Megan’s birthday party. His knee gave way and down he fell. Three hospital visits later he was finally sitting at the Christmas table; arm in plaster looking rather vulnerable and shaken. Mrs. Bennet was convinced he was allergic to her cooking, but despite needing some assistance, he quite happily chomped his way through the festive delights - although he did manage to unconsciously clobber a couple of relatives with his cast.
Next Sunday it would be Easter, so it was only right Christmas should be celebrated before rather than after. The tree came out, the crackers got pulled, the silly jokes got told, a few trivial gifts opened and the Christmas pudding got set alight. They did not sing carols. The Bennet family might be considered a little eccentric at times. But creating memories was precious, and it would be an event the little Miss Bennets would remember for days and years to come. And at least this year they wouldn’t have to wait too long for the next one…only 233 days!
Thursday, 4 March 2010
No Octopus for Mrs. Bennet
Friday, March 5 ‘10
Mrs. Bennet's octopus had never arrived. She had thought about asking Mr. Google to hunt one down, preferably with a facility to programme it ready to master maths homework, listen to young readers, make a nutritious meal which catered for all seven individuals, and wipe waddling bottoms as they carried wee-filled potties around with pride, pants around their ankles. But Mrs. Bennet knew it wishful thinking. She had spiders in abundance. But they weren’t quite what she needed. Somehow their eight legs caused more work for her to clean up. Their webs were spun in corners as fast as the little Miss Bennets spun their clothes webs, catching unsuspecting doll’s house accessories, discarded tissues, bracelets and coins, which of course all ended up in the washing machine’s belly. It had got so bad, the other day Mrs. Bennet found it had eaten a packet of Ibuprofen. Every tablet had turned a soggy mush and disintegrated into the clothes. She knew how it felt. Not one for resorting to pain relief, even Mrs. Bennet had found a new friend in Mr Ibuprofen lately due to jaw ache. Apparently stress was the cause. The remedy: to rest. Five children didn’t feature in any of the definitions she looked up. “Peace, ease, or refreshment resulting from sleep or the cessation of an activity; quiet relaxation and relief or freedom from disquiet or disturbance.” As Mr. Bennet was right now flying in the Milan direction, any chance of Mrs. Bennet enjoying the meaning of any one of these words was with her husband, 35,000 feet in the air. The washing machine obviously high on its dose of pain killers was taking off in the kitchen and jumping violently. Mrs. Bennet wished she too take off, but her wings didn’t work. One day, she would turn into superwoman. But for now, her task was to come up with a creative plan on getting her children to pick up after themselves, put their shoes away, hang their coats up and attempt to hand over their dirty underwear at least instead of stashing it away like a treasure chest. It was a never ending job trying to match lost socks with its abandoned mate and retrieve the dirties before their soiled the only clean things left in her children’s’ bedrooms. If she didn’t devise a plan soon, her sanity would be lying in a heap next to the laundry mountain. At least when she climbed a hill in the surrounding countryside, there was a promised view to enjoy. The only view she got from the laundry version were a few Peppa Pig scenes on tiny toddler pants and occasionally Miss Rosie Bennet’s beloved rabbit spinning round and round as he underwent his regular wash. In order for this to happen, he had to be stolen from the cot, the washed and dried before his owner awoke. But Rosie was no fool. She knew that he smelt differently and had been somewhere other than her comforting arms.
No the Octopus hadn’t arrived and was unlikely to do so. What was likely was that Mr. Bennet would visit Duty Free to pass some time at the airport. Perhaps he would feel sorry for his wife and come up with an alternative. A bottle of perfume might not fix the problem, but it would at least help Mrs. Bennet smell a little sweeter than the dirty washing.
Mrs. Bennet's octopus had never arrived. She had thought about asking Mr. Google to hunt one down, preferably with a facility to programme it ready to master maths homework, listen to young readers, make a nutritious meal which catered for all seven individuals, and wipe waddling bottoms as they carried wee-filled potties around with pride, pants around their ankles. But Mrs. Bennet knew it wishful thinking. She had spiders in abundance. But they weren’t quite what she needed. Somehow their eight legs caused more work for her to clean up. Their webs were spun in corners as fast as the little Miss Bennets spun their clothes webs, catching unsuspecting doll’s house accessories, discarded tissues, bracelets and coins, which of course all ended up in the washing machine’s belly. It had got so bad, the other day Mrs. Bennet found it had eaten a packet of Ibuprofen. Every tablet had turned a soggy mush and disintegrated into the clothes. She knew how it felt. Not one for resorting to pain relief, even Mrs. Bennet had found a new friend in Mr Ibuprofen lately due to jaw ache. Apparently stress was the cause. The remedy: to rest. Five children didn’t feature in any of the definitions she looked up. “Peace, ease, or refreshment resulting from sleep or the cessation of an activity; quiet relaxation and relief or freedom from disquiet or disturbance.” As Mr. Bennet was right now flying in the Milan direction, any chance of Mrs. Bennet enjoying the meaning of any one of these words was with her husband, 35,000 feet in the air. The washing machine obviously high on its dose of pain killers was taking off in the kitchen and jumping violently. Mrs. Bennet wished she too take off, but her wings didn’t work. One day, she would turn into superwoman. But for now, her task was to come up with a creative plan on getting her children to pick up after themselves, put their shoes away, hang their coats up and attempt to hand over their dirty underwear at least instead of stashing it away like a treasure chest. It was a never ending job trying to match lost socks with its abandoned mate and retrieve the dirties before their soiled the only clean things left in her children’s’ bedrooms. If she didn’t devise a plan soon, her sanity would be lying in a heap next to the laundry mountain. At least when she climbed a hill in the surrounding countryside, there was a promised view to enjoy. The only view she got from the laundry version were a few Peppa Pig scenes on tiny toddler pants and occasionally Miss Rosie Bennet’s beloved rabbit spinning round and round as he underwent his regular wash. In order for this to happen, he had to be stolen from the cot, the washed and dried before his owner awoke. But Rosie was no fool. She knew that he smelt differently and had been somewhere other than her comforting arms.
No the Octopus hadn’t arrived and was unlikely to do so. What was likely was that Mr. Bennet would visit Duty Free to pass some time at the airport. Perhaps he would feel sorry for his wife and come up with an alternative. A bottle of perfume might not fix the problem, but it would at least help Mrs. Bennet smell a little sweeter than the dirty washing.
Friday, 29 January 2010
A taste of freedom and wanting more
Friday, January 29 2010
There was something about freedom which was addictive. Mrs. Bennet had had a taste of unclipped wings and now that she was back in the restraints of her four walls and six other Bennets, she wanted to escape and soar through the sky. Not that she wanted to leave them or live without these precious people, it was just ever so often she just needed to retreat to that quiet place where she could go to the toilet in peace, drink a coffee that didn’t go cold and have a meal made for her instead of creatively trying to think how to feed six mouths without one of them inevitably moaning about the final offering.
For the first time in 20 years, Mrs. Bennet had spent the weekend in a plush hotel with her sister. Once they had driven aimlessly around Cardiff city centre trying to find their destination – without the help of Mr. Tom Tom or an up-to-date map – they were quite happy to flop in the hotel’s restaurant with a large glass of wine and relish what hours they had. There was something magical about being sisters. One shared a sense of time and history, stories of loved ones past and present, and adventures and experiences money couldn’t by. As the age gap wasn’t huge, neither sister in this case could remember a time without the other. Everyday life couldn’t be more extreme, yet this constantness, this grounding, this respect and unconditional acceptance was the underlying force which gelled them together – and a mutual interest in art and retail therapy!
In her Tuesday evening art class, Mrs. Bennet’s challenge was to paint an oil landscape with palette knife only. She worked from a photograph she’d taken of Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium. She accentuated the colours, pushing them to the limit and relished in the freedom of using the knife. She wanted it to reflect the freedom she had felt over the weekend. Really she was greedy for more so maybe this would serve as a reminder of what there was if only she could grab a few minutes to appreciate it. Everyone needed a break at times, but what was it about mothers and leaving their children even for a day or two? Why did guilt threaten and hover like a black cloud. Mr. Bennet was more than capable of handling his little ladies. Yes he did experience some inner conflicts and refusals to help in putting toys away, but able he was and kind to let his wife treat his sister-in-law. Mrs. Bennet had felt like a new woman away. She had even been persuaded to buy a dress: an item foreign to her body and wardrobe. Mr. Bennet certainly hadn’t seen his wife’s legs out in public since their wedding day.
It was unfortunate that she arrived home after a storm. Mr. Bennet had lost his cool with his daughters and after asking them several times to tidy up, without success, had at the last resort, scooped every item on the floor up in a black plastic bag and dumped it in the garden. This hadn’t gone down too well with the Bennet girls and somehow in the midst of the uproar Miss Megan Bennet had walked into a door and hit her eye on the door handle.
“So have you been good for Daddy?” Mrs. Bennet asked them after receiving a bundle of cuddles from them all.
“No, not really,” was the honest reply, “And Megan’s got a black eye.”
Six lunch boxes later, various sorting out and clearing away, finding swimming bags, responding to work emails and discovering she had some tight writing deadlines to meet – and that the four legged creatures in the cavity walls were still there - Mrs. Bennet stumbled into bed exhausted and feeling stressed. Her sister had on the other hand gone home to watch a DVD. Somehow, despite the demands of her busy life, Mrs. Bennet knew for the sake of being the best wife, mum, daughter, sister and friend she could be, she had to make time to escape. She had had a taste of freedom and it was a dangerous thing. She wanted more. But she also knew that she needed only to fly a short way away, because the sheer joy of seeing six precious faces beaming at her as she walked through the door, would always entice her to come home despite how noisy and demanding it was.
There was something about freedom which was addictive. Mrs. Bennet had had a taste of unclipped wings and now that she was back in the restraints of her four walls and six other Bennets, she wanted to escape and soar through the sky. Not that she wanted to leave them or live without these precious people, it was just ever so often she just needed to retreat to that quiet place where she could go to the toilet in peace, drink a coffee that didn’t go cold and have a meal made for her instead of creatively trying to think how to feed six mouths without one of them inevitably moaning about the final offering.
For the first time in 20 years, Mrs. Bennet had spent the weekend in a plush hotel with her sister. Once they had driven aimlessly around Cardiff city centre trying to find their destination – without the help of Mr. Tom Tom or an up-to-date map – they were quite happy to flop in the hotel’s restaurant with a large glass of wine and relish what hours they had. There was something magical about being sisters. One shared a sense of time and history, stories of loved ones past and present, and adventures and experiences money couldn’t by. As the age gap wasn’t huge, neither sister in this case could remember a time without the other. Everyday life couldn’t be more extreme, yet this constantness, this grounding, this respect and unconditional acceptance was the underlying force which gelled them together – and a mutual interest in art and retail therapy!
In her Tuesday evening art class, Mrs. Bennet’s challenge was to paint an oil landscape with palette knife only. She worked from a photograph she’d taken of Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium. She accentuated the colours, pushing them to the limit and relished in the freedom of using the knife. She wanted it to reflect the freedom she had felt over the weekend. Really she was greedy for more so maybe this would serve as a reminder of what there was if only she could grab a few minutes to appreciate it. Everyone needed a break at times, but what was it about mothers and leaving their children even for a day or two? Why did guilt threaten and hover like a black cloud. Mr. Bennet was more than capable of handling his little ladies. Yes he did experience some inner conflicts and refusals to help in putting toys away, but able he was and kind to let his wife treat his sister-in-law. Mrs. Bennet had felt like a new woman away. She had even been persuaded to buy a dress: an item foreign to her body and wardrobe. Mr. Bennet certainly hadn’t seen his wife’s legs out in public since their wedding day.
It was unfortunate that she arrived home after a storm. Mr. Bennet had lost his cool with his daughters and after asking them several times to tidy up, without success, had at the last resort, scooped every item on the floor up in a black plastic bag and dumped it in the garden. This hadn’t gone down too well with the Bennet girls and somehow in the midst of the uproar Miss Megan Bennet had walked into a door and hit her eye on the door handle.
“So have you been good for Daddy?” Mrs. Bennet asked them after receiving a bundle of cuddles from them all.
“No, not really,” was the honest reply, “And Megan’s got a black eye.”
Six lunch boxes later, various sorting out and clearing away, finding swimming bags, responding to work emails and discovering she had some tight writing deadlines to meet – and that the four legged creatures in the cavity walls were still there - Mrs. Bennet stumbled into bed exhausted and feeling stressed. Her sister had on the other hand gone home to watch a DVD. Somehow, despite the demands of her busy life, Mrs. Bennet knew for the sake of being the best wife, mum, daughter, sister and friend she could be, she had to make time to escape. She had had a taste of freedom and it was a dangerous thing. She wanted more. But she also knew that she needed only to fly a short way away, because the sheer joy of seeing six precious faces beaming at her as she walked through the door, would always entice her to come home despite how noisy and demanding it was.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
A-shaking in the bedroom
January 2010
“No offence, Mr. Bennet, but I can’t sleep here any more. I’m moving out. This bedroom’s getting a bit overcrowded,” Mrs. Bennet announced at the beginning of the year. Not the best start to a new decade to leave the marital bed – even if it did mean a decade of absolutely no more child bearing other-wise-I’m-suing-the-NHS - but her actions were entirely justified. There was too much night-time activity taking place in this particular room and it had nothing to do with them.
It wasn’t long before Mr.Bennet joined her. They hadn’t fallen out with each other. But they had fallen out with certain invisible visitors who had taken camp in bite-size Modern Pemberley’s cavity walls and had the disconcerting habit of scurrying around at the back of their heads at three o’clock in the morning. De-nitting five heads was nothing compared to this. Mrs. Bennet knew her informative friend Mr.Google was always excellent when it came to finding out specialised details, but she never imagined him having to help Mr. Bennet identify droppings found in the loft. Mr. Bennet looked shaken with Mr.Google’s diagnosis. It wasn’t mice. It was something bigger.
“We better camp out in the lounge,” he decided.
“What do we tell the children? That we wanted a sleep over?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“Just say we fancied a change. Anything, but don’t mention the R word. They’ll never sleep at night,” was his reply.
Mr. Bennet was right of course: ironically confirmed the next evening by the eldest Miss Bennet, who had just happened to be reading The Railway Children.
“I’ve just read the first chapter Mummy!” she declared.
“And…what do you think?”
“It’s great Mummy, until the children have to move to the country and Roberta hears all this noise and she’s told it’s the rats in the cottage walls. That must have been really awful. I didn’t like reading that,” she explained.
Mrs. Bennet choked, trying to stifle a laugh and not quite believing the timeliness of her daughter’s choice of book.
Thankfully the elder children were out of the way when the Rat/Mouse Man paid a visit.
“Expect a lot of activity in the next few days, because they’ll get very excited,” he said. “I think you’ve only got mice by the way,” he added reassuringly, before adding: “but there could be a rat among them.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet might not want any more babies in the coming years, but it seemed someone else was getting a little too passionate in their bedroom. And the family behind the walls was growing a little too fast for Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s liking!
“No offence, Mr. Bennet, but I can’t sleep here any more. I’m moving out. This bedroom’s getting a bit overcrowded,” Mrs. Bennet announced at the beginning of the year. Not the best start to a new decade to leave the marital bed – even if it did mean a decade of absolutely no more child bearing other-wise-I’m-suing-the-NHS - but her actions were entirely justified. There was too much night-time activity taking place in this particular room and it had nothing to do with them.
It wasn’t long before Mr.Bennet joined her. They hadn’t fallen out with each other. But they had fallen out with certain invisible visitors who had taken camp in bite-size Modern Pemberley’s cavity walls and had the disconcerting habit of scurrying around at the back of their heads at three o’clock in the morning. De-nitting five heads was nothing compared to this. Mrs. Bennet knew her informative friend Mr.Google was always excellent when it came to finding out specialised details, but she never imagined him having to help Mr. Bennet identify droppings found in the loft. Mr. Bennet looked shaken with Mr.Google’s diagnosis. It wasn’t mice. It was something bigger.
“We better camp out in the lounge,” he decided.
“What do we tell the children? That we wanted a sleep over?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“Just say we fancied a change. Anything, but don’t mention the R word. They’ll never sleep at night,” was his reply.
Mr. Bennet was right of course: ironically confirmed the next evening by the eldest Miss Bennet, who had just happened to be reading The Railway Children.
“I’ve just read the first chapter Mummy!” she declared.
“And…what do you think?”
“It’s great Mummy, until the children have to move to the country and Roberta hears all this noise and she’s told it’s the rats in the cottage walls. That must have been really awful. I didn’t like reading that,” she explained.
Mrs. Bennet choked, trying to stifle a laugh and not quite believing the timeliness of her daughter’s choice of book.
Thankfully the elder children were out of the way when the Rat/Mouse Man paid a visit.
“Expect a lot of activity in the next few days, because they’ll get very excited,” he said. “I think you’ve only got mice by the way,” he added reassuringly, before adding: “but there could be a rat among them.”
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet might not want any more babies in the coming years, but it seemed someone else was getting a little too passionate in their bedroom. And the family behind the walls was growing a little too fast for Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s liking!
Monday, 7 December 2009
Affair over with Mr. Latte
Monday, December 7 ‘09
Mrs. Bennet’s affair with Mr. Latte was officially over. Having moved in permanently – thanks to her 40th birthday money – his position in the corner of the breakfast bar was no longer an exciting place to be. Mr. Latte had been sulking over the past few weeks as Mrs. Bennet hadn’t fancied him. Having been struck by a virus, Mrs. Bennet’s desire for her familiar hot steamy friend had wavered in favour of Mr. Black or hot water (nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally). And in obvious protest, Mr. Latte went off in a froth, blew a fuse and left the house in darkness. Having turned the house upside down in vain to find his guarantee or receipt, Mrs. Bennet realised that moving her treasured coffee companion into bite-sized Modern Pemberley hadn’t resulted in happily ever after. He wasn’t as faithful or reliable as she had hoped.
But Mr. Latte was not the only one letting her down. Both Mrs. Bennet’s Scooby Doo van and Mr. Bennet’s run-a-round vehicle were showing signs of weariness. The driver’s door lock in the latter was broken. Unless it was open, there was no way of getting in unless the driver climbed in through the passenger seat or fell on the mercy of anyone travelling inside to open the door from the inside. As for the Scooby Doo van, as well as having a leaking radiator and a dodgy gear stick, the mechanics in the doors were also suffering from automobile arthritis. So much so in trying to get Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets in one afternoon, the only back door of the car – a sliding one at the side – refused to open at all. This meant all five Miss Bennets squeezing into the vehicle by the only route available; mountaineering over Mrs. Bennet’s seat into their respective places, with the two older Miss Bennets pole vaulting yet again into position in the very back. She then had to follow suit to ensure the younger ones were all strapped in correctly.
Life was full of challenges and disappointments. Sometimes you could laugh at them, other times you could not. Mrs. Bennet knew there was no spare cash to repair or replace anything. The house still didn’t have toilet rails, loo roll holders, blinds, curtains and lampshades. These things were on Mrs. Bennet’s wish list, along with her eternity ring, which had lost a stone months ago. She had lost a stone due to viruses and stress and needed that back too. She couldn’t buy that either.
That night as she peered in on her sleeping children, looking peaceful and untroubled, Mrs. Bennet knew they were her most precious gifts in the house. There was always enough love to go around. Faulty doors and a defunct Mr. Latte machine which looked good on the side yet was completely useless were just part of the hiccups of everyday living. Her affair with the hot froth was now over. She warmly accepted a big hug from Mr. Bennet, who promptly handed her a glass of chilled Rose instead.
Mrs. Bennet’s affair with Mr. Latte was officially over. Having moved in permanently – thanks to her 40th birthday money – his position in the corner of the breakfast bar was no longer an exciting place to be. Mr. Latte had been sulking over the past few weeks as Mrs. Bennet hadn’t fancied him. Having been struck by a virus, Mrs. Bennet’s desire for her familiar hot steamy friend had wavered in favour of Mr. Black or hot water (nicknamed Mr. Peely Wally). And in obvious protest, Mr. Latte went off in a froth, blew a fuse and left the house in darkness. Having turned the house upside down in vain to find his guarantee or receipt, Mrs. Bennet realised that moving her treasured coffee companion into bite-sized Modern Pemberley hadn’t resulted in happily ever after. He wasn’t as faithful or reliable as she had hoped.
But Mr. Latte was not the only one letting her down. Both Mrs. Bennet’s Scooby Doo van and Mr. Bennet’s run-a-round vehicle were showing signs of weariness. The driver’s door lock in the latter was broken. Unless it was open, there was no way of getting in unless the driver climbed in through the passenger seat or fell on the mercy of anyone travelling inside to open the door from the inside. As for the Scooby Doo van, as well as having a leaking radiator and a dodgy gear stick, the mechanics in the doors were also suffering from automobile arthritis. So much so in trying to get Spag and Bol, the little Miss Twin Bennets in one afternoon, the only back door of the car – a sliding one at the side – refused to open at all. This meant all five Miss Bennets squeezing into the vehicle by the only route available; mountaineering over Mrs. Bennet’s seat into their respective places, with the two older Miss Bennets pole vaulting yet again into position in the very back. She then had to follow suit to ensure the younger ones were all strapped in correctly.
Life was full of challenges and disappointments. Sometimes you could laugh at them, other times you could not. Mrs. Bennet knew there was no spare cash to repair or replace anything. The house still didn’t have toilet rails, loo roll holders, blinds, curtains and lampshades. These things were on Mrs. Bennet’s wish list, along with her eternity ring, which had lost a stone months ago. She had lost a stone due to viruses and stress and needed that back too. She couldn’t buy that either.
That night as she peered in on her sleeping children, looking peaceful and untroubled, Mrs. Bennet knew they were her most precious gifts in the house. There was always enough love to go around. Faulty doors and a defunct Mr. Latte machine which looked good on the side yet was completely useless were just part of the hiccups of everyday living. Her affair with the hot froth was now over. She warmly accepted a big hug from Mr. Bennet, who promptly handed her a glass of chilled Rose instead.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Toasted Breast Sandwiches
Friday, November 19 ‘09
Mrs. Bennet couldn’t look at a sandwich toaster in the same way again. As much as she loved a cheese, onion and mayo toastie, she couldn’t quite bring herself to make one. It was too similar to the breast sandwich she’d just experienced at the local screening hospital. Six weeks ago she had had two small assets, which at least moved slightly. Now having suffering a weight-loss battering due to stomach bugs and the stress of her father’s emergency dash to hospital, what remnants she had now could quite easily fall into the category of “gnat bites at the end of an ironing board” – a phrase so eloquently used by one midwife in her explanation that any lady, big or small-chested, was capable of breast feeding her baby or babies. Incidentally a well-endowed mother’s acquisitions were referred to as “trombones.” The gnat bites belonging to Mrs. Bennet certainly weren’t happy today. They were squashed into the mammogram’s jaw, and then tightened with what felt like a screw.
“You wouldn’t believe I fed twins would you?” she nervously joked to the lady who was in control of this chest chewing machine. As unsightly and uncomfortable as she felt, Mrs. Bennet was still grateful to have her breasts toasted. Having appreciated the diligent efforts of the surgeons and breast cancer team to save the life of her own dear mum, Jannie – and her cousin - she could only applaud the services provided. With five little females of her own, it was the responsible thing to do, even if it did mean losing what dignity she had left. It would be 10 years before she officially got the official annual mammogram invite. It certainly gave her a greater understanding of the vulnerability, embarrassment and discomfort of being squashed and squeezed that so many cancer patients felt. In some units, the machine apparently bore an encouraging sticker: “squeezed in love.”
Feeling suitably bruised, Mrs. Bennet put her shocked assets away and took them home. The cheese toaster shone in the light as she walked into the kitchen. Sometimes she treated herself to a crunchy toastie. Today though, she couldn’t face it. Mr. Bennet might fancy a toasted naked breast and mayo, but it definitely wasn’t being offered on this lunch-time’s menu.
Mrs. Bennet couldn’t look at a sandwich toaster in the same way again. As much as she loved a cheese, onion and mayo toastie, she couldn’t quite bring herself to make one. It was too similar to the breast sandwich she’d just experienced at the local screening hospital. Six weeks ago she had had two small assets, which at least moved slightly. Now having suffering a weight-loss battering due to stomach bugs and the stress of her father’s emergency dash to hospital, what remnants she had now could quite easily fall into the category of “gnat bites at the end of an ironing board” – a phrase so eloquently used by one midwife in her explanation that any lady, big or small-chested, was capable of breast feeding her baby or babies. Incidentally a well-endowed mother’s acquisitions were referred to as “trombones.” The gnat bites belonging to Mrs. Bennet certainly weren’t happy today. They were squashed into the mammogram’s jaw, and then tightened with what felt like a screw.
“You wouldn’t believe I fed twins would you?” she nervously joked to the lady who was in control of this chest chewing machine. As unsightly and uncomfortable as she felt, Mrs. Bennet was still grateful to have her breasts toasted. Having appreciated the diligent efforts of the surgeons and breast cancer team to save the life of her own dear mum, Jannie – and her cousin - she could only applaud the services provided. With five little females of her own, it was the responsible thing to do, even if it did mean losing what dignity she had left. It would be 10 years before she officially got the official annual mammogram invite. It certainly gave her a greater understanding of the vulnerability, embarrassment and discomfort of being squashed and squeezed that so many cancer patients felt. In some units, the machine apparently bore an encouraging sticker: “squeezed in love.”
Feeling suitably bruised, Mrs. Bennet put her shocked assets away and took them home. The cheese toaster shone in the light as she walked into the kitchen. Sometimes she treated herself to a crunchy toastie. Today though, she couldn’t face it. Mr. Bennet might fancy a toasted naked breast and mayo, but it definitely wasn’t being offered on this lunch-time’s menu.
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Walkie Talkie can take a walkie
Sunday, October 4 '09
The whole idea of having a shed, studio, retreat, office or space was so that the owner could escape into a child-free zone without being disturbed for however long she needed. Mrs. Bennet had obviously not made this very clear to those who shared bite-sized modern Pemberley with her. For her 40th birthday, the little Miss Bennets had, thanks to Mr. Bennet, given her a walkie talkie so they could communicate with her when she disappeared down the garden.
"We thought it would be fun to chat to you Mummy," they informed her. Eyebrows raised, she looked quizzically at her husband.
"It was so I call you back after midnight," he explained.
"But had it not occured to you that I might not want to come back?" she replied.
The Miss Bennets ushered her into her den so they could test the efficiency of their present. Mrs. Bennet had vaguely remembered seeing the said object on Miss Bennet Number Two's birthday wish list. No doubt she had had something to do with it.
Dutifully Mrs. Bennet took her talkie walkie - which she preferred to call it - to her shed. She couldn't help thinking that a better present would have been an obedient microchip which could be installed into each child (and possibly husband.) The remote control of course would for once be firmly in the hands of Mrs. Bennet.
The whole idea of having a shed, studio, retreat, office or space was so that the owner could escape into a child-free zone without being disturbed for however long she needed. Mrs. Bennet had obviously not made this very clear to those who shared bite-sized modern Pemberley with her. For her 40th birthday, the little Miss Bennets had, thanks to Mr. Bennet, given her a walkie talkie so they could communicate with her when she disappeared down the garden.
"We thought it would be fun to chat to you Mummy," they informed her. Eyebrows raised, she looked quizzically at her husband.
"It was so I call you back after midnight," he explained.
"But had it not occured to you that I might not want to come back?" she replied.
The Miss Bennets ushered her into her den so they could test the efficiency of their present. Mrs. Bennet had vaguely remembered seeing the said object on Miss Bennet Number Two's birthday wish list. No doubt she had had something to do with it.
Dutifully Mrs. Bennet took her talkie walkie - which she preferred to call it - to her shed. She couldn't help thinking that a better present would have been an obedient microchip which could be installed into each child (and possibly husband.) The remote control of course would for once be firmly in the hands of Mrs. Bennet.
Friday, 2 October 2009
But it’s not working
Friday, October 2 ‘09
There were certain theories which clearly were not working in the Bennet household. The “getting out the door” theory did not exist as far as Mrs. Bennet was concerned. She had tried everything in her parental power to get her offspring out of the house, into the car, back out of the car and through the school gates before the bell went. But no matter how hard she tried, there was always something – a child, a paddy (or a “ponk” as Mr. and Mrs. Bennet called it), a recycle van, a lack of parking space or a completely exhausted mother – which stopped them achieving their goal. This morning it was Spag (alias Miss Rosie Bennet) who would not co-operate. She point blankly refused to put on her shoes or coat, and instead lay prostrate on the floor and wouldn’t budge. It hadn’t helped that the older Miss Bennets had decided to play hide and seek instead of cleaning their teeth. It was only when she moved the computer chair Mrs. Bennet discovered Miss Bennet Number Two – so good was she at hiding. Instead of using spoons to eat their cereal, they had armed themselves with felt tip pens and got lost in a world of imaginative drawing. There was just no sense of urgency or the comprehension that “I must go to school.”
Mrs. Bennet had had enough. Doing live reports on radio or television was a doddle compared to getting five children out of the house. Her stress levels soared far higher. Whatever it took she would not get worked up by this charade any more. If the children weren’t ready by the time the Scooby Doo van had to leave, then they would have to come in whatever state of dress they were in. Having to go to school in pyjamas would soon teach them a lesson.
The other theory which had failed her so far was the acne cream removing Biro one. Right now the defaced baby dolls were plastered in the white stuff, so-say sun-bathing so that the sun’s rays could work with the chemicals in the cream. Only the sun had disappeared two hours ago. Spag and Bol's etchings hadn't. The dolls, looking rather pathetic and sad, were lying on the trampette. One or two of the neighbour’s cats had sauntered by to see what was going on, and realising that one of their favoured spots had been taken, walked off haughtily. It wasn’t every day you saw two miniature people undergoing cosmetic surgery in broad daylight. And it was broad daylight, or to be more accurate direct sunlight that was needed for this procedure to work. Mrs. Bennet feared she would now have to wait a year. She peered curiously at the creamed dolls. Had the marks faded slightly or was that wishful thinking? They were certainly visible and very striking on one side.
She wiped off the cream and popped the dolls back into the hospital shed.
As it was Friday, there was not a chance of trying the procedure again until next week. A whole weekend then of hoping the question: “where’s my Baby Annabell Mummy?” didn’t pop up. Mrs. Bennet decided she might have to tell the owners that unfortunately their babies were currently in special care and couldn’t be held for a while.
Clouds threatened overhead. Mrs. Bennet needed a miracle. Well two actually. A dose of divine wisdom as to how to get to school on time and a cure for removing black marks from innocent plastic babies. Incidentally if the cream did work, she intended to put some on her wrinkles and sit out in the sun all day.
There were certain theories which clearly were not working in the Bennet household. The “getting out the door” theory did not exist as far as Mrs. Bennet was concerned. She had tried everything in her parental power to get her offspring out of the house, into the car, back out of the car and through the school gates before the bell went. But no matter how hard she tried, there was always something – a child, a paddy (or a “ponk” as Mr. and Mrs. Bennet called it), a recycle van, a lack of parking space or a completely exhausted mother – which stopped them achieving their goal. This morning it was Spag (alias Miss Rosie Bennet) who would not co-operate. She point blankly refused to put on her shoes or coat, and instead lay prostrate on the floor and wouldn’t budge. It hadn’t helped that the older Miss Bennets had decided to play hide and seek instead of cleaning their teeth. It was only when she moved the computer chair Mrs. Bennet discovered Miss Bennet Number Two – so good was she at hiding. Instead of using spoons to eat their cereal, they had armed themselves with felt tip pens and got lost in a world of imaginative drawing. There was just no sense of urgency or the comprehension that “I must go to school.”
Mrs. Bennet had had enough. Doing live reports on radio or television was a doddle compared to getting five children out of the house. Her stress levels soared far higher. Whatever it took she would not get worked up by this charade any more. If the children weren’t ready by the time the Scooby Doo van had to leave, then they would have to come in whatever state of dress they were in. Having to go to school in pyjamas would soon teach them a lesson.
The other theory which had failed her so far was the acne cream removing Biro one. Right now the defaced baby dolls were plastered in the white stuff, so-say sun-bathing so that the sun’s rays could work with the chemicals in the cream. Only the sun had disappeared two hours ago. Spag and Bol's etchings hadn't. The dolls, looking rather pathetic and sad, were lying on the trampette. One or two of the neighbour’s cats had sauntered by to see what was going on, and realising that one of their favoured spots had been taken, walked off haughtily. It wasn’t every day you saw two miniature people undergoing cosmetic surgery in broad daylight. And it was broad daylight, or to be more accurate direct sunlight that was needed for this procedure to work. Mrs. Bennet feared she would now have to wait a year. She peered curiously at the creamed dolls. Had the marks faded slightly or was that wishful thinking? They were certainly visible and very striking on one side.
She wiped off the cream and popped the dolls back into the hospital shed.
As it was Friday, there was not a chance of trying the procedure again until next week. A whole weekend then of hoping the question: “where’s my Baby Annabell Mummy?” didn’t pop up. Mrs. Bennet decided she might have to tell the owners that unfortunately their babies were currently in special care and couldn’t be held for a while.
Clouds threatened overhead. Mrs. Bennet needed a miracle. Well two actually. A dose of divine wisdom as to how to get to school on time and a cure for removing black marks from innocent plastic babies. Incidentally if the cream did work, she intended to put some on her wrinkles and sit out in the sun all day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
